“I do,” he answered emphatically, thus acknowledging her triumph.
“I’d rather ‘dance and sing’ round ‘wrinkled care’ than carefully shut the door on him, while I slept in the chimney-seat wouldn’t you?” she asked.
He laughed, and began to consider what she meant before he replied.
“As you do,” she added.
“What?” he asked.
“Keep half your senses asleep — half alive.”
“Do I?” he asked.
“Of course you do; — ’bos bovis; an ox.’ You are like a stalled ox, food and comfort, no more. Don’t you love comfort?” she smiled.
“Don’t you?” he replied, smiling shamefaced.
“Of course. Come and turn over for me while I play this piece. Well, I’ll nod when you must turn — bring a chair.” She began to play a romance of Schubert’s. He leaned nearer to her to take hold of the leaf of music; she felt her loose hair touch his face, and turned to him a quick, laughing glance, while she played. At the end of the page she nodded, but he was oblivious; “Yes!” she said, suddenly impatient, and he tried to get the leaf over; she quickly pushed his hand aside, turned the page herself and continued playing.
“Sorry!” said he, blushing actually.
“Don’t bother,” she said, continuing to play without observing him. When she had finished:
“There!” she said, “now tell me how you felt while I was playing.”
“Oh — a fool!” — he replied, covered with confusion.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said — ”but I didn’t mean that. I meant how did the music make you feel?”
“I don’t know — whether — it made me feel anything,” he replied deliberately, pondering over his answer, as usual.
“I tell you,” she declared, “you’re either asleep or stupid. Did you really see nothing in the music? But what did you think about?”
He laughed — and thought awhile — and laughed again.
“Why!” he admitted, laughing, and trying to tell the exact truth, “I thought how pretty your hands are — and what they are like to touch — and I thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my cheek.” When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a little knock, and left him saying:
“You are worse and worse.”
She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to Emily, and put her arm around my neck.
“Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked.
“Half-past eight — quite early,” said I.
“But I believe — I think I ought to be home now,” she said. “Don’t go,” said he.
“Why?” I asked.
“Stay to supper,” urged Emily.
“But I believe — ” she hesitated.
“She has another fish to fry,” I said.
“I am not sure — ” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”
“Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly. “Why — no!” she said, blushing.
“Then stay to supper — will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr Nickie Ben reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them good night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared the supper.
“Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr Saxton to Lettie, beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great.
“What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly, but with a deprecating laugh at the end.
“I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said.
“When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.
“Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.”
George thought about it, and he laughed also.
Emily, who was laying the table, said, “There is hardly any water in the pippin, George.”
“Oh, dash!” he exclaimed, “I’ve taken my boots off.”
“It’s not a very big job to put them on again,” said his sister. “Why couldn’t Annie fetch it — what’s she here for?” he said angrily.
Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him.
“I’ll go, I’ll go, after supper,” said the father in a comforting tone.
“After supper!” laughed Emily.
George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the house to a well, and being warm disliked turning out.
We had just sat down to supper when Trip rushed barking to the door. “Be quiet,” ordered the father, thinking of those in bed, and he followed the dog.
It was Leslie. He wanted Lettie to go home with him at once. This she refused to do, so he came indoors, and was persuaded to sit down at table. He swallowed a morsel of bread and cheese, and a cup of coffee, talking to Lettie of a garden party which was going to be arranged at Highclose for the following week.
“What is it for then?” interrupted Mr Saxton.
“For?” echoed Leslie.
“Is it for the missionaries, or the unemployed, or something?” explained Mr Saxton.
“It’s a garden-party, not a bazaar,” said Leslie.
“Oh — a private affair. I thought it would be some church matter of your mother’s. She’s very big at the church, isn’t she?”
“She is interested in the church — yes!” said Leslie, then proceeding to explain to Lettie that he was arranging a tennis tournament in which she was to take part. At this point he became aware that he was monopolising the conversation, and turned to George, just as the latter was taking a piece of cheese from his knife with his teeth, asking:
“Do you play tennis, Mr Saxton? — I know Miss Saxton does not.”
“No,” said George, working the piece of cheese into his cheek. “I never learned any ladies’ accomplishments.”
Leslie turned to Emily, who had nervously been pushing two plates over a stain in the cloth, and who was very startled when she found herself addressed.
“My mother would be so glad if you would come to the party, Miss Saxton.”
“I cannot. I shall be at school. Thanks very much.”
“Ah — it’s very good of you,” said the father, beaming. But George smiled contemptuously.
When supper was over Leslie looked at Lettie to inform her that he was ready to go. She, however, refused to see his look, but talked brightly to Mr Saxton, who was delighted. George, flattered, joined in the talk with gusto. Then Leslie’s angry silence began to tell on us all. After a dull lapse, George lifted his head and said to his father:
“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if that little red heifer calved tonight.”
Lettie’s eyes flashed with a sparkle of amusement at this thrust.
“No,” assented the father, “I thought so myself.”
After a moment’s silence, George continued deliberately, “I felt her gristles — ”
“George!” said Emily sharply.
“We will go,” said Leslie.
George looked up sideways at Lettie and his black eyes were full of sardonic mischief.
“Lend me a shawl, will you, Emily?” said Lettie. “I brought nothing, and I think the wind is cold.”
Emily, however, regretted that she had no shawl, and so Lettie must needs wear a black coat over her summer dress. It fitted so absurdly that we all laughed, but Leslie was very angry that she should appear ludicrous before them. He showed her all the polite attentions possible, fastened the neck of her coat with his pearl scarf-pin, refusing the pin Emily discovered, after some search. Then we sallied fort
h.
When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured dignity. She refused it and he began to remonstrate. “I consider you ought to have been home as you promised.”
“Pardon me.” she replied, “but I did not promise.”
“But you knew I was coming,” said he.
“Well — you found me,” she retorted.
“Yes,” he assented. “I did find you; flirting with a common fellow,” he sneered.
“Well,” she returned. “He did — it is true — call a heifer, a heifer.”
“And I should think you liked it,” he said.
“I didn’t mind,” she said, with galling negligence.
“I thought your taste was more refined,” he replied sarcastically. “But I suppose you thought it romantic.”
“Very! Ruddy, dark, and really thrilling eyes,” said she.
“I hate to hear a girl talk rot,” said Leslie. He himself had crisp hair of the “ginger” class.
“But I mean it,” she insisted, aggravating his anger. Leslie was angry. “I’m glad he amuses you!”
“Of course, I’m not hard to please,” she said pointedly. He was stung to the quick.
“Then there’s some comfort in knowing I don’t please you,” he said coldly.
“Oh! but you do! You amuse me also,” she said.
After that he would not speak, preferring, I suppose, not to amuse her.
Lettie took my arm, and with her disengaged hand held her skirts above the wet grass. When he had left us at the end of the riding in the wood, Lettie said:
“What an infant he is!”
“A bit of an ass,” I admitted.
“But really!” she said, “he’s more agreeable on the whole than — than my Taurus.”
“Your bull!” I repeated, laughing.
CHAPTER III
A VENDOR OF VISIONS
The Sunday following Lettie’s visit to the mill, Leslie came up in the morning, admirably dressed, and perfected by a grand air. I showed him into the dark drawing-room, and left him. Ordinarily he would have wandered to the stairs, and sat there calling to Lettie; today he was silent. I carried the news of his arrival to my sister, who was pinning on her brooch.
“And how is the dear boy?” she asked.
“I have not inquired,” said I.
She laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church before she came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and bowed to him with a beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had nothing to say. She rustled across the room to the window, where the white geraniums grew magnificently. “I must adorn myself,” she said.
It was Leslie’s custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this day, she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the geraniums. So she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of her dress, saying:
“They are very fine, are they not?”
He muttered that they were. Mother came downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if he would take her to church.
“If you will allow me,” said he.
“You are modest today,” laughed Mother.
“Today!” he repeated.
“I hate modesty in a young man,” said Mother — ”Come, we shall be late.” Lettie wore the geraniums all day — till evening. She brought Alice Gall home to tea, and bade me bring up “Mon Taureau”, when his farm work was over.
The day had been hot and close. The sun was reddening in the west as we leaped across the lesser brook. The evening scents began to awake, and wander unseen through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would slant through the thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the orange clusters of mountain-ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing together to sleep. Only a few pink orchids stood palely by the path, looking wistfully out at the ranks of red-purple bugle, whose last flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze column, yearned darkly for the sun.
We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the woodlands. As we drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees, from the lover’s seat, where a great tree had fallen and remained mossed and covered with fragile growth. There a crooked bough made a beautiful seat for two.
“Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight,” said I as we continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no lovers there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The cap had fallen from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against a profusion of the little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough so delicately. The man’s clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected. His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept, his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his features twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little groan, gruesome to hear, and then talk to some woman. His features twitched as if with pain, and he moaned slightly.
The lips opened in a grimace, showing the yellow teeth behind the beard. Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight-haunted woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke with a sharp “Ah!” — he looked round in consternation, then sinking down again wearily, said, “I was dreaming again.”
“You don’t seem to have nice dreams,” said George.
The man winced then, looking at us, said, almost sneering: “And who are you?”
We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at us.
“So!” he said at last, wearily, “I do dream. I do, I do.” He sighed heavily. Then he added, sarcastically, “Were you interested?”
“No,” said I. “But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you want?”
“You want me to clear out,” he said.
“Well,” I said, laughing in deprecation, “I don’t mind your dreaming. But this is not the way to anywhere.”
“Where may you be going then?” he asked.
“I? Home,” I replied with dignity.
“You are a Beardsall?” he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.
“I am!” I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.
He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood. Then he took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick seemed to catch at my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked with the old man along the path to the gate. We went with him into the open road. When we reached the clear sky where the light from the west fell full on our faces, he turned again and looked at us closely. His mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but he stopped himself, and only said, “Good-bye — Good-bye.”
“Shall you be all right?” I asked, seeing him totter. “Yes — all right — good-bye, lad.”
He walked away feebly into the darkness. We saw the lights of a vehicle on the high-road: after a while we heard the bang of a door, and a cab rattled away.
“Well — whoever’s he?” said George, laughing.
“Do you know,” said I, “it’s made me feel a bit rotten.”
“Ay?” he laughed, turning up the end of the exclamation with indulgent surprise.
We went back home, deciding to say nothing to the women. They were sitting in the window seat watching for us, Mother and Alice and Lettie.
“You have been a long time!” said Lettie. “We’ve watched the sun go down — it set splendidly — look — the rim of the hill is smouldering yet. What have you been doing?”
“Waiting till your Taurus finished work.”
“Now be quiet,” she said hastily, and — turning to him — ”You have come to sing hymns?”
“Anything you like,” he replied.
“How nice of you, George!” exclaimed Alice, ironically. She was a short, plump girl, pale, with daring, rebellio
us eyes. Her mother was a Wyld, a family famous either for shocking lawlessness, or for extreme uprightness. Alice, with an admirable father, and a mother who loved her husband passionately, was wild and lawless on the surface, but at heart very upright and amenable. My mother and she were fast friends, and Lettie had a good deal of sympathy with her. But Lettie generally deplored Alice’s outrageous behaviour, though she relished it — if “superior” friends were not present. Most men enjoyed Alice in company, but they fought shy of being alone with her.
“Would you say the same to me?” she asked.
“It depends what you’d answer,” he said, laughingly.
“Oh, you’re so bloomin’ cautious. I’d rather have a tack in my shoe than a cautious man, wouldn’t you, Lettie?”
“Well — it depends how far I had to walk,” was Lettie’s reply — ”but if I hadn’t to limp too far — — ”
Alice turned away from Lettie, whom she often found rather irritating.
“You do look glum, Sybil,” she said to me, “did somebody want to kiss you?”
I laughed — on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine reference — and answered:
“If they had, I should have looked happy.”
“Dear boy, smile now then” — and she tipped me under the chin. I drew away.
“Oh, Gum — we are solemn! What’s the matter with you? Georgie — say something — else I’s’ll begin to feel nervous.”
“What shall I say?” he asked, shifting his feet and resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh, Lor!” she cried in great impatience. He did not help her, but sat clasping his hands, smiling on one side of his face. He was nervous. He looked at the pictures, the ornaments, and everything in the room; Lettie got up to settle some flowers on the mantelpiece, and he scrutinised her closely. She was dressed in some blue foulard stuff, with lace at the throat, and lace cuffs to the elbow. She was tall and supple; her hair had a curling fluffiness very charming. He was no taller than she, and looked shorter, being strongly built. He too had a grace of his own, but not as he sat stiffly on a horse-hair chair. She was elegant in her movements.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 3