cool grey stem, and let the beauty of the quiet place sink into her heart, until she, too, seemed to become part of nature’s planning, rooted in the soil, living by the sunlight that filtered through the burgeoning branches of the trees. She closed her eyes and let herself sink warmly into oblivion.
Miles’ kiss woke her, and putting her arms about him as he knelt beside her, she held him close, till the happiness of the present, in contrast to the cold misery of the night, made her weep again for very joy.
“My little love, what is troubling you?” he asked, feeling the salt tears on his lips, for she made no sound with her crying.
“It was only a dream,” she whispered, close against him.
“But I can’t allow even dreams to disturb my dear,” he said. “What was this dream?”
“I dreamed about you,” she said in a low voice.
“And was that such a nightmare, my love?” he asked, laughing a little.
“I dreamed that you were married,” she said, lower yet.
“Cuckoo … cuckoo … cuckoo!” sounded through the woodland, and, “cuckoo … cuckoo … cuckoo,” it sounded again, as if the bird were pretending to be an echo of itself.
Miles did not speak, and out of his silence grew all the tuning orchestra of the wood, as if the tapping of the woodpecker, the song of the blackbird and the thrush, the call of the cuckoo, the rustling of the leaves, the tinkling of the stream and sighing of the breeze, the muted twitterings of the insects, were all part of some great finale to bring down the curtain on the last act of tragedy.
She pushed him away suddenly before it could fall. “No,” she cried, “no—it’s not true.”
Still Miles made no answer, kneeling there before her, like some suppliant child rather than a conquering lover.
“But it is true,” she said slowly and covered her face with her hands. “You lied to me,” she said, past tears in her grief, “you lied to me!”
“No,” he protested at last, “I told no lies.”
“Not with your lips,” she said, “but you were living a lie that was beyond words.”
“It was and is no lie that I love you,” said Miles.
“If you had loved me really, you must have told me the whole truth about yourself,” said Lucy, “and about your life.”
“But you made me feel a new man with a new life,” pleaded Miles. “Olivia’s husband seemed quite another man, a dull middle-aged man with no ideals and no future.”
“Yet with a past and three sons,” said Lucy.
“I will divorce Olivia,” said Miles, “and we will marry and go on being happy.”
“Can one be really happy at some one else’s expense?” said Lucy dully.
“I gave her the London house as a wedding present, and she has a good income,” replied Miles.
“Enough to repay her for the loss of a husband?” asked Lucy.
“She will get over it,” said Miles easily. “Olivia isn’t romantic, and she is fonder of the children than of me.”
“Yet she would always be there—between us,” said Lucy sombrely.
“Don’t be so Victorian, darling,” said Miles. He rose from his knees and seated himself on the tree trunk beside her and put his arm around her. “After all, what is divorce nowadays?”
“I have never had anything to do with it,” said Lucy, “but it has always seemed rather sordid to me—a confession of failure and a breaking of vows.”
“You take it all much too seriously, my love,” said Miles. “People are divorced every day. It isn’t nearly as alarming as you make it sound.”
“You speak as if you knew,” said Lucy slowly. “Do you know from personal experience, Miles?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I was once in a divorce suit.”
“With Olivia?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, no, before I met her,” answered Miles.
“And you didn’t marry that other woman?” said Lucy.
“No, I didn’t,” said Miles, “she had thin ankles and I bought her off!”
“I see,” said Lucy, and shivered a little.
“You’re cold,
Miles’ kiss woke her, and putting her arms about him as he knelt beside her, she held him close, till the happiness of the present, in contrast to the cold misery of the night, made her weep again for very joy.
“My little love, what is troubling you?” he asked, feeling the salt tears on his lips, for she made no sound with her crying.
“It was only a dream,” she whispered, close against him.
“But I can’t allow even dreams to disturb my dear,” he said. “What was this dream?”
“I dreamed about you,” she said in a low voice.
“And was that such a nightmare, my love?” he asked, laughing a little.
“I dreamed that you were married,” she said, lower yet.
“Cuckoo … cuckoo … cuckoo!” sounded through the woodland, and, “cuckoo … cuckoo … cuckoo,” it sounded again, as if the bird were pretending to be an echo of itself.
Miles did not speak, and out of his silence grew all the tuning orchestra of the wood, as if the tapping of the woodpecker, the song of the blackbird and the thrush, the call of the cuckoo, the rustling of the leaves, the tinkling of the stream and sighing of the breeze, the muted twitterings of the insects, were all part of some great finale to bring down the curtain on the last act of tragedy.
She pushed him away suddenly before it could fall. “No,” she cried, “no—it’s not true.”
Still Miles made no answer, kneeling there before her, like some suppliant child rather than a conquering lover.
“But it is true,” she said slowly and covered her face with her hands. “You lied to me,” she said, past tears in her grief, “you lied to me!”
“No,” he protested at last, “I told no lies.”
“Not with your lips,” she said, “but you were living a lie that was beyond words.”
“It was and is no lie that I love you,” said Miles.
“If you had loved me really, you must have told me the whole truth about yourself,” said Lucy, “and about your life.”
“But you made me feel a new man with a new life,” pleaded Miles. “Olivia’s husband seemed quite another man, a dull middle-aged man with no ideals and no future.”
“Yet with a past and three sons,” said Lucy.
“I will divorce Olivia,” said Miles, “and we will marry and go on being happy.”
“Can one be really happy at some one else’s expense?” said Lucy dully.
“I gave her the London house as a wedding present, and she has a good income,” replied Miles.
“Enough to repay her for the loss of a husband?” asked Lucy.
“She will get over it,” said Miles easily. “Olivia isn’t romantic, and she is fonder of the children than of me.”
“Yet she would always be there—between us,” said Lucy sombrely.
“Don’t be so Victorian, darling,” said Miles. He rose from his knees and seated himself on the tree trunk beside her and put his arm around her. “After all, what is divorce nowadays?”
“I have never had anything to do with it,” said Lucy, “but it has always seemed rather sordid to me—a confession of failure and a breaking of vows.”
“You take it all much too seriously, my love,” said Miles. “People are divorced every day. It isn’t nearly as alarming as you make it sound.”
“You speak as if you knew,” said Lucy slowly. “Do you know from personal experience, Miles?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I was once in a divorce suit.”
“With Olivia?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, no, before I met her,” answered Miles.
“And you didn’t marry that other woman?” said Lucy.
“No, I didn’t,” said Miles, “she had thin ankles and I bought her off!”
“I see,” said Lucy, and shivered a little.
“You’re cold,
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