Up hill, a horse whinneyed. It was the young mare. The heavy horses went thundering across to the far hedge.
Maurice wondered what to do. He wandered round the deserted stacks restlessly. Heat came in wafts, in thick strands. The evening was a long time cooling. He thought he would go and wash himself. There was a trough of pure water in the hedge bottom. It was filled by a tiny spring that filtered over the brim of the trough down the lush hedge bottom of the lower field. All round the trough, in the upper field, the land was marshy, and there the meadow-sweet stood like clots of mist, very sickly-smelling in the twilight. The night did not darken, for the moon was in the sky, so that as the tawny colour drew off the heavens they remained pallid with a dimmed moon. The purple bell-flowers in the hedge went black, the ragged robin turned its pink to a faded white, the meadow-sweet gathered light as if it were phosphorescent, and it made the air ache with scent.
Maurice kneeled on the slab of stone bathing his hands and arms, then his face. The water was deliriously cool. He had still an hour before Paula would come: she was not due till nine. So he decided to take his bath at night instead of waiting till morning. Was he not sticky, and was not Paula coming to talk to him? He was delighted the thought had occurred to him. As he soused his head in the trough, he wondered what the little creatures that lived in the velvety silt at the bottom would think of the taste of soap. Laughing to himself, he squeezed his cloth into the water. He washed himself from head to foot, standing in the fresh, forsaken corner of the field, where no one could see him by daylight, so that now, in the veiled grey tinge of moonlight, he was no more noticeable than the crowded flowers. The night had on a new look: he never remembered to have seen the lustrous grey sheen of it before, nor to have noticed how vital the lights looked, like live folk inhabiting the silvery spaces. And the tall trees, wrapped obscurely in their mantles, would not have surprised him had they begun to move in converse. As he dried himself, he discovered little wanderings in the air, felt on his sides soft touches and caresses that were peculiarly delicious: sometimes they startled him, and he laughed as if he were not alone. The flowers, the meadow-sweet particularly, haunted him. He reached to put his hand over their fleeciness. They touched his thighs. Laughing, he gathered them and dusted himself all over with their cream dust and fragrance. For a moment he hesitated in wonder at himself: but the subtle glow in the hoary and black night reassured him. Things never had looked so personal and full of beauty, he had never known the wonder in himself before.
At nine o'clock he was waiting under the elder-bush, in a state of high trepidation, but feeling that he was worthy, having a sense of his own wonder. She was late. At a quarter-past nine she came, flitting swiftly, in her own eager way.
"No, she would not go to sleep," said Paula, with a world of wrath in her tone. He laughed bashfully. They wandered out into the dim, hillside field.
"I have sat — in that bedroom — for an hour, for hours," she cried indignantly. She took a deep breath: "Ah, breathe!" she smiled.
She was very intense, and full of energy.
"I want" — she was clumsy with the language — "I want — I should laike — to run — there!" She pointed across the field.
"Let's run, then," he said, curiously.
"Yes!"
And in an instant she was gone. He raced after her. For all he was so young and limber, he had difficulty in catching her. At first he could scarcely see her, though he could hear the rustle of her dress. She sped with astonishing fleetness. He overtook her, caught her by the arm, and they stood panting, facing one another with laughter.
"I could win," she asserted blithely.
"Tha couldna," he replied, with a peculiar, excited laugh. They walked on, rather breathless. In front of them suddenly appeared the dark shapes of the three feeding horses.
"We ride a horse?" she said.
"What, bareback?" he asked.
"You say?" She did not understand.
"With no saddle?"
"No saddle — yes — no saddle."
"Coop, lass!" he said to the mare, and in a minute he had her by the forelock, and was leading her down to the stacks, where he put a halter on her. She was a big, strong mare. Maurice seated the Fräulein, clambered himself in front of the girl, using the wheel of the wagon as a mount, and together they trotted uphill, she holding lightly round his waist. From the crest of the hill they looked round.
The sky was darkening with an awning of cloud. On the left the hill rose black and wooded, made cosy by a few lights from cottages along the highway. The hill spread to the right, and tufts of trees shut round. But in front was a great vista of night, a sprinkle of cottage candles, a twinkling cluster of lights, like an elfish fair in full swing, at the colliery, an encampment of light at a village, a red flare on the sky far off, above an iron-foundry, and in the farthest distance the dim breathing of town lights. As they watched the night stretch far out, her arms tightened round his waist, and he pressed his elbows to his side, pressing her arms closer still. The horse moved restlessly. They clung to each other.
"Tha doesna want to go right away?" he asked the girl behind him.
"I stay with you," she answered softly, and he felt her crouching close against him. He laughed curiously. He was afraid to kiss her, though he was urged to do so. They remained still, on the restless horse, watching the small lights lead deep into the night, an infinite distance.
"I don't want to go," he said, in a tone half pleading.
She did not answer. The horse stirred restlessly.
"Let him run," cried Paula, "fast!"
She broke the spell, startled him into a little fury. He kicked the mare, hit her, and away she plunged downhill. The girl clung tightly to the young man. They were riding bareback down a rough, steep hill. Maurice clung hard with hands and knees. Paula held him fast round the waist, leaning her head on his shoulders, and thrilling with excitement.
"We shall be off, we shall be off," he cried, laughing with excitement; but she only crouched behind and pressed tight to him. The mare tore across the field. Maurice expected every moment to be flung on to the grass. He gripped with all the strength of his knees. Paula tucked herself behind him, and often wrenched him almost from his hold. Man and girl were taut with effort.
At last the mare came to a standstill, blowing. Paula slid off, and in an instant Maurice was beside her. They were both highly excited. Before he knew what he was doing, he had her in his arms, fast, and was kissing her, and laughing. They did not move for some time. Then, in silence, they walked towards the stacks.
It had grown quite dark, the night was thick with cloud. He walked with his arm round Paula's waist, she with her arm round him. They were near the stacks when Maurice felt a spot of rain.
"It's going to rain," he said.
"Rain!" she echoed, as if it were trivial.
"I s'll have to put the stack-cloth on," he said gravely. She did not understand.
When they got to the stacks, he went round to the shed, to return staggering in the darkness under the burden of the immense and heavy cloth. It had not been used once during the hay harvest.
"What are you going to do?" asked Paula, coming close to him in the darkness.
"Cover the top of the stack with it," he replied. "Put it over the stack, to keep the rain out."
"Ah!" she cried, "up there!" He dropped his burden. "Yes," he answered.
Fumblingly he reared the long ladder up the side of the stack. He could not see the top.
"I hope it's solid," he said, softly.
A few smart drops of rain sounded drumming on the cloth. They seemed like another presence. It was very dark indeed between the great buildings of hay. She looked up the black wall, and shrank to him.
"You carry it up there?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"I help you?" she said.
And she did. They opened the cloth. He clambered first up the steep ladder, bearing the upper part, she followed closely, car
rying her full share. They mounted the shaky ladder in silence, stealthily.
IV
As they climbed the stacks a light stopped at the gate on the high road. It was Geoffrey, come to help his brother with the cloth. Afraid of his own intrusion, he wheeled his bicycle silently towards the shed. This was a corrugated iron erection, on the opposite side of the hedge from the stacks. Geoffrey let his light go in front of him, but there was no sign from the lovers. He thought he saw a shadow slinking away. The light of the bicycle lamp sheered yellowly across the dark, catching a glint of raindrops, a mist of darkness, shadow of leaves and strokes of long grass. Geoffrey entered the shed — no one was there. He walked slowly and doggedly round to the stacks. He had passed the wagon, when he heard something sheering down upon him. Starting back under the wall of hay, he saw the long ladder slither across the side of the stack, and fall with a bruising ring.
"What wor that?" he heard Maurice, aloft, ask cautiously.
"Something fall," came the curious, almost pleased voice of the Fräulein.
"It wor niver th' ladder," said Maurice. He peered over the side of the stack. He lay down, looking.
"It is an' a'!" he exclaimed. "We knocked it down with the cloth, dragging it over."
"We fast up here?" she exclaimed with a thrill.
"We are that — without I shout and make 'em hear at the Vicarage."
"Oh no," she said quickly.
"I don't want to," he replied, with a short laugh. There came a swift clatter of raindrops on the cloth. Geoffrey crouched under the wall of the other stack.
"Mind where you tread — here, let me straighten this end," said Maurice, with a peculiar intimate tone — a command and an embrace. "We s'll have to sit under it. At any rate, we shan't get wet."
"Not get wet!" echoed the girl, pleased, but agitated.
Geoffrey heard the slide and rustle of the cloth over the top of the stack, heard Maurice telling her to "Mind!"
"Mind!" she repeated. "Mind! you say 'Mind!'"
"Well, what if I do?" he laughed. "I don't want you to fall over th' side, do I?" His tone was masterful, but he was not quite sure of himself.
There was silence a moment or two.
"Maurice!" she said, plaintively.
"I'm here," he answered, tenderly, his voice shaky with excitement that was near to distress. "There, I've done. Now should we — we'll sit under this corner."
"Maurice!" she was rather pitiful.
"What? You'll be all right," he remonstrated, tenderly indignant.
"I be all raïght," she repeated, "I be all raïght, Maurice?"
"Tha knows tha will — I canna ca' thee Powla. Should I ca' thee Minnie?"
It was the name of a dead sister.
"Minnie?" she exclaimed in surprise.
"Aye, should I?"
She answered in full-throated German. He laughed shakily.
"Come on — come on under. But do yer wish you was safe in th' Vicarage? Should I shout for somebody?" he asked.
"I don't wish, no!" She was vehement.
"Art sure?" he insisted, almost indignantly.
"Sure — I quite sure." She laughed.
Geoffrey turned away at the last words. Then the rain beat heavily. The lonely brother slouched miserably to the hut, where the rain played a mad tattoo. He felt very miserable, and jealous of Maurice.
His bicycle lamp, downcast, shone a yellow light on the stark floor of the shed or hut with one wall open. It lit up the trodden earth, the shafts of tools lying piled under the beam, beside the dreary grey metal of the building. He took off the lamp, shone it round the hut. There were piles of harness, tools, a big sugar box, a deep bed of hay — then the beams across the corrugated iron, all very dreary and stark. He shone the lamp into the night: nothing but the furtive glitter of raindrops through the mist of darkness, and black shapes hovering round.
Geoffrey blew out the light and flung himself on to the hay. He would put the ladder up for them in a while, when they would be wanting it. Meanwhile he sat and gloated over Maurice's felicity. He was imaginative, and now he had something concrete to work upon. Nothing in the whole of life stirred him so profoundly, and so utterly, as the thought of this woman. For Paula was strange, foreign, different from the ordinary girls: the rousing, feminine quality seemed in her concentrated, brighter, more fascinating than in anyone he had known, so that he felt most like a moth near a candle. He would have loved her wildly — but Maurice had got her. His thoughts beat the same course, round and round. What was it like when you kissed her, when she held you tight round the waist, how did she feel towards Maurice, did she love to touch him, was he fine and attractive to her; what did she think of himself — she merely disregarded him, as she would disregard a horse in a field; why should she do so, why couldn't he make her regard himself, instead of Maurice: he would never command a woman's regard like that, he always gave in to her too soon; if only some woman would come and take him for what he was worth, though he was such a stumbler and showed to such disadvantage, ah, what a grand thing it would be; how he would kiss her. Then round he went again in the same course, brooding almost like a madman. Meanwhile the rain drummed deep on the shed, then grew lighter and softer. There came the drip, drip of the drops falling outside.
Geoffrey's heart leaped up his chest, and he clenched himself, as a black shape crept round the post of the shed and, bowing, entered silently. The young man's heart beat so heavily in plunges, he could not get his breath to speak. It was shock, rather than fear. The form felt towards him. He sprang up, gripped it with his great hands, panting "Now, then!"
There was no resistance, only a little whimper of despair.
"Let me go," said a woman's voice.
"What are you after?" he asked, in deep, gruff tones.
"I thought 'e was 'ere," she wept despairingly, with little, stubborn sobs.
"An' you've found what you didn't expect, have you?"
At the sound of his bullying she tried to get away from him.
"Let me go," she said.
"Who did you expect to find here?" he asked, but more his natural self.
"I expected my husband — him as you saw at dinner. Let me go."
"Why, is it you?" exclaimed Geoffrey. "Has he left you?"
"Let me go," said the woman sullenly, trying to draw away. He realized that her sleeve was very wet, her arm slender under his grasp. Suddenly he grew ashamed of himself: he had no doubt hurt her, gripping her so hard. He relaxed, but did not let her go.
"An' are you searching round after that snipe as was here at dinner?" he asked. She did not answer.
"Where did he leave you?"
"I left him — here. I've seen nothing of him since."
"I s'd think it's good riddance," he said. She did not answer. He gave a short laugh, saying:
"I should ha' thought you wouldn't ha' wanted to clap eyes on him again."
"He's my husband — an' he's not goin' to run off if I can stop him."
Geoffrey was silent, not knowing what to say.
"Have you got a jacket on?" he asked at last.
"What do you think? You've got hold of it."
"You're wet through, aren't you?"
"I shouldn't be dry, comin' through that teemin' rain. But 'e's not here, so I'll go."
"I mean," he said humbly, "are you wet through?"
She did not answer. He felt her shiver.
"Are you cold?" he asked, in surprise and concern.
She did not answer. He did not know what to say.
"Stop a minute," he said, and he fumbled in his pocket for his matches. He struck a light, holding it in the hollow of his large, hard palm. He was a big man, and he looked anxious. Shedding the light on her, he saw she was rather pale, and very weary looking. Her old sailor hat was sodden and drooping with rain. She wore a fawn-coloured jacket of smooth cloth. This jacket was black-wet where the rain had beaten, her skirt hung sodden, and dripped on to her boots. The match went out.
&n
bsp; "Why, you're wet through!" he said.
She did not answer.
"Shall you stop in here while it gives over?" he asked. She did not answer.
"'Cause if you will, you'd better take your things off, an' have th' rug. There's a horse-rug in the box."
He waited, but she would not answer. So he lit his bicycle lamp, and rummaged in the box, pulling out a large brown blanket, striped with scarlet and yellow. She stood stock still. He shone the light on her. She was very pale, and trembling fitfully.
"Are you that cold?" he asked in concern. "Take your jacket off, and your hat, and put this right over you."
Mechanically, she undid the enormous fawn-coloured buttons, and unpinned her hat. With her black hair drawn back from her low, honest brow, she looked little more than a girl, like a girl driven hard with womanhood by stress of life. She was small, and natty, with neat little features. But she shivered convulsively.
"Is something a-matter with you?" he asked.
"I've walked to Bulwell and back," she quivered, "looking for him — an' I've not touched a thing since this morning." She did not weep — she was too dreary-hardened to cry. He looked at her in dismay, his mouth half open: "Gormin", as Maurice would have said.
"'Aven't you had nothing to eat?" he said.
Then he turned aside to the box. There, the bread remaining was kept, and the great piece of cheese, and such things as sugar and salt, with all table utensils: there was some butter.
She sat down drearily on the bed of hay. He cut her a piece of bread and butter, and a piece of cheese. This she took, but ate listlessly.
"I want a drink," she said.
"We 'aven't got no beer," he answered. "My father doesn't have it."
"I want water," she said.
He took a can and plunged through the wet darkness, under the great black hedge, down to the trough. As he came back he saw her in the half-lit little cave sitting bunched together. The soaked grass wet his feet — he thought of her. When he gave her a cup of water, her hand touched his and he felt her fingers hot and glossy. She trembled so she spilled the water.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 600