"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.
"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.
"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.
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 be
ar 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."