LITMIR.BIZ

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an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily waiting.

      George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:

      “‘Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee sumwhat.”

      She looked at him, half smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said:

      “Let’s ha’e a kiss.”

      Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to him.

      “I’m going to marry thee,” he said.

      “Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.

      “I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.

      I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old woman at the top of the stairs:

      “Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”

      In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they came into the passage.

      “Good night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like a ghoul from upper regions.

      He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good night at the door.

      “Good night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard her shoot the heavy bolts.

      “You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried again:

      “You know — she — she’s a clinker.”

      I did not reply, but he took no notice.

      “Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!”

      We walked along in silence — his excitement abated somewhat.

      “It’s the way she swings her body — an’ the curves as she stands. It’s when you look at her — you feel — you know.”

      I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.

      “You know — if ever I dream in the night — of women — you know — it’s always Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her body —”

      Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward, only just recovering himself. I took hold of his arm.

      “Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said.

      “Not quite,” said I.

      “No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.”

      But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side. I took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily — then, subsiding again, muttered, with slovenly articulation:

      “I feel fit to drop with sleep.”

      Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven blackness of the wood, we lurched and stumbled. He was very heavy and difficult to direct. When at last we came to the brook we splashed straight through the water. I urged him to walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He did his best, and we made a fairly still entry into the farm. He dropped with all his weight on the sofa, and leaning down, began to unfasten his leggings. In the midst of his fumblings he fell asleep, and I was afraid he would pitch forward on to his head. I took off his leggings and his wet boots and his collar. Then, as I was pushing and shaking him awake to get off his coat, I heard a creaking on the stairs, and my heart sank, for I thought it was his mother. But it was Emily, in her long white nightgown. She looked at us with great dark eyes of terror, and whispered: “What’s the matter?”

      I shook my head and looked at him. His head had dropped down on his chest again.

      “Is he hurt?” she asked, her voice becoming audible, and dangerous. He lifted his head, and looked at her with heavy, angry eyes.

      “George!” she said sharply, in bewilderment and fear. His eyes seemed to contract evilly.

      “Is he drunk?” she whispered, shrinking away, and looking at me. “Have you made him drunk — you?”

      I nodded. I too was angry.

      “Oh, if Mother gets up! I must get him to bed! Oh, how could you!”

      This sibilant whispering irritated him, and me. I tugged at his coat. He snarled incoherently, and swore. She caught her breath. He looked at her sharply, and I was afraid he would wake himself into a rage.

      “Go upstairs!” I whispered to her. She shook her head. I could see him taking heavy breaths, and the veins of his neck were swelling. I was furious at her disobedience.

      “Go at once,” I said fiercely, and she went, still hesitating and looking back.

      I had hauled off his coat and waistcoat, so I let him sink again into stupidity while I took off my boots. Then I got him to his feet, and, walking behind him, impelled him slowly upstairs. I lit a candle in his bedroom. There was no sound from the other rooms. So I undressed him, and got him in bed at last, somehow. I covered him up and put over him the calfskin rug, because the night was cold. Almost immediately he began to breathe heavily. I dragged him over to his side, and pillowed his head comfortably. He looked like a tired boy, asleep.

      I stood still, now I felt myself alone, and looked round. Up to the low roof rose the carven pillars of dark mahogany; there was a chair by the bed, and a little yellow chest of drawers by the windows; that was all the furniture, save the calf-skin rug on the floor. In the drawers I noticed a book. It was a copy of Omar Khayyam, that Lettie had given him in her Khayyam days, a little shilling book with coloured illustrations.

      I blew out the candle, when I had looked at him again. As I crept on to the landing, Emily peeped from her room, whispering, “Is he in bed?”

      I nodded, and whispered good night. Then I went home, heavily.

      After the evening at the farm, Lettie and Leslie drew closer together. They eddied unevenly down the little stream of courtship, jostling and drifting together and apart. He was unsatisfied and strove with every effort to bring her closer to him, submissive. Gradually she yielded, and submitted to him. She folded round her and him the snug curtain of the present, and they sat like children playing a game behind the hangings of an old bed. She shut out all distant outlooks, as an Arab unfolds his tent and conquers the mystery and space of the desert. So she lived gleefully in a little tent of present pleasures and fancies.

      Occasionally, only occasionally, she would peep from her tent into the out space. Then she sat poring over books, and nothing would be able to draw her away; or she sat in her room looking out of the window for hours together. She pleaded headaches; Mother said liver; he, angry like a spoilt child denied his wish, declared it moodiness and perversity.

      Chapter 2

       A Shadow in Spring

       Table of Contents

      With spring came trouble. The Saxtons declared they were being bitten off the estate by rabbits. Suddenly, in a fit of despair, the father bought a gun. Although he knew that the squire would not for one moment tolerate the shooting of that manna, the rabbits, yet he was out in the first cold morning twilight banging away. At first he but scared the brutes, and brought Annable on the scene; then, blooded by the use of the weapon, he played havoc among the furry beasts, bringing home some eight or nine couples.

      George entirely approved of this measure; it rejoiced him even; yet he had never had the initiative to begin the like himself, or even to urge his father to it. He prophesied trouble,

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