That day, with its anxiety and its watchfulness of self, was one of the most wretched he had ever spent; and he could not free himself from the feeling that Anne was reading his thoughts. It was as if each passed the day looking at the other unobserved—almost unbearable! In the afternoon he asked for a horse to ride over to Green Hill Farm, and said he would be back late. He rode on into Nettlefold and went to the post-office. There was a telegram: “Must see you. Will be at Green Hill Farm tomorrow at noon. Don’t fail me.—F.”
Jon destroyed it, and rode homewards. Wretchedness and strain for another eighteen hours! Was there anything in the world worse than indecision? He rode slowly so as to have the less time at home, dreading the night. He stopped at a wayside inn to eat, and again went by way of Green Hill Farm to save at least the letter of his tale. It was nearly ten and full moonlight before he got back.
“It’s a wonderful night,” he said, when he came into the drawing-room. “The moonlight’s simply marvellous.” It was Holly who answered; Anne, sitting by the fire, did not even look up. ‘She knows,’ thought Jon, ‘she knows something.’ Very soon after, she said she was sleepy, and went up. Jon stayed, talking to Holly. Val had gone on from town to Newmarket, and would not be back till Friday. They sat one on each side of the wood fire. And, looking at his sister’s face, charming and pensive, Jon was tempted. She was so wise, and sympathetic. It would be a relief to tell her everything. But Fleur’s command held him back—it was not his secret.
“Well, Jon, is it all right about the farm?”
“I’ve got some new figures; I’m going into them to-night.”
“I do wish it were settled, and we knew you were going to be near for certain. I shall be awfully disappointed if you’re not.”
“Yes; but I must make sure this time.”
“Anne’s very set on it. She doesn’t say much, but she really is. It’s such a charming old place.”
“I don’t want a better, but it must pay its way.”
“Is that your real reason, Jon?”
“Why not?”
“I thought perhaps you were secretly afraid of settling again. But you’re the head of the family, Jon—you ought to settle.”
“Head of the family!”
“Yes, the only son of the only son of the eldest son right back to the primeval Jolyon.”
“Nice head!” said Jon, bitterly.
“Yes—a nice head.” And, suddenly rising, Holly bent over and kissed the top of it.
“Bless you! Don’t sit up too late. Anne’s rather in the dumps.”
Jon turned out the lamp and stayed, huddled in his chair before the fire. Head of the family!
He had done them proud! And if—! Ha! That would, indeed, be illustrious! What would the old fellow whose photograph he had been looking at last night, think, if he knew? Ah, what a coil! For in his inmost heart he knew that Anne was more his mate, more her with whom he could live and work and have his being, than ever Fleur could be. Madness, momentary madness, coming on him from the past—the past, and the potency of her will to have and hold him! He got up, and drew aside the curtains. There, between two elm trees, the moon, mysterious and powerful, shone, and all was moving with its light up to the crest of the Downs. What beauty, what stillness! He threw the window up, and stepped out; like some dark fluid spilled on the whitened grass, the ragged shadow of one elm tree reached almost to his feet. From their window above a light shone. He must go up and face it. He had not been alone with her since—! If only he knew for certain what he was going to do! And he realised now that in obeying that impulse to rush away from Fleur he had been wrong; he ought to have stayed and threshed it out there and then. And yet, who could have behaved reasonably, sanely, feeling as he had felt? He stepped back to the window, and stopped with his heart in his mouth. There between firelight and moonlight stood Anne! Slender, in a light wrapper drawn close, she was gazing towards him. Jon closed the window and drew the curtain.
“Sorry, darling, you’ll catch cold—the moonlight got me.” She moved to the far side of the hearth, and stood looking at him.
“Jon, I’m going to have a child.”
“You—!”
“Yes. I didn’t tell you last month because I wanted to be sure.”
“Anne!”
She was holding up her hand.
“Wait a minute!”
Jon gripped the back of a chair, he knew what was coming.
“Something’s happened between you and Fleur.”
Jon held his breath, staring at her eyes; dark, unflinching, startled, they stared back at him.
“Everything’s happened, hasn’t it?”
Jon bent his head.
“Yesterday? Don’t explain, don’t excuse yourself or her. Only—what does it mean?”
Without raising his head, Jon answered:
“That depends on you.”
“On me?”
“After what you’ve just told me. Oh! Anne, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Yes; I kept it too long!”
He understood what she meant—she had kept it as a weapon of defence. And, seeming to himself unforgiveable, he said:
“Forgive me, Anne—forgive me!”
“Oh! Jon, I don’t just know.”
“I swear that I will never see her again.”
He raised his eyes now, and saw that she had sunk on her knees by the fire, holding a hand out to it, as if cold. He dropped on his knees beside her.
“I think,” he said, “love is the cruellest thing in the world.”
“Yes.”
She had covered her eyes with her hand; and it seemed hours that he knelt there, waiting for a movement, a sign, a word. At last she dropped her hand.
“All right. It’s over. But don’t kiss me—yet.”
Chapter X.
BITTER APPLE
Life revived in Fleur while she went about her business in the morning. Standing in sunshine before the hollyhocks and sunflowers of the “rest-house” garden, she reviewed past and future with feverish vigour. Of course Jon was upset! She had taken him by storm! He was old-fashioned, conscientious; he couldn’t take things lightly. But since already he had betrayed his conscience, he would realise that what had happened outweighed what more could happen. It was the first step that counted! They had always belonged to each other. She felt no remorse; then why should he—when his confusion was over? It was for the best, perhaps, that he had run away from her till he could see the inexorability of his position. Her design was quite unshaken by the emotions she had been through. Jon was hers now, he could not betray their secret unless she gave him leave. He must and would conform to the one course possible—secrecy. Infidelity had been achieved—one act or many, what did it matter? Ah! But she would make up to him for the loss of self-respect with her love, and with her wisdom. She would make him a success. In spite of that American chit he should succeed with his farming, become important to his county, to his country, perhaps. She would be circumspection itself—for his sake, for her own, for Michael’s, Kit’s, her father’s.
With a great bunch of autumn flowers to which was clinging one bee, she went back into the house to put them in water. On the table in the hall were a number of little bags of bitter-apple prepared by her caretaker’s wife against the moth, which were all over a house that had been derelict for a year. She busied herself with stowing them in drawers. The second post brought her Jon’s letter.