Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 23
She hushed the baby, and herself. At length she asked: “‘As th’ p’liceman gone as well?”
“Yes — it’s all right,” I said.
She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful to see.
“How old is your eldest?” I asked.
“Fanny — she’s fourteen. She’s out service at Websters. Then Jim, as is thirteen next month — let’s see, yes, it is next month — he’s gone to Flints — farming. They can’t do much — an’ I shan’t let ‘em go into th’ pit, if I can help it. My husband always used to say they should never go in th’ pit.”
“They can’t do much for you.”
“They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it is, ter keep ‘em all goin’. Wi’ weshin’, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ five shillin’ from th’ squire — it’s ‘ard. It was diff’rent when my husband was alive. It ought ter ‘a been me as should ‘a died — I don’t seem as if I can manage ‘em — they get beyond me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an’ ‘im ‘ere. I can’t understand it: ‘im as wor so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ‘E wor a man in a thousand, ‘e wor — full o’ management like a gentleman. I wisht it was me as ‘ad a been took. ‘An ‘e’s restless, ‘cos ‘e knows I find it ‘ard. I stood at th’ door last night, when they was all asleep, looking out over th’ pit pond — an’ I saw a light, an’ I knowed it was ‘im — cos it wor our weddin’ day yesterday — by the day an’ th’ date. An’ I said to ‘im, ‘Frank, is it thee, Frank? I’m all right, I’m gettin’ on all right’ — an’ then ‘e went; seemed to go ower the whimsey an’ back towards th’ wood. I know it wor ‘im, an’ ‘e couldna rest, thinkin’ I couldna manage — ”
After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the safety of Sam.
It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could hear the throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan.
“Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily plaintively.
“Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,” added Lettie with decision.
“Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence. “I suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of us.”
“I thought you were going to your aunt’s — to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie to George when they came to the cross-roads.
“Not now — it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will come round our way, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of their departure from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever seeking the colour of the past in the present’s monotony. He seemed settling down to an easy contented middle age, when the unrest on the farm and development of his children quickened him with fresh activity. He read books on the land question and modern novels. In the end he became an advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken a new hold on life.
Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with excitement, was to admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful common sense all warm with a young man’s hopes, was to love him. At forty-five he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far more happy and hopeful.
Emily would not agree to go away with them — what should she do in Canada, she said — and she did not want the little ones “to be drudges on a farm — in the end to be nothing but cattle”.
“Nay,” said her father gently, “Mollie shall learn the dairying, and David will just be right to take to the place when I give up. It’ll perhaps be a bit rough and hard at first, but when we’ve got over it we shall think it was one of the best times — like you do.”
“And you, George?” asked Lettie.
“I’m not going. What should I go for? There’s nothing at the end of it only a long life. It’s like a day here in June — a long work day, pleasant enough, and when it’s done you sleep well — but it’s work and sleep and comfort — half a life. It’s not enough. What’s the odds? — I might as well be Flower, the mare.”
His father looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.
“Now it seems to me so different,” he said sadly, “it seems to me you can live your own life, and be independent, and think as you like without being choked with harassments. I feel as if I could keep on — like that — ”
“I’m going to get more out of my life, I hope,” laughed George. “No. Do you know?” and here he turned straight to Lettie. “Do you know, I’m going to get pretty rich, so that I can do what I want for a bit. I want to see what it’s like, to taste all sides — to taste the towns. I want to know what I’ve got in me. I’ll get rich — or at least I’ll have a good try.”
“And pray how will you manage it?” asked Emily.
“I’ll begin by marrying — and then you’ll see.”
Emily laughed with scorn — ”Let us see you begin.”
“Ah, you’re not wise!” said the father sadly — then, laughing, he said to Lettie in coaxing, confidential tones, “But he’ll come out there to me in a year or two — you see if he doesn’t.”
“I wish I could come now,” said I.
“If you would,” said George, “I’d go with you. But not by myself, to become a fat stupid fool, like my own cattle.”
While he was speaking Gyp burst into a rage of barking. The father got up to see what it was, and George followed. Trip, the great bull-terrier, rushed out of the house shaking the buildings with his roars. We saw the white dog flash down the yard, we heard a rattle from the hen-house ladder, and in a moment a scream from the orchard side.
We rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank-side lay a little figure, face down, and Trip standing over it, looking rather puzzled.
I picked up the child — it was Sam. He struggled as soon as he felt my hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled like a wild hare, and kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on the hearth-rug to examine him. He was a quaint little figure, dressed in a man’s trousers that had been botched small for him, and a coat hanging in rags.
“Did he get hold of you?” asked the father. “Where was it he got hold of you?”
But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched together, his eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her knees before him, and put her face close to his, saying, with a voice that made one shrink from its unbridled emotion of caress:
“Did he hurt you, eh? — tell us where he hurt you.” She would have put her arms around him, but he shrank away.
“Look here,” said Lettie, “it’s here — and it’s bleeding. Go and get some water, Emily, and some rags. Come on, Sam, let me look and I’ll put some rags round it. Come along.”
She took the child and stripped him of his grotesque garments. Trip had given him a sharp grab on the thigh before he had realised that he was dealing with a little boy. It was not much, however, and Lettie soon had it bathed, and anointed with elder-flower ointment. On the boy’s body were several scars and bruises — evidently he had rough times. Lettie tended to him and dressed him again. He endured these attentions like a trapped wild rabbit — never looking at us, never opening his lips — only shrinking slightly. When Lettie had put on him his torn little shirt, and had gathered the great breeches about him, Emily went to him to coax him and make him at home. She kissed him, and talked to him with her full vibration of emotional caress. It seemed almost to suffocate him. Then she tried to feed him with bread and milk from a spoon, but he would not open his mouth, and he turned his head away.
“Leave him alone — take no notice of him,” said Lettie, lifting him into the chimney seat, with the basin of bread and milk beside him. Emily fetched the two kittens out of their basket and put them too beside him.
“I wonder how many eggs he’d got,” said the father, laughing softly.
“Hush!” said Lettie. “When do you think you will go to Canada, Mr Saxton?”
“Next spring — it’s no good going before.”
“And then you’ll marry?” asked Lettie of George.
“Before then — oh, before then,” he said.
“Why — how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry? — When will it be?”
“When are you marrying?” he asked in reply.
“I don’t know,” she said, coming to a full stop.
“Then I don’t know,” he said, taking a large wedge of cheese and biting a piece from it.
“It was fixed for June,” she said, recovering herself at his suggestion of hope.
“July!” said Emily.
“Father!” said he, holding the piece of cheese up before him as he spoke — he was evidently nervous: “Would you advise me to marry Meg?”
His father started, and said:
“Why, was you thinking of doing?”
“Yes — all things considered.”
“Well — if she suits you — ”
“We’re cousins — ”
“If you want her, I suppose you won’t let that hinder you. She’ll have a nice bit of money, and if you like her — ”
“I like her all right — I shan’t go out to Canada with her though. I shall stay at the Ram — for the sake of the life.”
“It’s a poor life, that!” said the father, ruminating.
George laughed. “A bit mucky!” he said — ”But it’ll do. It would need Cyril or Lettie to keep me alive in Canada.”
It was a bold stroke — everybody was embarrassed.
“Well,” said the father, “I suppose we can’t have everything we want — we generally have to put up with the next best thing — don’t we, Lettie?” — he laughed. Lettie flushed furiously.
“I don’t know,” she said. “You can generally get what you want if you want it badly enough. Of course — if you don’t mind — ”
She rose and went across to Sam.
He was playing with the kittens. One was patting and cuffing his bare toe, which had poked through his stocking. He pushed and teased the little scamp with his toe till it rushed at him, clinging, tickling, biting till he gave little bubbles of laughter, quite forgetful of us. Then the kitten was tired, and ran off. Lettie shook her skirts, and directly the two playful mites rushed upon it, darting round her, rolling head over heels, and swinging from the soft cloth. Suddenly becoming aware that they felt tired, the young things trotted away and cuddled together by the fender, where in an instant they were asleep. Almost as suddenly, Sam sank into drowsiness.
“He’d better go to bed,” said the father.
“Put him in my bed,” said George. “David would wonder what had happened.”
“Will you go to bed, Sam?” asked Emily, holding out her arms to him, and immediately startling him by the terrible gentleness of her persuasion. He retreated behind Lettie.
“Come along,” said the latter, and she quickly took him and undressed him. Then she picked him up, and his bare legs hung down in front of her. His head drooped drowsily on to her shoulder, against her neck.
She put down her face to touch the loose riot of his ruddy hair. She stood so, quiet, still and wistful, for a few moments; perhaps she was vaguely aware that the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly appealing to George, who loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity of tenderness. Emily waited with the lighted candle for her some moments.
When she came down there was a softness about her. “Now,” said I to myself, “if George asks her again he is wise.”
“He is asleep,” she said quietly.
“I’m thinking we might as well let him stop while we’re here, should we, George?” said the father.
“Eh?”
“We’ll keep him here while we are here — ”
“Oh — the lad! I should. Yes — he’d be better here than up yonder.”
“Ah, yes — ever so much. It is good of you,” said Lettie. “Oh, he’ll make no difference,” said the father.
“Not a bit,” added George.
“What about his mother?” asked Lettie.
“I’ll call and tell her in the morning,” said George. “Yes,” she said, “call and tell her.”
Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap. “Are you coming a little way, Emily?” I asked.
She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness.
We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what to say. Lettie said finally:
“Well — it’s no good — the grass is wet — Good night — Good night, Emily.”
“Good night,” he said, with regret and hesitation, and a trifle of impatience in his voice and his manner. He lingered still a moments; she hesitated — then she struck off sharply.
“He has not asked her, the idiot!” I said to myself.
“Really,” she said bitterly, when we were going up the garden path, “you think rather quiet folks have a lot in them, but it’s only stupidity — they are mostly fools.”
CHAPTER V
AN ARROW FROM THE IMPATIENT GOD
On an afternoon three or four days after the recovery of Sam. matters became complicated. George, as usual, discovered that he had been dawdling in the portals of his desires, when the doors came to with a bang. Then he hastened to knock.
“Tell her,” he said, “I will come up tomorrow after milking — tell her I’m coming to see her.”
On the evening of that morrow, the first person to put in an appearance was a garrulous spinster who had called ostensibly to enquire into the absence of the family from church: “I said to Elizabeth, ‘Now what a thing if anything happens to them just now, and the wedding is put off.’ I felt I must come and make myself sure — that nothing had happened. We all feel so interested in Lettie just now. I’m sure everybody is talking of her, she seems in the air. — I really think we shall have thunder: I hope we shan’t. — Yes, we are all so glad that Mr Tempest is content with a wife from at home — the others, his father and Mr Robert and the rest — they were none of them to be suited at home, though to be sure the wives they brought were nothing — indeed they were not — as many a one said — Mrs Robert was a paltry choice — neither in looks or manner had she anything to boast of — if her family was older than mine. Family wasn’t much to make up for what she lacked in other things, that I could easily have supplied her with; and, oh, dear, what an object she is now, with her wisp of hair and her spectacles! She for one hasn’t kept much of her youth. But when is the exact date, dear? — Some say this and some that, but as I always say, I never trust a ‘they say’. It is so nice that you have that cousin a canon to come down for the service, Mrs Beardsall, and Sir Walter Houghton for the groom’s man! What? — You don’t think so — oh, but I know, dear, I know; you do like to treasure up these secrets, don’t you; you are greedy for all the good things just now.”
She shook her head at Lettie, and the jet ornaments on her bonnet twittered like a thousand wagging little tongues. Then she sighed, and was about to recommence her song, when she happened to turn her head and to espy a telegraph-boy coming up the path.
“Oh, I hope nothing is wrong, dear — I hope nothing is wrong! I always feel so terrified of a telegram. You’d better not open it yourself, dear — don’t now — let your brother go.”
Lettie, who had turned pale, hurried to the door. The sky was very dark — there was a mutter of thunder.
“It’s all right,” said Lettie, trembling, “it’s only to say he’s coming tonight.”
“I’m very thankful, very thankful,” cried the spinster. “It might have been so much worse. I’m sure I never open a telegram without feeling as if I was opening a death-blow. I’m so glad, dear; it must have upset you. What news to take back to the village, supposing something had happened!” she sighed again, and the jet drops twinkled ominously in the thunder light, as if declaring they would make something of it yet.
It was six o’clock. The air relaxed a little, and the thunder was silent. George would be coming about seven; and the spinster showed no signs of departure; and Leslie might arrive at any moment. Lettie fretted and fidgeted, and the old woman gabbled on. I looked out of the window at the water and the sky.
The day had been uncertain. In the morning it was warm, and the sunshine had played and raced among the cloud-shadows on the hills. Later, great cloud masses had stalked up from the north-west and crowded thick across the sky; in this little night, sleet and wind, and rain whirled furiously. Then the sky had laughed at us again. In the sunshine came the spinster. But as she talked, over the hill-top rose the wide forehead of the cloud, rearing slowly, ominously higher. A first messenger of storm passed darkly over the sky, leaving the way clear again.
“I will go round to Highclose,” said Lettie. “I am sure it will be stormy again. Are you coming down the road, Miss Slaighter, or do you mind if I leave you?”
“I will go, dear, if you think there is going to be another storm — I dread it so. Perhaps I had better wait — ”
“Oh, it will not come over for an hour, I am sure. We read the weather well out here, don’t we, Cyril? You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
We three set off, the gossip leaning on her toes, tripping between us. She was much gratified by Lettie’s information concerning the proposals for the new home. We left her in a glow of congratulatory smiles on the highway. But the clouds had upreared, and stretched in two great arms, reaching overhead. The little spinster hurried along, but the black hands of the clouds kept pace and clutched her. A sudden gust of wind shuddered in the trees, and rushed upon her cloak, blowing its bugles.
An icy raindrop smote into her cheek. She hurried on, praying fervently for her bonnet’s sake that she might reach Widow Harriman’s cottage before the burst came. But the thunder crashed in her ear, and a host of hailstones flew at her. In despair and anguish she fled from under the ash trees; she reached the widow’s garden gate, when out leapt the lightning full at her. “Put me in the stair-hole!” she cried. “Where is the stair-hole?”
