PAGE 13
The Apple Tree
by
“Oh! Megan! Why did you come?” She looked up, hurt, amazed.
“Sir, you asked me to.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ my pretty sweet.”
“What should I be callin’ you?”
“Frank.”
“I could not. Oh, no!”
“But you love me–don’t you?”
“I could not help lovin’ you. I want to be with you–that’s all.”
“All!”
So faint that he hardly heard, she whispered: “I shall die if I can’t be with you.”
Ashurst took a mighty breath.
“Come and be with me, then!”
“Oh!”
Intoxicated by the awe and rapture in that “Oh!” he went on, whispering:
“We’ll go to London. I’ll show you the world.
“And I will take care of you, I promise, Megan. I’ll never be a brute to you!”
“If I can be with you–that is all.”
He stroked her hair, and whispered on:
“To-morrow I’ll go to Torquay and get some money, and get you some clothes that won’t be noticed, and then we’ll steal away. And when we get to London, soon perhaps, if you love me well enough, we’ll be married.”
He could feel her hair shiver with the shake of her head.
“Oh, no! I could not. I only want to be with you!”
Drunk on his own chivalry, Ashurst went on murmuring, “It’s I who am not good enough for you. Oh! Megan, when did you begin to love me?”
“When I saw you in the road, and you looked at me. The first night I loved you; but I never thought you would want me.”
She slipped down suddenly to her knees, trying to kiss his feet.
A shiver of horror went through Ashurst; he lifted her up bodily and held her fast–too upset to speak.
She whispered: “Why won’t you let me?”
“It’s I who will kiss your feet!”
Her smile brought tears into his eyes. The whiteness of her moonlit face so close to his, the faint pink of her opened lips, had the living unearthly beauty of the apple blossom.
And then, suddenly, her eyes widened and stared past him painfully; she writhed out of his arms, and whispered: “Look!”
Ashurst saw nothing but the brightened stream, the furze faintly gilded, the beech trees glistening, and behind them all the wide loom of the moonlit hill. Behind him came her frozen whisper: “The gipsy bogie!”
“Where?”
“There–by the stone–under the trees!”
Exasperated, he leaped the stream, and strode towards the beech clump. Prank of the moonlight! Nothing! In and out of the boulders and thorn trees, muttering and cursing, yet with a kind of terror, he rushed and stumbled. Absurd! Silly! Then he went back to the apple tree. But she was gone; he could hear a rustle, the grunting of the pigs, the sound of a gate closing. Instead of her, only this old apple tree! He flung his arms round the trunk. What a substitute for her soft body; the rough moss against his face–what a substitute for her soft cheek; only the scent, as of the woods, a little the same! And above him, and around, the blossoms, more living, more moonlit than ever, seemed to glow and breathe.
7
Descending from the train at Torquay station, Ashurst wandered uncertainly along the front, for he did not know this particular queen of English watering places. Having little sense of what he had on, he was quite unconscious of being remarkable among its inhabitants, and strode along in his rough Norfolk jacket, dusty boots, and battered hat, without observing that people gazed at him rather blankly. He was seeking a branch of his London bank, and having found one, found also the first obstacle to his mood. Did he know anyone in Torquay? No. In that case, if he would wire to his bank in London, they would be happy to oblige him on receipt of the reply. That suspicious breath from the matter-of-fact world somewhat tarnished the brightness of his visions. But he sent the telegram.
Nearly opposite to the post office he saw a shop full of ladies’ garments, and examined the window with strange sensations. To have to undertake the clothing of his rustic love was more than a little disturbing. He went in. A young woman came forward; she had blue eyes and a faintly puzzled forehead. Ashurst stared at her in silence.