Her kind of witless humour always startled him. He never knew what she meant. Probably she didn’t quite know herself.
‘No,’ he said, hurt.
‘I don’t know why you harp on old age,’ she said. ‘I’m not ninety.’
‘Did anybody ever say you were?’ he asked, offended.
They were silent for some time, pulling different ways in the silence.
‘I don’t want you to make fun of me,’ he said.
‘Don’t you?’ she replied, enigmatic.
‘No, because just this minute I’m serious. And when I’m serious, I believe in not making fun of it.’
‘You mean nobody else must make fun of you,’ she replied.
‘Yes, I mean that. And I mean I don’t believe in making fun of it myself. When it comes over me so that I’m serious, then — there it is, I don’t want it to be laughed at.’
She was silent for some time. Then she said, in a vague, almost pained voice:
‘No, I’m not laughing at you.’
A hot wave rose in his heart.
‘You believe me, do you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I believe you,’ she replied, with a twang of her old, tired nonchalance, as if she gave in because she was tired. But he didn’t care. His heart was hot and clamorous.
‘So you agree to marry me before I go? — perhaps at Christmas?’
‘Yes, I agree.’
‘There!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s settled it.’
And he sat silent, unconscious, with all the blood burning in all his veins, like fire in all the branches and twigs of him. He only pressed her two hands to his chest, without knowing. When the curious passion began to die down, he seemed to come awake to the world.
‘We’ll go in, shall we?’ he said: as if he realized it was cold.
She rose without answering.
‘Kiss me before we go, now you’ve said it,’ he said.
And he kissed her gently on the mouth, with a young, frightened kiss. It made her feel so young, too, and frightened, and wondering: and tired, tired, as if she were going to sleep.
They went indoors. And in the sitting-room, there, crouched by the fire like a queer little witch, was Banford. She looked round with reddened eyes as they entered, but did not rise. He thought she looked frightening, unnatural, crouching there and looking round at them. Evil he thought her look was, and he crossed his fingers.
Banford saw the ruddy, elate face on the youth: he seemed strangely tall and bright and looming. And March had a delicate look on her face; she wanted to hide her face, to screen it, to let it not be seen.
‘You’ve come at last,’ said Banford uglily.
‘Yes, we’ve come,’ said he.
‘You’ve been long enough for anything,’ she said.
‘Yes, we have. We’ve settled it. We shall marry as soon as possible,’ he replied.
‘Oh, you’ve settled it, have you! Well, I hope you won’t live to repent it,’ said Banford.
‘I hope so too,’ he replied.
‘Are you going to bed now, Nellie?’ said Banford.
‘Yes, I’m going now.’
‘Then for goodness’ sake come along.’
March looked at the boy. He was glancing with his very bright eyes at her and at Banford. March looked at him wistfully. She wished she could stay with him. She wished she had married him already, and it was all over. For oh, she felt suddenly so safe with him. She felt so strangely safe and peaceful in his presence. If only she could sleep in his shelter, and not with Jill. She felt afraid of Jill. In her dim, tender state, it was agony to have to go with Jill and sleep with her. She wanted the boy to save her. She looked again at him.
And he, watching with bright eyes, divined something of what she felt. It puzzled and distressed him that she must go with Jill.
‘I shan’t forget what you’ve promised,’ he said, looking clear into her eyes, right into her eyes, so that he seemed to occupy all herself with his queer, bright look.
She smiled to him faintly, gently. She felt safe again — safe with him.
But in spite of all the boy’s precautions, he had a setback. The morning he was leaving the farm he got March to accompany him to the market-town, about six miles away, where they went to the registrar and had their names stuck up as two people who were going to marry. He was to come at Christmas, and the wedding was to take place then. He hoped in the spring to be able to take March back to Canada with him, now the war was really over. Though he was so young, he had saved some money.
‘You never have to be without some money at the back of you, if you can help it,’ he said.
So she saw him off in the train that was going West: his camp was on Salisbury Plain. And with big, dark eyes she watched him go, and it seemed as if everything real in life was retreating as the train retreated with his queer, chubby, ruddy face, that seemed so broad across the cheeks, and which never seemed to change its expression, save when a cloud of sulky anger hung on the brow, or the bright eyes fixed themselves in their stare. This was what happened now. He leaned there out of the carriage window as the train drew off, saying good-bye and staring back at her, but his face quite unchanged. There was no emotion on his face. Only his eyes tightened and became fixed and intent in their watching like a cat’s when suddenly she sees something and stares. So the boy’s eyes stared fixedly as the train drew away, and she was left feeling intensely forlorn. Failing his physical presence, she seemed to have nothing of him. And she had nothing of anything. Only his face was fixed in her mind: the full, ruddy, unchanging cheeks, and the straight snout of a nose and the two eyes staring above. All she could remember was how he suddenly wrinkled his nose when he laughed, as a puppy does when he is playfully growling. But him, himself, and what he was — she knew nothing, she had nothing of him when he left her.
On the ninth day after he had left her he received this letter.
Dear Henry,
I have been over it all again in my mind, this business of me and you, and it seems to me impossible. When you aren’t there I see what a fool I am. When you are there you seem to blind me to things as they actually are. You make me see things all unreal, and I don’t know what. Then when I am along again with Jill I seem to come to my own senses and realise what a fool I am making of myself, and how I am treating you unfairly. Because it must be unfair to you for me to go on with this affair when I can’t feel in my heart that I really love you. I know people talk a lot of stuff and nonsense about love, and I don’t want to do that. I want to keep to plain facts and act in a sensible way. And that seems to me what I’m not doing. I don’t see on what grounds I am going to marry you. I know I am not head over heels in love with you, as I have fancied myself to be with fellows when I was a young fool of a girl. You are an absolute stranger to me, and it seems to me you will always be one. So on what grounds am I going to marry you? When I think of Jill, she is ten times more real to me. I know her and I’m awfully fond of her, and I hate myself for a beast if I ever hurt her little finger. We have a life together. And even if it can’t last for ever, it is a life while it does last. And it might last as long as either of us lives. Who knows how long we’ve got to live? She is a delicate little thing, perhaps nobody but me knows how delicate. And as for me, I feel I might fall down the well any day. What I don’t seem to see at all is you. When I think of what I’ve been and what I’ve done with you, I’m afraid I am a few screws loose. I should be sorry to think that softening of the brain is setting in so soon, but that is what it seems like. You are such an absolute stranger, and so different from what I’m used to, and we don’t seem to have a thing in common. As for love, the very word seems impossible. I know what love means even in Jill’s case, and I know that in this affair with you it’s an absolute impossibility. And then going to Canada. I’m sure I must have been clean off my chump when I promised such a thing. It makes me feel fairly frightened of myself. I feel I might do something really silly that I wasn’t responsible for — and
end my days in a lunatic asylum. You may think that’s all I’m fit for after the way I’ve gone on, but it isn’t a very nice thought for me. Thank goodness Jill is here, and her being here makes me feel sane again, else I don’t know what I might do; I might have an accident with the gun one evening. I love Jill, and she makes me feel safe and sane, with her loving anger against me for being such a fool. Well, what I want to say is, won’t you let us cry the whole thing off? I can’t marry you, and really, I won’t do such a thing if it seems to me wrong. It is all a great mistake. I’ve made a complete fool of myself, and all I can do is to apologise to you and ask you please to forget it, and please to take no further notice of me. Your fox-skin is nearly ready, and seems all right, I will post it to you if you will let me know if this address is still right, and if you will accept my apology for the awful and lunatic way I have behaved with you, and then let the matter rest.
Jill sends her kindest regards. Her mother and father are staying with us over Christmas,
Yours very sincerely,
ELLEN MARCH.
The boy read this letter in camp as he was cleaning his kit. He set his teeth, and for a moment went almost pale, yellow round the eyes with fury. He said nothing and saw nothing and felt nothing but a livid rage that was quite unreasoning. Balked! Balked again! Balked! He wanted the woman, he had fixed like doom upon having her. He felt that was his doom, his destiny, and his reward, to have this woman. She was his heaven and hell on earth, and he would have none elsewhere. Sightless with rage and thwarted madness he got through the morning. Save that in his mind he was lurking and scheming towards an issue, he would have committed some insane act. Deep in himself he felt like roaring and howling and gnashing his teeth and breaking things. But he was too intelligent. He knew society was on top of him, and he must scheme. So with his teeth bitten together, and his nose curiously slightly lifted, like some creature that is vicious, and his eyes fixed and staring, he went through the morning’s affairs drunk with anger and suppression. In his mind was one thing — Banford. He took no heed of all March’s outpouring: none. One thorn rankled, stuck in his mind. Banford. In his mind, in his soul, in his whole being, one thorn rankling to insanity. And he would have to get it out. He would have to get the thorn of Banford out of his life, if he died for it.
With this one fixed idea in his mind, he went to ask for twenty-four hours’ leave of absence. He knew it was not due to him. His consciousness was supernaturally keen. He knew where he must go — he must go to the captain. But how could he get at the captain? In that great camp of wooden huts and tents he had no idea where his captain was.
But he went to the officers’ canteen. There was his captain standing talking with three other officers. Henry stood in the doorway at attention.
‘May I speak to Captain Berryman?’ The captain was Cornish like himself.
‘What do you want?’ called the captain.
‘May I speak to you, Captain?’
‘What do you want?’ replied the captain, not stirring from among his group of fellow officers.
Henry watched his superior for a minute without speaking.
‘You won’t refuse me, sir, will you?’ he asked gravely.
‘It depends what it is.’
‘Can I have twenty-four hours’ leave?’
‘No, you’ve no business to ask.’
‘I know I haven’t. But I must ask you.’
‘You’ve had your answer.’
‘Don’t send me away, Captain.’
There was something strange about the boy as he stood there so everlasting in the doorway. The Cornish captain felt the strangeness at once, and eyed him shrewdly.
‘Why, what’s afoot?’ he said, curious.
‘I’m in trouble about something. I must go to Blewbury,’ said the boy.
‘Blewbury, eh? After the girls?’
‘Yes, it is a woman, Captain.’ And the boy, as he stood there with his head reaching forward a little, went suddenly terribly pale, or yellow, and his lips seemed to give off pain. The captain saw and paled a little also. He turned aside.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘But for God’s sake don’t cause any trouble of any sort.’
‘I won’t, Captain, thank you.’
He was gone. The captain, upset, took a gin and bitters. Henry managed to hire a bicycle. It was twelve o’clock when he left the camp. He had sixty miles of wet and muddy crossroads to ride. But he was in the saddle and down the road without a thought of food.
At the farm, March was busy with a work she had had some time in hand. A bunch of Scotch fir trees stood at the end of the open shed, on a little bank where ran the fence between two of the gorse-shaggy meadows. The farthest of these trees was dead — it had died in the summer, and stood with all its needles brown and sere in the air. It was not a very big tree. And it was absolutely dead. So March determined to have it, although they were not allowed to cut any of the timber. But it would make such splendid firing, in these days of scarce fuel.
She had been giving a few stealthy chops at the trunk for a week or more, every now and then hacking away for five minutes, low down, near the ground, so no one should notice. She had not tried the saw, it was such hard work, alone. Now the tree stood with a great yawning gap in his base, perched, as it were, on one sinew, and ready to fall. But he did not fall.
It was late in the damp December afternoon, with cold mists creeping out of the woods and up the hollows, and darkness waiting to sink in from above. There was a bit of yellowness where the sun was fading away beyond the low woods of the distance. March took her axe and went to the tree. The small thud-thud of her blows resounded rather ineffectual about the wintry homestead. Banford came out wearing her thick coat, but with no hat on her head, so that her thin, bobbed hair blew on the uneasy wind that sounded in the pines and in the wood.
‘What I’m afraid of,’ said Banford, ‘is that it will fall on the shed and we sh’ll have another job repairing that.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said March, straightening herself and wiping her arm over her hot brow. She was flushed red, her eyes were very wide open and queer, her upper lip lifted away from her two white, front teeth with a curious, almost rabbit look.
A little stout man in a black overcoat and a bowler hat came pottering across the yard. He had a pink face and a white beard and smallish, pale-blue eyes. He was not very old, but nervy, and he walked with little short steps.
‘What do you think, father?’ said Banford. ‘Don’t you think it might hit the shed in falling?’
‘Shed, no!’ said the old man. ‘Can’t hit the shed. Might as well say the fence.’
‘The fence doesn’t matter,’ said March, in her high voice.
‘Wrong as usual, am I!’ said Banford, wiping her straying hair from her eyes.
The tree stood as it were on one spelch of itself, leaning, and creaking in the wind. It grew on the bank of a little dry ditch between the two meadows. On the top of the bank straggled one fence, running to the bushes up-hill. Several trees clustered there in the corner of the field near the shed and near the gate which led into the yard. Towards this gate, horizontal across the weary meadows, came the grassy, rutted approach from the high road. There trailed another rickety fence, long split poles joining the short, thick, wide-apart uprights. The three people stood at the back of the tree, in the corner of the shed meadow, just above the yard gate. The house, with its two gables and its porch, stood tidy in a little grassed garden across the yard. A little, stout, rosy-faced woman in a little red woollen shoulder shawl had come and taken her stand in the porch.
‘Isn’t it down yet?’ she cried, in a high little voice.
‘Just thinking about it,’ called her husband. His tone towards the two girls was always rather mocking and satirical. March did not want to go on with her hitting while he was there. As for him, he wouldn’t lift a stick from the ground if he could help it, complaining, like his daughter, of rheumatics in his shoulder. So the three s
tood there a moment silent in the cold afternoon, in the bottom corner near the yard.
They heard the far-off taps of a gate, and craned to look. Away across, on the green horizontal approach, a figure was just swinging on to a bicycle again, and lurching up and down over the grass, approaching.
‘Why, it’s one of our boys — it’s Jack,’ said the old man.
‘Can’t be,’ said Banford.
March craned her head to look. She alone recognized the khaki figure. She flushed, but said nothing.
‘No, it isn’t Jack, I don’t think,’ said the old man, staring with little round blue eyes under his white lashes.
In another moment the bicycle lurched into sight, and the rider dropped off at the gate. It was Henry, his face wet and red and spotted with mud. He was altogether a muddy sight.
‘Oh!’ cried Banford, as if afraid. ‘Why, it’s Henry!’
‘What?’ muttered the old man. He had a thick, rapid, muttering way of speaking, and was slightly deaf. ‘What? What? Who is it? Who is it, do you say? That young fellow? That young fellow of Nellie’s? Oh! Oh!’ And the satiric smile came on his pink face and white eyelashes.
Henry, pushing the wet hair off his steaming brow, had caught sight of them and heard what the old man said. His hot, young face seemed to flame in the cold light.
‘Oh, are you all there!’ he said, giving his sudden, puppy’s little laugh. He was so hot and dazed with cycling he hardly knew where he was. He leaned the bicycle against the fence and climbed over into the corner on to the bank, without going into the yard.
‘Well, I must say, we weren’t expecting you,’ said Banford laconically.
‘No, I suppose not,’ said he, looking at March.
She stood aside, slack, with one knee drooped and the axe resting its head loosely on the ground. Her eyes were wide and vacant, and her upper lip lifted from her teeth in that helpless, fascinated rabbit look. The moment she saw his glowing, red face it was all over with her. She was as helpless as if she had been bound. The moment she saw the way his head seemed to reach forward.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 526