LITMIR.BIZ

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he looked he felt the insidious creeping of blood down his thigh, which was marked with a long red slash. Siegmund watched the blood travel over the bright skin. It wound itself redly round the rise of his knee.

      ‘That is I, that creeping red, and this whiteness I pride myself on is I, and my black hair, and my blue eyes are I. It is a weird thing to be a person. What makes me myself, among all these?’

      Feeling chill, he wiped himself quickly.

      ‘I am at my best, at my strongest,’ he said proudly to himself. ‘She ought to be rejoiced at me, but she is not; she rejects me as if I were a baboon under my clothing.’

      He glanced at his whole handsome maturity, the firm plating of his breasts, the full thighs, creatures proud in themselves. Only he was marred by the long raw scratch, which he regretted deeply.

      ‘If I was giving her myself, I wouldn’t want that blemish on me,’ he thought.

      He wiped the blood from the wound. It was nothing.

      ‘She thinks ten thousand times more of that little pool, with a bit of pink anemone and some yellow weed, than of me. But, by Jove! I’d rather see her shoulders and breast than all heaven and earth put together could show. . . . Why doesn’t she like me?’ he thought as he dressed. It was his physical self thinking.

      After dabbling his feet in a warm pool, he returned home. Helena was in the dining-room arranging a bowl of purple pansies. She looked up at him rather heavily as he stood radiant on the threshold. He put her at her ease. It was a gay, handsome boy she had to meet, not a man, strange and insistent. She smiled on him with tender dignity.

      ‘You have bathed?’ she said, smiling, and looking at his damp, ruffled black hair. She shrank from his eyes, but he was quite unconscious.

      ‘You have not bathed!’ he said; then bent to kiss her. She smelt the brine in his hair.

      ‘No; I bathe later,’ she replied. ‘But what —’

      Hesitating, she touched the towel, then looked up at him anxiously.

      ‘It is blood?’ she said.

      ‘I grazed my thigh — nothing at all,’ he replied.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      He laughed.

      ‘The towel looks bad enough,’ she said.

      ‘It’s an alarmist,’ he laughed.

      She looked in concern at him, then turned aside.

      ‘Breakfast is quite ready,’ she said.

      ‘And I for breakfast — but shall I do?’

      She glanced at him. He was without a collar, so his throat was bare above the neck-band of his flannel shirt. Altogether she disapproved of his slovenly appearance. He was usually so smart in his dress.

      ‘I would not trouble,’ she said almost sarcastically.

      Whistling, he threw the towel on a chair.

      ‘How did you sleep?’ she asked gravely, as she watched him beginning to eat.

      ‘Like the dead — solid,’ he replied’. ‘And you?’

      ‘Oh, pretty well, thanks,’ she said, rather piqued that he had slept so deeply, whilst she had tossed, and had called his name in a torture of sleeplessness.

      ‘I haven’t slept like that for years,’ he said enthusiastically. Helena smiled gently on him. The charm of his handsome, healthy zest came over her. She liked his naked throat and his shirt-breast, which suggested the breast of the man beneath it. She was extraordinarily happy, with him so bright. The dark-faced pansies, in a little crowd, seemed gaily winking a golden eye at her.

      After breakfast, while Siegmund dressed, she went down to the sea. She dwelled, as she passed, on all tiny, pretty things — on the barbaric yellow ragwort, and pink convolvuli; on all the twinkling of flowers, and dew, and snail-tracks drying in the sun. Her walk was one long lingering. More than the spaces, she loved the nooks, and fancy more than imagination.

      She wanted to see just as she pleased, without any of humanity’s previous vision for spectacles. So she knew hardly any flower’s name, nor perceived any of the relationships, nor cared a jot about an adaptation or a modification. It pleased her that the lowest browny florets of the clover hung down; she cared no more. She clothed everything in fancy.

      ‘That yellow flower hadn’t time to be brushed and combed by the fairies before dawn came. It is tousled . . . ’ so she thought to herself. The pink convolvuli were fairy horns or telephones from the day fairies to the night fairies. The rippling sunlight on the sea was the Rhine maidens spreading their bright hair to the sun. That was her favourite form of thinking. The value of all things was in the fancy they evoked. She did not care for people; they were vulgar, ugly, and stupid, as a rule.

      Her sense of satisfaction was complete as she leaned on the low sea-wall, spreading her fingers to warm on the stones, concocting magic out of the simple morning. She watched the indolent chasing of wavelets round the small rocks, the curling of the deep blue water round the water-shadowed reefs.

      ‘This is very good,’ she said to herself. ‘This is eternally cool, and clean and fresh. It could never be spoiled by satiety.’

      She tried to wash herself with the white and blue morning, to clear away the soiling of the last night’s passion.

      The sea played by itself, intent on its own game. Its aloofness, its self-sufficiency, are its great charm. The sea does not give and take, like the land and the sky. It has no traffic with the world. It spends its passion upon itself. Helena was something like the sea, self-sufficient and careless of the rest.

      Siegmund came bareheaded, his black hair ruffling to the wind, his eyes shining warmer than the sea-like cornflowers rather, his limbs swinging backward and forward like the water. Together they leaned on the wall, warming the four white hands upon the grey bleached stone as they watched the water playing.

      When Siegmund had Helena near, he lost the ache, the yearning towards something, which he always felt otherwise. She seemed to connect him with the beauty of things, as if she were the nerve through which he received intelligence of the sun, and wind, and sea, and of the moon and the darkness. Beauty she never felt herself came to him through her. It is that makes love. He could always sympathize with the wistful little flowers, and trees lonely in their crowds, and wild, sad seabirds. In these things he recognized the great yearning, the ache outwards towards something, with which he was ordinarily burdened. But with Helena, in this large sea-morning, he was whole and perfect as the day.

      ‘Will it be fine all day?’ he asked, when a cloud came over.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she replied in her gentle, inattentive manner, as if she did not care at all. ‘I think it will be a mixed day — cloud and sun — more sun than cloud.’

      She looked up gravely to see if he agreed. He turned from frowning at the cloud to smile at her. He seemed so bright, teeming with life.

      ‘I like a bare blue sky,’ he said; ‘sunshine that you seem to stir about as you walk.’

      ‘It is warm enough here, even for you,’ she smiled.

      ‘Ah, here!’ he answered, putting his face down to receive the radiation from the stone, letting his fingers creep towards Helena’s. She laughed, and captured his fingers, pressing them into her hand. For nearly an hour they remained thus in the still sunshine by the sea-wall, till Helena began to sigh, and to lift her face to the little breeze that wandered down from the west. She fled as soon from warmth as from cold. Physically, she was always so; she shrank from anything extreme. But psychically she was an extremist, and a dangerous one.

      They climbed the hill to the fresh-breathing west. On the highest point of land stood a tall cross, railed in by a red iron fence. They read the inscription.

      ‘That’s all right — but a vilely ugly railing!’

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