But she let him have her hands; and, resting beside him on the rail fence, bent her fair head as he kissed her joined hands, let it droop lower, lower, till her cheek brushed his. Then, turning very slowly, their lips encountered, rested, till the faint fragrance of hers threatened his self-control.
She opened her blue eyes as he raised his head, looking at him vaguely in the dusk, then very gently shook her head and rested one cheek on her open palm.
"I don't know," she sighed. "I-don't-know-" and closed her lids once more.
"Know what, dearest of women?"
"What is going to happen to us, Phil... . It seems incredible-after our vows-after the lofty ideals we--"
"The ideals are there," he said in a low voice. And, in his tone there was a buoyancy, a hint of something new to her-something almost decisive, something of protection which began vaguely to thrill her, as though that guard which she had so long mounted over herself might be relieved-the strain relaxed--the duty left to him.
She laid one hand on his arm, looked up, searching his face, hesitated. A longing to relax the tension of self-discipline came over her-to let him guard them both-to leave all to him-let him fight for them both. It was a longing to find security in the certainty of his self-control, a desire to drift, and let him be responsible, to let him control the irresponsibility within her, the unwisdom, the delicate audacity, latent, mischievous, that needed a reversal of the role of protector and protected to blossom deliciously into the coquetry that she had never dared.
"Are you to be trusted?" she asked innocently.
"Yes, at last. You know it. Even if I--"
"Yes, dear."
She considered him with a new and burning curiosity. It was the feminine in her, wondering, not yet certain, whether it might safely dare.
"I suppose I've made an anchorite out of you," she ventured.
"You can judge," he said, laughing; and had her in his arms again, and kissed her consenting lips and palms, and looked down into the sweet eyes; and she smiled back at him, confident, at rest.
"What has wrought this celestial change in you, Phil?" she whispered, listlessly humourous.
"What change?"
"The spiritual."
"Is there one? I seem to kiss you just as ardently."
"I know... . But-for the first time since I ever saw you-I feel that I am safe in the world... . It may annoy me."
He laughed.
"I may grow tired of it," she insisted, watching him. "I may behave like a naughty, perverse, ungrateful urchin, and kick and scream and bite... . But you won't let me be hurt, will you?"
"No, child." His voice was laughing at her, but his eyes were curiously grave.
She put both arms up around his neck with a quick catch of her breath.
"I do love you-I do love you. I know it now, Phil-I know it as I never dreamed of knowing it... . You will never let me be hurt, will you? Nothing can harm me now, can it?"
"Nothing, Ailsa."
She regarded him dreamily. Sometimes her blue eyes wandered toward the stars, sometimes toward the camp fires on the hill.
"Perfect-perfect belief in-your goodness-to me," she murmured vaguely. "Now I shall-repay you-by perversity-misbehaviour-I don't know what-I don't know-what--"
Her lids closed; she yielded to his embrace; one slim, detaining hand on his shoulder held her closer, closer.
"You must-never-go away," her lips formed.
But already he was releasing her, pale but coolly master of the situation. Acquiescent, inert, she lay in his arms, then straightened and rested against the rail beside her.
Presently she smiled to herself, looked at him, still smiling.
"Shall we go into Dr. West's office and have supper, Phil? I'm on duty in half an hour and my supper must be ready by this time; and I'm simply dying to have you make up for the indignity of the kitchen."
"You ridiculous little thing!"
"No, I'm not. I could weep with rage when I think of you in the kitchen and-and- Oh, never mind. Come, will you?" And she held out her hand.
Her supper was ready, as she had predicted, and she delightedly made room for him beside her on the bench, and helped him to freshly baked bread and ancient tinned vegetables, and some doubtful boiled meat, all of which he ate with an appetite and a reckless and appreciative abandon that fascinated her.
"Darling!" she whispered in consternation, "don't they give you anything in camp?"
"Sometimes," he enunciated, chewing vigorously on the bread. "We don't get much of this, darling. And the onions have all sprouted, and the potatoes are rotten."
She regarded him for a moment, then laughed hysterically.
"I beg your pardon, Phil, but somehow this reminds me of our cook feeding her policeman:-just for one tiny second, darling--"
They abandoned any effort to control their laughter. Ailsa had become transfigured into a deliciously mischievous and bewildering creature, brilliant of lip and cheek and eye, irresponsible, provoking, utterly without dignity or discipline.
She taunted him with his appetite, jeered at him for his recent and marvellous conversion to respectability, dared him to make love to her, provoked him at last to abandon his plate and rise and start toward her. And, of course, she fled, crying in consternation: "Hush, Philip! You mustn't make such a racket or they'll put us both out!"-keeping the table carefully between them, dodging every strategy of his, every endeavour to make her prisoner, quick, graceful, demoralising in her beauty and abandon. They behaved like a pair of very badly brought up children, until she was in real terror of discovery.
"Dearest," she pleaded, "if you will sit down and resume your gnawing on that crust, I'll promise not to torment you... . I will, really. Besides, it's within a few minutes of my tour of duty--"
She stopped, petrified, as a volley of hoof-beats echoed outside, the clash of arms and accoutrements rang close by the porch.
"Phil!" she gasped.
And the door opened and Colonel Arran walked in.
There was a dreadful silence. Arran stood face to face with Berkley, looked him squarely in the eye where he stood at salute. Then, as though he had never before set eyes on him, Arran lifted two fingers to his visor mechanically, turned to Ailsa, uncovered, and held out both his hands.
"I had a few moments, Ailsa," he said quietly. "I hadn't seen you for so long. Are you well?"
She was almost too frightened to answer; Berkley stood like a statue, awaiting dismissal, and later the certain consequences of guard running.
And, aware of her fright, Arran turned quietly to Berkley:
"Private Ormond," he said, "there is a led-horse in my escort, in charge of Private Burgess. It is the easier and-safer route to camp. You may retire."
Berkley's expression was undecipherable as he saluted, shot a glance at Ailsa, turned sharply, and departed.