He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their ripening blackberries were high on each side of him.  From the earth rose rich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still.  His heart was beating madly.  He could not understand anything of what happened to him.  He associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was nothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion could have caused her to give herself.  But passion for him?  He would not have been surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare, and straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride.  Philip wondered what she saw in him.  He did not know if she loved him as he reckoned love.  And yet?  He was convinced of her purity.  He had a vague inkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though was unconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night, the healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed, and an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly; and she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity.

He heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness.

“Sally,” he murmured.

She stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odours of the country-side.  She seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mown hay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass.  Her lips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firm within his arms.

“Milk and honey,” he said.  “You’re like milk and honey.”

He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then the other.  Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed his hand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she had the skin that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, and on one side were little golden hairs.  It was the arm of a Saxon goddess; but no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thought of a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men’s hearts, of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called York and Lancaster, and of love—­in-a-mist and Sweet William, and honeysuckle, larkspur, and London Pride.

“How can you care for me?” he said.  “I’m insignificant and crippled and ordinary and ugly.”

She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips.

“You’re an old silly, that’s what you are,” she said.

CXXI