The Lonely by Paul Gallico Read Free Book Online Page A

sleep.
    Strands of straight, damp hair fell across her face, and he brushed them away gently and thought how beautiful she was. He could not recall when or how the change had taken place, or even that he had ever thought her plain. It was as though her features had come to take on a special meaning and unfold their beauties one by one. They had lost their individual identity as nose, or mouth, or lashes spread against a cheek. The tender sweetness of each had become intimately familiar to him. He had explored them all, experienced their texture, discovering new enchantments of human architecture in the gentle flare of a nostril, the smooth surface of brow or temple, the innocent and touching gallantry of the spot where her head and neck were joined.
    There was a kind of eternity to the low, rough room, the glowing fire and the iron kettle suspended over it, with the rain beating on the roof and dripping from the eaves in steady streams that sounded above Patches’ quiet breathing. His mind remained encompassed there and with the companion he was holding closely as if to give her of his added warmth. Here a world might well begin and end.
    In the morning Patches’ youth and constitution, plus the care Jerry had given her, asserted themselves, and she awoke refreshed and with no apparent ill effects from the chill and the wetting.
    Thereafter the days slipped by all too quickly, a dreamlike procession of play and laughter alternating with growing passion as they learned the love of each other, and the tendernesses and increasing companionship and need resulting therefrom.
    It was downhill all the way from the Trossachs into Aberfoyle, and they took it streaming, all-out, brakes off, sharing the whirlwind of their passage and spending the night at the Bailie Nicol Jarvie, famous, they learned from the inscriptions, for the legend of a fat, little, inoffensive English bailie who, while taking his ease there one night, was assaulted by a gigantic Highlander, who threatened his life with drawn claymore. The game little bailie put him to rout by setting fire to his kilts with a red-hot poker drawn from the fireplace.
    They sat drinking Mild and Bitter in a secluded corner of the old Bailie’s bar, where the last of the sunlight filtered in through old, green bottle-glass set into the wall panels of dark bog oak, its rays picking up the sheen of pewter plate and tankards, chain mail, swords, and pikestaffs. Each in his own way was basking in the warmth and delight of the presence of the other, and knowing to the full the exquisite delight of not being alone, of having the other every moment, by pressure of limb to limb, by a touch of the fingers, a caress of the eyes, a quicker breathing, a smile, the fall of a wisp of Patches’ hair across Jerry’s face.
    And if one was living for the moment, and the other was trying to make each moment an eternity, their appreciation and delight that each had in the presence of the other was in no way diminished.
    They cycled on to Drymen, where Jerry borrowed a set of golf clubs from the local pro and played the course, with Patches walking at his side spellbound in dutiful awe of his every shot; and this was a new experience for Jerry to be so sincerely admired and frankly hero-worshipped, for now that Patches’ love for him had had its outlet, she put no curbs upon her adoration of him.
    Thence they rode southward through the gentle, rolling hills of Lennox, and this was a different kind of country, green and more kindly, contrasting with the stern and romantic wildness of the Highlands, and ever their wheels took them at each turn closer to Glasgow and the end of their holiday. For their time was running out, and Patches had to return to duty at Kenwoulton.
    As they had planned it in the beginning, so they carried it out. Patches’ leave was up before Jerry’s rest furlough expired, and she was to return alone while Jerry remained another five days in the north. He was planning to go to