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been in love with Damos, and yet not recall
one single incident, not find anything familiar
in the sensation that enveloped her at this
moment. Damos was looking down at her, a
little anxiously, she realized, and without
warning a great shyness swept over her.
`I'm quite all right,' she murmured, just for
something to say, but also because she did
not want him to be anxious about her.
`You're sure?' He glanced down at her again.
`You didn't twist your ankle or anything?'
`No, I'm fine.'
His hand was removed; she felt its loss. It had
been
protective, comforting, yet disturbing in that
it aroused in her a totally unknown emotion.
She wanted to move close to him, to feel his
body in contact with hers, just as she had felt
its contact when, seconds ago, she had fallen
against him. She wanted the touch of his
hands, their caress on her cheeks. Flushing
painfully at her thoughts, she was thankful for
the darkness as a cloud drifted over the
moon, masking its light for a moment or two.
The path they now took was between high
trees, and it led to the outer perimeter of the
grounds. From there a slightly wider path
took them towards the low hills, behind which
rose the mountains, their peaks gleaming
white, and softened by the snow.
`How long does the snow remain?' she asked
con-versationally after a while.
`Until May, or thereabouts.'
`So long? I always thought Greece was warm
all the time.'
`Indeed no. We can have very severe winters
here.' He paused a moment, glancing down at
her. `You must have read about Greece?' he
said, an odd inflection in his voice. `Do you
remember reading about it?'
Mary shook her head.
`I remember nothing at all about myself -
though, as you say, I must at some time or
another have read about Greece.' And about
many other things besides, she thought,
since nothing was strange except the total
blank of her own life prior to the accident.
`It will all return some day,' he said
soothingly. `For the present you must enjoy
your life. I hope you are enjoying it, Mary?'
`Very much-' But her voice faltered all at
once and she added slowly, `I'm sorry for
making you angry, Damos. But thank you for
forgetting it so soon.'
A rather awkward silence followed. Mary felt
convinced that he had swiftly comprehended
her reason for
inserting the apology. His next words
confirmed this.
`You were unhappy because of our little
quarrel?'
It had been more than unhappiness, she
recalled; it had been a deep hurt which she
had felt. The memory even now brought a
little lump to her throat and for a while she
was unable to speak. Damos was waiting
patiently, his eyes fixed straight ahead to
where a mist, having risen on the foothills,
curled between a serrated line of cypresses,
blurring the sense of time and space.
`I don't ever want to quarrel with you,' she
said at last, her low sweet tones appearing to
arrest his attention, for he almost stopped to
look down into her face. Even in the dim light
piercing the foliage of the trees she could
detect the strange expression in his eyes. It
was as if he had just noticed something about
her that he had never seen before. But he
was frowning, as if what -he saw was far from
pleasing to him. Hurt by this idea, she half
turned from him - and instantly sensing this
hurt. Damos reached out to take her hand,
bringing her round to face him. He had
stopped now and she also had to halt, lifting
her face to his, her blue eyes wide and
appealing, her mouth quivering slightly.
`What is it?' he asked gently. `You mustn't
worry about the few words we had.' He was
troubled, she sensed this, but she also sensed
that what troubled him was something far
more important that what appeared on the
surface.
And for no particular reason she was recalling
that im-pression she once had that he did not
want her to fall in love with him.
'Damos,' she quivered, speaking with a sort
of frightened urgency, `you do love me, don't
you?' A sound followed her words - the call of
a bird of prey, echoing through the moutain
solitude weird and lonely. It died away,
leaving the atmosphere empty save for the
negative quality of silence, a silence that
remained unbroken longer than it should. But
eventually her question was
answered, in a way that brought forth a great
sigh of relief, for the tones her husband used
were a most soothing reassurance.
`But of course, my dear. What a silly question
to ask!'
CHAPTER FIVE
MARY was cutting flowers from the border
when on hear-ing footsteps she lifted her
head and a smile leapt to her lips.
`They're for Mother,' she said as Damos
approached her. `I've chosen all the scented
ones.'
His eyes smiled as he glanced at the colourful
array in the basket.
`You've given Mother a great deal of
happiness, Mary. But you yourself must have
realized this?' She nodded, but deprecatingly.
`I've grown to love her,' came the simple
reply as she dropped a sweet-smelling
narcissus into the basket.
`And she loves you.' Damos moved nearer
and, stooping, picked up the basket, holding
it out when another flower was ready to be
put into it. The whole garden was a blaze of
exotic colour now, for it was the beginning of
May and the heat of the sun was increasing
daily. On the mountains the snow was
melting, filling the rivulets and hanging
valleys, creating torrents and swelling the
water
in the lake.
`That's all.' Mary came from the border and
stood beside her husband. `She'll adore
these, knowing they're all from our garden.'
He smiled at this and said,
`For the last few weeks the flowers you've [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]