"Do you feel badly?" he asked.
"I can't keep myself still — but it's only with being tired and having nothing to eat."
He scratched his head contemplatively, waited while she ate her piece of bread and butter. Then he offered her another piece.
"I don't want it just now," she said.
"You'll have to eat summat," he said.
"I couldn't eat any more just now."
He put the piece down undecidedly on the box. Then there was another long pause. He stood up with bent head. The bicycle, like a restful animal, glittered behind him, turning towards the wall. The woman sat hunched on the hay, shivering.
"Can't you get warm?" he asked.
"I shall by an' by — don't you bother. I'm taking your seat — are you stopping here all night?"
"Yes."
"I'll be goin' in a bit," she said.
"Nay, I non want you to go. I'm thinkin' how you could get warm."
"Don't you bother about me," she remonstrated, almost irritably.
"I just want to see as the stacks is all right. You take your shoes an' stockin's an' all your wet things off: you can easy wrap yourself all over in that rug, there's not so much of you."
"It's raining — I s'll be all right — I s'll be going in a minute."
"I've got to see as the stacks is safe. Take your wet things off."
"Are you coming back?" she asked.
"I mightn't, not till morning."
"Well, I s'll be gone in ten minutes, then. I've no rights to be here, an' I s'll not let anybody be turned out for me."
"You won't be turning me out."
"Whether or no, I shan't stop."
"Well, shall you if I come back?" he asked. She did not answer.
He went. In a few moments, she blew the light out. The rain was falling steadily, and the night was a black gulf. All was intensely still. Geoffrey listened everywhere: no sound save the rain. He stood between the stacks, but only heard the trickle of water, and the light swish of rain. Everything was lost in blackness. He imagined death was like that, many things dissolved in silence and darkness, blotted out, but existing. In the dense blackness he felt himself almost extinguished. He was afraid he might not find things the same. Almost frantically, he stumbled, feeling his way, till his hand touched the wet metal. He had been looking for a gleam of light.
"Did you blow the lamp out?" he asked, fearful lest the silence should answer him.
"Yes," she answered humbly. He was glad to hear her voice. Groping into the pitch-dark shed, he knocked against the box, part of whose cover served as table. There was a clatter and a fall.
"That's the lamp, an' the knife, an' the cup," he said. He struck a match.
"Th' cup's not broke." He put it into the box.
"But th' oil's spilled out o' th' lamp. It always was a rotten old thing." He hastily blew out his match, which was burning his fingers. Then he struck another light.
"You don't want a lamp, you know you don't, and I s'll be going directly, so you come an' lie down an' get your night's rest. I'm not taking any of your place."
He looked at her by the light of another match. She was a queer little bundle, all brown, with gaudy border folding in and out, and her little face peering at him. As the match went out she saw him beginning to smile.
"I can sit right at this end," she said. "You lie down."
He came and sat on the hay, at some distance from her. After a spell of silence:
"Is he really your husband?" he asked.
"He is!" she answered grimly.
"Hm!" Then there was silence again.
After a while: "Are you warm now?"
"Why do you bother yourself?"
"I don't bother myself — do you follow him because you like him?" He put it very timidly. He wanted to know.
"I don't — I wish he was dead," this with bitter contempt. Then doggedly; "But he's my husband."
He gave a short laugh.
"By Gad!" he said.
Again, after a while: "Have you been married long?"
"Four years."
"Four years — why, how old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
"Are you turned twenty-three?"
"Last May."
"Then you're four month older than me." He mused over it. They were only two voices in the pitch-black night. It was eerie silence again.
"And do you just tramp about?" he asked.
"He reckons he's looking for a job. But he doesn't like work in any shape or form. He was a stableman when I married him, at Greenhalgh's, the horse-dealers, at Chesterfield, where I was housemaid. He left that job when the baby was only two month, and I've been badgered about from pillar to post ever sin'. They say a rolling stone gathers no moss . . ."
"An' where's the baby?"
"It died when it was ten month old."
Now the silence was clinched between them. It was quite a long time before Geoffrey ventured to say sympathetically: "You haven't much to look forward to."
"I've wished many a score time when I've started shiverin' an' shakin' at nights, as I was taken bad for death. But we're not that handy at dying."
He was silent. "But what ever shall you do?" he faltered.
"I s'll find him, if I drop by th' road."
"Why?" he asked, wondering, looking her way, though he saw nothing but solid darkness.
"Because I shall. He's not going to have it all his own road."
"But why don't you leave him?"
"Because he's not goin' to have it all his own road."
She sounded very determined, even vindictive. He sat in wonder, feeling uneasy, and vaguely miserable on her behalf. She sat extraordinarily still. She seemed like a voice only, a presence.
"Are you warm now?" he asked, half afraid.
"A bit warmer — but my feet!" She sounded pitiful.
"Let me warm them with my hands," he asked her. "I'm hot enough."
"No, thank you," she said, coldly.
Then, in the darkness, she felt she had wounded him. He was writhing under her rebuff, for his offer had been pure kindness.
"They're 'appen dirty," she said, half mocking.
"Well — mine is — an' I have a bath a'most every day," he answered.
"I don't know when they'll get warm," she moaned to herself.
"Well, then, put them in my hands."
She heard him faintly rattling the match-box, and then a phosphorescent glare began to fume in his direction. Presently he was holding two smoking, blue-green blotches of light towards her feet. She was afraid. But her feet ached so, and the impulse drove her on, so she placed her soles lightly on the two blotches of smoke. His large hands clasped over her instep, warm and hard.
"They're like ice!" he said, in deep concern.
He warmed her feet as best he could, putting them close against him. Now and again convulsive tremors ran over her. She felt his warm breath on the balls of her toes, that were bunched up in his hands. Leaning forward, she touched his hair delicately with her fingers. He thrilled. She fell to gently stroking his hair, with timid, pleading finger-tips.
"Do they feel any better?" he asked, in a low voice, suddenly lifting his face to her. This sent her hand sliding softly over his face, and her finger-tips caught on his mouth. She drew quickly away. He put his hand out to find hers, in his other palm holding both her feet. His wandering hand met her face. He touched it curiously. It was wet. He put his big fingers cautiously on her eyes, into two little pools of tears.
"What's a matter?" he asked, in a low, choked voice.
She leaned down to him, and gripped him tightly round the neck, pressing him to her bosom in a little frenzy of pain. Her bitter disillusionment with life, her unalleviated shame and degradation during the last four years, had driven her into loneliness, and hardened her till a large part of her nature was caked and sterile. Now she softened again, and her spring might be beautiful. She had been in a fair way to make an ugly old woman.
&n
bsp; She clasped the head of Geoffrey to her breast, which heaved and fell, and heaved again. He was bewildered, full of wonder. He allowed the woman to do as she would with him. Her tears fell on his hair, as she wept noiselessly; and he breathed deep as she did. At last she let go her clasp. He put his arms round her.
"Come and let me warm you," he said, folding her up on his knee, and lapping her with his heavy arms against himself. She was small and câline. He held her very warm and close. Presently she stole her arms round him.
"You are big," she whispered.
He gripped her hard, started, put his mouth down wanderingly, seeking her out. His lips met her temple. She slowly, deliberately turned her mouth to his, and with opened lips, met him in a kiss, his first love kiss.
V
It was breaking cold dawn when Geoffrey woke. The woman was still sleeping in his arms. Her face in sleep moved all his tenderness: the tight shutting of her mouth, as if in resolution to bear what was very hard to bear, contrasted so pitifully with the small mould of her features. Geoffrey pressed her to his bosom: having her, he felt he could bruise the lips of the scornful, and pass on erect, unabateable. With her to complete him, to form the core of him, he was firm and whole. Needing her so much, he loved her fervently.
Meanwhile the dawn came like death, one of those slow, livid mornings that seem to come in a cold sweat. Slowly, and painfully, the air began to whiten. Geoffrey saw it was not raining. As he was watching the ghastly transformation outside, he felt aware of something. He glanced down: she was open-eyed, watching him; she had golden-brown, calm eyes, that immediately smiled into his. He also smiled, bowed softly down and kissed her. They did not speak for some time. Then:
"What's thy name?" he asked curiously.
"Lydia," she said.
"Lydia!" he repeated, wonderingly. He felt rather shy.
"Mine's Geoffrey Wookey," he said.
She merely smiled at him.
They were silent for a considerable time. By morning light, things look small. The huge trees of the evening were dwindling to hoary, small, uncertain things, trespassing in the sick pallor of the atmosphere.
There was a dense mist, so that the light could scarcely breathe. Everything seemed to quiver with cold and sickliness.
"Have you often slept out?" he asked her.
"Not so very," she answered.
"You won't go after him?" he asked.
"I s'll have to," she replied, but she nestled in to Geoffrey. He felt a sudden panic.
"You musn't," he exclaimed, and she saw he was afraid for himself. She let it be, was silent.
"We couldn't get married?" he asked, thoughtfully.
"No."
He brooded deeply over this. At length:
"Would you go to Canada with me?"
"We'll see what you think in two months' time," she replied quietly, without bitterness.
"I s'll think the same," he protested, hurt.
She did not answer, only watched him steadily. She was there for him to do as he liked with; but she would not injure his fortunes; no, not to save his soul.
"Haven't you got no relations?" he asked.
"A married sister at Crick."
"On a farm?"
"No — married a farm labourer — but she's very comfortable. I'll go there, if you want me to, just till I can get another place in service."
He considered this.
"Could you get on a farm?" he asked wistfully.
"Greenhalgh's was a farm."
He saw the future brighten: she would be a help to him. She agreed to go to her sister, and to get a place of service — until Spring, he said, when they would sail for Canada. He waited for her assent.
"You will come with me, then?" he asked.
"When the time comes," she said.
Her want of faith made him bow his head: she had reason for it.
"Shall you walk to Crick, or go from Langley Mill to Ambergate? But it's only ten mile to walk. So we can go together up Hunt's Hill — you'd have to go past our lane-end, then I could easy nip down an' fetch you some money," he said, humbly.
"I've got half a sovereign by me — it's more than I s'll want."
"Let's see it," he said.
After a while, fumbling under the blanket, she brought out the piece of money. He felt she was independent of him. Brooding rather bitterly, he told himself she'd forsake him. His anger gave him courage to ask:
"Shall you go in service in your maiden name?"
"No."
He was bitterly wrathful with her — full of resentment.
"I bet I s'll niver see you again," he said, with a short, hard laugh. She put her arms round him, pressed him to her bosom, while the tears rose to her eyes. He was reassured, but not satisfied.
"Shall you write to me to-night?"
"Yes, I will."
"And can I write to you — who shall I write to?"
"Mrs Bredon."
"'Bredon'!" he repeated bitterly.
He was exceedingly uneasy.
The dawn had grown quite wan. He saw the hedges drooping wet down the grey mist. Then he told her about Maurice.
"Oh, you shouldn't!" she said. "You should ha' put the ladder up for them, you should."
"Well — I don't care."
"Go and do it now — and I'll go."
"No, don't you. Stop an' see our Maurice, go on, stop an' see him — then I s'll be able to tell him."
She consented in silence. He had her promise she would not go before he returned. She adjusted her dress, found her way to the trough, where she performed her toilet.
Geoffrey wandered round to the upper field. The stacks looked wet in the mist, the hedge was drenched. Mist rose like steam from the grass, and the near hills were veiled almost to a shadow. In the valley, some peaks of black poplar showed fairly definite, jutting up. He shivered with chill.
There was no sound from the stacks, and he could see nothing. After all, he wondered, were they up there. But he reared the ladder to the place whence it had been swept, then went down the hedge to gather dry sticks. He was breaking off thin dead twigs under a holly tree when he heard, on the perfectly still air: "Well I'm dashed!"
He listened intently. Maurice was awake.
"Sithee here!" the lad's voice exclaimed. Then, after a while, the foreign sound of the girl:
"What — oh, thair!"
"Aye, th' ladder's there, right enough."
"You said it had fall down."
"Well, I heard it drop — an' I couldna feel it nor see it."
"You said it had fall down — you lie, you liar."
"Nay, as true as I'm here — "
"You tell me lies — make me stay here — you tell me lies — " She was passionately indignant.
"As true as I'm standing here — " he began.
"Lies! — lies! — lies!" she cried. "I don't believe you, never. You mean, you mean, mean, mean!"
"A' raïght, then!" he was now incensed, in his turn.
"You are bad, mean, mean, mean."
"Are yer commin' down?" asked Maurice, coldly.
"No — I will not come with you — mean, to tell me lies."
"Are ter commin' down?"
"No, I don't want you."
"A' raïght, then!"
Geoffrey, peering through the holly tree, saw Maurice negotiating the ladder. The top rung was below the brim of the stack, and rested on the cloth, so it was dangerous to approach. The Fräulein watched him from the end of the stack, where the cloth thrown back showed the light, dry hay. He slipped slightly, she screamed. When he had got on to the ladder, he pulled the cloth away, throwing it back, making it easy for her to descend.
"Now are ter comin'?" he asked.
"No!" she shook her head violently, in a pet.
Geoffrey felt slightly contemptuous of her. But Maurice waited.
"Are ter comin'?" he called again.
"No," she flashed, like a wild cat.
"All right, then I'm going."<
br />
He descended. At the bottom, he stood holding the ladder.
"Come on, while I hold it steady," he said.
There was no reply. For some minutes he stood patiently with his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He was pale, rather washed-out in his appearance, and he drew himself together with cold.
"Are ter commin', or aren't ter?" he asked at length. Still there was no reply.
"Then stop up till tha'rt ready," he muttered, and he went away. Round the other side of the stacks he met Geoffrey.
"What, are thaïgh here?" he exclaimed.
"Bin here a' naïght," replied Geoffrey. "I come to help thee wi' th' cloth, but I found it on, an' th' ladder down, so I thowt tha'd gone."
"Did ter put th' ladder up?"
"I did a bit sin."
Maurice brooded over this, Geoffrey struggled with himself to get out his own news. At last he blurted:
"Tha knows that woman as wor here yis'day dinner — 'er come back, an' stopped i' th' shed a' night, out o' th' rain."
"Oh — ah!" said Maurice, his eye kindling, and a smile crossing his pallor.
"An' I s'll gi'e her some breakfast."
"Oh — ah!" repeated Maurice.
"It's th' man as is good-for-nowt, not her," protested Geoffrey. Maurice did not feel in a position to cast stones.
"Tha pleases thysen," he said, "what ter does." He was very quiet, unlike himself. He seemed bothered and anxious, as Geoffrey had not seen him before.
"What's up wi' thee?" asked the elder brother, who in his own heart was glad, and relieved.
"Nowt," was the reply.
They went together to the hut. The woman was folding the blanket. She was fresh from washing, and looked very pretty. Her hair, instead of being screwed tightly back, was coiled in a knot low down, partly covering her ears. Before, she had deliberately made herself plain-looking: now she was neat and pretty, with a sweet, womanly gravity.
"Hello. I didn't think to find you here," said Maurice, very awkwardly, smiling. She watched him gravely without reply. "But it was better in shelter than outside, last night," he added.
"Yes," she replied.
"Shall you get a few more sticks?" Geoffrey asked him. It was a new thing for Geoffrey to be leader. Maurice obeyed. He wandered forth into the damp, raw morning. He did not go to the stack, as he shrank from meeting Paula.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 601