The Passionate Year by James Hilton Page A

her arm tightly: “Yes, I went to Clanwell for coffee
after prep.”
    She went on pathetically: “You sounded so happy—I heard you
laughing. Oh, it was terrible to hear you laughing when I was miserable!”
    “Poor little child!”—He bent down suddenly and kissed her eyes.
“What a sad and forlorn little girl you are this morning!—Don’t yon
guess why I’m so happy nowadays?”
    “Why are you?”
    He said, very slowly and beautifully: “Because of you. Because you have
made my life utterly and wonderfully different. Because all the beauty in the
world reminds me of you. When I wake up in the morning with the sun on my
face I want to roar with laughter—I don’t know why, except that I’m so
happy.”
    She smiled gratefully and looked up into his face with large, tender eyes.
“Sometimes,” she said, “beauty makes me want to cry, not to laugh. Last
night, in the garden, everything was so lovely, and yet so sad. Don’t you
think beautiful things are sad sometimes?”—She paused and went on, with
less excitement: “When I went in, about ten o’clock, I was so miserable I
went in the dining-room to be alone. I was crying and father came in.”
    “Well?” he whispered, eagerly.
    “He wanted to know what was the matter.”
    “And you told him about Clare’s father, I suppose?”
    “No,” she answered. “Don’t be angry,” she pleaded, laying a hand on his
arm. “I don’t know what made me do it—I suppose it was instinct.
Anyway, yon were going to, soon, even if I hadn’t. II told father
about—us!”
    “You did?”
    “Yes. Don’t be angry with me.”
    “My darling, I’m not angry with you. What did he say?”
    She came so close to him that he could feel her body trembling with
emotion. “He didn’t mind,” she whispered. “He didn’t mind at all. Kenneth,
aren’t you glad?—Isn’t it fine of him?”
    “Glorious!” he answered, taking a deep breath. Again the tide of joy
seemed to engulf him, joy immense and stupefying. He would have taken her in
his arms and kissed her had he not seen people coming along the lane. “It’s
wonderful, Helen!” he whispered. Then some secondary thought seemed to strike
him suddenly: he said: “But why were you miserable a little while ago? Didn’t
the good news make you feel happy?”
    She answered, still with a touch of sadness: “I didn’t know whether you
would think it was good news.”—“Helen!” he exclaimed remonstratively,
clasping her tightly to him: she went on, smiling at him: “Yes, it’s silly of
me, isn’t it?—But Kenneth, Kenneth, I don’t know how it is, I’m never
quite certain of you—there’s always a funny sort of fear in my mind! I
know it’s silly. I can’t help it, though. Perhaps it will all be different
some day.”
    “Some day!” he echoed, gazing into her uplifted eyes.
    A vision, secret and excruciatingly lovely, filled their eyes for a
moment. He knew then that to marry her had become his blinding and passionate
ambition.
V
    The Millstead and District Advertiser had a long and
sympathetic appreciation of the late Mr. Samuel Harrington in its first July
issue. The Helping-Hand-Books were described as “pleasant little homilies
written with much charm and humour.” Speed took one or two of them out of the
School Library and read them.
    About a week after the funeral he called at the shop, ostensibly to buy a
book, but really to offer his condolences. He had been meaning to go, for
several days in succession, but a curious dread of an interview with Clare
had operated each time for postponement. Nor could he understand this dread.
He tried to analyse it, to discover behind it any conceivable reason or
motive; but the search was in vain. He was forced to suppose, vaguely, that
the cause of it was that slight but noticeable temperamental hostility
between himself and Clare which always resulted in a clouding over of his
dreams.
    It was a chilly day for