During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful1. She uttered many banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted3 Leslie and thwarted4 his wishes. At last he stayed away from her. She had been several times down to the mill, but because she fancied they were very familiar, receiving her on to their rough plane like one of themselves, she stayed away. Since the death of our father she had been restless; since inheriting her little fortune she had become proud, scornful, difficult to please. Difficult to please in every circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling6 in thoughtless life, sat down in the window sill to think, and her strong teeth bit at her handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me; she read all things that dealt with modern women.
One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to see us for a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted a clammy fog across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with mud. The trees in the wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut out and ignored if possible. I heaped up the fire, and went to draw the curtains and make perfect the room. Then I saw Lettie coming along the path quickly, very erect8. When she came in her colour was high.
"Rebecca has just brought in the lamp," said I.
Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared haughtily10 at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table, and rang the bell.
It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room, that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room saying:
"Did you ring?"
"I thought tea would have been ready," said Lettie coldly. Rebecca looked at me, and at her, and replied:
"It is but half-past four. I can bring it in."
Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea-cups.
"Well," she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, "and did you find it a pleasant walk?"
"Except for the mud," was the reply.
"Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your boots!—and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the kitchen."
"Let Rebecca take them," said Lettie—but mother was out of the room.
When mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed12 her, but we were experienced and we refrained. After a while she said:
"Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest."
"Oh," said mother tentatively, "Did he come along with you?"
"He did not look at me."
"Oh!" exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a moment, she resumed:
"Perhaps he did not see you."
"He saw me," declared Lettie, "or he wouldn't have made such a babyish show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond."
"It may have been no show—he still may not have seen you."
"I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation14 was extravagant15. He need not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him."
"You seem very cross," said I.
"Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he could take up Margaret, who has only half the distance."
"Was he driving?"
"In the dog-cart." She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited patiently.
"It was mean of him, wasn't it mother?"
"Well, my girl, you have treated him badly."
"And girls," said mother, "do not know what they want."
"A grown-up quality," I added.
She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless she were in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to Mr. Gladstone for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley's Life of Gladstone.
I had to take a letter to Highclose to Mrs. Tempest—from my mother, concerning a bazaar18 in process at the church. "I will bring Leslie back with me," said I to myself.
The night was black and hateful. The lamps by the road from Eberwich ended at Nethermere; their yellow blur19 on the water made the cold, wet inferno20 of the night more ugly.
Leslie and Marie were both in the library—half a library, half a business office; used also as a lounge room, being cosy21. Leslie lay in a great armchair by the fire, immune among clouds of blue smoke. Marie was perched on the steps, a great volume on her knee. Leslie got up in his cloud, shook hands, greeted me curtly22, and vanished again. Marie smiled me a quaint23, vexed24 smile, saying:
"Oh, Cyril, I'm so glad you've come. I'm so worried, and Leslie says he's not a pastry25 cook, though I'm sure I don't want him to be one, only he need not be a bear."
"What's the matter?"
"Why, I do so much want to make some of those Spanish tartlets of your mother's that are so delicious, and of course Mabel knows nothing of them, and they're not in my cookery book, and I've looked through page upon page of the encyclopedia27, right through 'Spain,' and there's nothing yet, and there are fifty pages more, and Leslie won't help me, though I've got a headache, because he's frabous about something." She looked at me in comical despair.
"Do you want them for the bazaar?"
"Yes—for to-morrow. Cook has done the rest, but I had fairly set my heart on these. Don't you think they are lovely?"
"Exquisitely28 lovely. Suppose I go and ask mother."
"If you would. But no, oh no, you can't make all that journey this terrible night. We are simply besieged29 by mud. The men are both out—William has gone to meet father—and mother has sent George to carry some things to the vicarage. I can't ask one of the girls on a night like this. I shall have to let it go—and the cranberry30 tarts31 too—it cannot be helped. I am so miserable32."
"Ask Leslie," said I.
"He is too cross," she replied, looking at him.
"Will you Leslie?"
"What?"
"Go across to Woodside for me?"
"What for?"
"A recipe. Do, there's a dear boy."
"Where are the men?"
"They are both engaged—they are out."
"Send a girl, then."
"At night like this? Who would go?"
"Cissy."
"I shall not ask her. Isn't he mean, Cyril? Men are mean."
"I will come back," said I. "There is nothing at home to do. Mother is reading, and Lettie is stitching. The weather disagrees with her, as it does with Leslie."
"But it is not fair——" she said, looking at me softly. Then she put away the great book and climbed down.
"Won't you go, Leslie?" she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.
"Women!" he said, rising as if reluctantly. "There's no end to their wants and their caprices."
"I thought he would go," said she warmly. She ran to fetch his overcoat. He put one arm slowly in the sleeve, and then the other, but he would not lift the coat on to his shoulders.
"Well!" she said, struggling on tiptoe, "You are a great creature! Can't you get it on, naughty child?"
"Give her a chair to stand on," he said.
She shook the collar of the coat sharply, but he stood like a sheep, impassive.
"Leslie, you are too bad. I can't get it on, you stupid boy."
I took the coat and jerked it on.
"There," she said, giving him his cap. "Now don't be long."
"What a damned dirty night!" said he, when we were out.
"It is," said I.
"The town, anywhere's better than this hell of a country."
"Ha! How did you enjoy yourself?"
He began a long history of three days in the metropolis34. I listened, and heard little. I heard more plainly the cry of some night birds over Nethermere, and the peevish35, wailing36, yarling cry of some beast in the wood. I was thankful to slam the door behind me, to stand in the light of the hall.
"Leslie!" exclaimed mother, "I am glad to see you."
"You see I can't get up," she said, giving him her hand, adorned38 as it was by the thimble. "How nice of you to come! We did not know you were back."
"But!" he exclaimed, then he stopped.
"I suppose you enjoyed yourself," she went on calmly.
"Immensely, thanks."
Snap, snap, snap went her needle through the new stuff. Then, without looking up, she said:
"Yes, no doubt. You have the air of a man who has been enjoying himself."
"How do you mean?"
"A kind of guilty—or shall I say embarrassed—look. Don't you notice it mother?"
"I do!" said my mother.
"I suppose it means we may not ask him questions," Lettie concluded, always very busily sewing.
He laughed. She had broken her cotton, and was trying to thread the needle again.
"Oh, we have sat at home desolate40. 'Ever of thee I'm fo-o-ondly dreēaming'—and so on. Haven't we mother?"
"Well," said mother, "I don't know. We imagined him all sorts of lions up there."
"What a shame we may not ask him to roar his old roars over for us," said Lettie.
"What are they like?" he asked.
"How should I know? Like a sucking dove, to judge from your present voice. 'A monstrous41 little voice.'"
He laughed uncomfortably.
She went on sewing, suddenly beginning to sing to herself:
I've been up to London to see the fine queen:
Pussy cat, Pussy cat, what did you there——
I frightened a little mouse under a stair."
"I suppose," she added, "that may be so. Poor mouse!—but I guess she's none the worse. You did not see the queen, though?"
"She was not in London," he replied sarcastically43.
"You don't——" she said, taking two pins from between her teeth. "I suppose you don't mean by that, she was in Eberwich—your queen?"
"I don't know where she was," he answered angrily.
"Oh!" she said, very sweetly, "I thought perhaps you had met her in Eberwich. When did you come back?"
"Last night," he replied.
"Oh—why didn't you come and see us before?"
"I've been at the offices all day."
"I've been up to Eberwich," she said innocently.
"Have you?"
"Yes. And I feel so cross because of it. I thought I might see you. I felt as if you were at home."
She stitched a little, and glanced up secretly to watch his face redden, then she continued innocently,
"Yes—I felt you had come back. It is funny how one has a feeling occasionally that someone is near; when it is someone one has a sympathy with." She continued to stitch, then she took a pin from her bosom44, and fixed45 her work, all without the least suspicion of guile46.
"I thought I might meet you when I was out——" another pause, another fixing, a pin to be taken from her lips—" but I didn't."
"I was at the office till rather late," he said quickly.
She stitched away calmly, provokingly.
She took the pin from her mouth again, fixed down a fold of stuff, and said softly:
Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book.
He sat on his chair dumb with mortification47. She stitched swiftly and unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke48:
"I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow," he said.
"I wanted you!" she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, "Who said I wanted you?"
"No one. If you didn't want me I may as well go."
The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then she said deliberately49:
"What made you think I wanted you?"
"I don't care a damn whether you wanted me or whether you didn't."
"It seems to upset you! And don't use bad language. It is the privilege of those near and dear to one."
"That's why you begin it, I suppose."
"I cannot remember——" she said loftily.
He laughed sarcastically.
"Well—if you're so beastly cut up about it——"
He put this tentatively, expecting the soft answer. But she refused to speak, and went on stitching. He fidgeted about, twisted his cap uncomfortably, and sighed. At last he said:
"Well—you—have we done then?"
She had the vast superiority, in that she was engaged in ostentatious work. She could fix the cloth, regard it quizzically, rearrange it, settle down and begin to sew before she replied. This humbled50 him. At last she said:
"I thought so this afternoon."
"But, good God, Lettie, can't you drop it?"
"And then?"—the question startled him.
"Why!—forget it," he replied.
"Well?"—she spoke softly, gently. He answered to the call like an eager hound. He crossed quickly to her side as she sat sewing, and said, in a low voice:
"You do care something for me, don't you, Lettie?"
"You have treated me rottenly, you know, haven't you? You know I—well, I care a good bit."
"It is a queer way of showing it." Her voice was now a gentle reproof54, the sweetest of surrenders and forgiveness. He leaned forward, took her face in his hands, and kissed her, murmuring:
"You are a little tease."
She laid her sewing in her lap, and looked up.
The next day, Sunday, broke wet and dreary55. Breakfast was late, and about ten o'clock we stood at the window looking upon the impossibility of our going to church.
There was a driving drizzle56 of rain, like a dirty curtain before the landscape. The nasturtium leaves by the garden walk had gone rotten in a frost, and the gay green discs had given place to the first black flags of winter, hung on flaccid stalks, pinched at the neck. The grass plot was strewn with fallen leaves, wet and brilliant: scarlet57 splashes of Virginia creeper, golden drift from the limes, ruddy brown shawls under the beeches59, and away back in the corner, the black mat of maple60 leaves, heavy soddened61; they ought to have been a vivid lemon colour. Occasionally one of these great black leaves would loose its hold, and zigzag62 down, staggering in the dance of death.
"There now!" said Lettie suddenly.
I looked up in time to see a crow close his wings and clutch the topmost bough63 of an old grey holly64 tree on the edge of the clearing. He flapped again, recovered his balance, and folded himself up in black resignation to the detestable weather.
"Why has the old wretch65 settled just over our noses," said Lettie petulantly66. "Just to blot67 the promise of a sorrow."
"Your's or mine?" I asked.
"He is looking at me, I declare."
"You can see the wicked pupil of his eye at this distance," I insinuated68.
"'One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a letter, four for a boy,
Five for silver, six for gold,
And seven for a secret never told.'
"—You may bet he's only a messenger in advance. There'll be three more shortly, and you'll have your four," said I, comforting.
"Do you know," she said, "it is very funny, but whenever I've particularly noticed one crow, I've had some sorrow or other."
"And when you notice four?" I asked.
"You should have heard old Mrs. Wagstaffe," was her reply. "She declares an old crow croaked70 in their apple tree every day for a week before Jerry got drowned."
"Great sorrow for her," I remarked.
"Oh, but she wept abundantly. I felt like weeping too, but somehow I laughed. She hoped he had gone to heaven—but—I'm sick of that word 'but'—it is always tangling71 one's thoughts."
"But, Jerry!" I insisted.
"Oh, she lifted up her forehead, and the tears dripped off her nose. He must have been an old nuisance, Syb. I can't understand why women marry such men. I felt downright glad to think of the drunken old wretch toppling into the canal out of the way."
She pulled the thick curtain across the window, and nestled down in it, resting her cheek against the edge, protecting herself from the cold window pane72. The wet, grey wind shook the half naked trees, whose leaves dripped and shone sullenly73. Even the trunks were blackened, trickling74 with the rain which drove persistently75.
Whirled down the sky like black maple leaves caught up aloft, came two more crows. They swept down and clung hold of the trees in front of the house, staying near the old forerunner76. Lettie watched them, half amused, half melancholy77. One bird was carried past. He swerved78 round and began to battle up the wind, rising higher, and rowing laboriously79 against the driving wet current.
"Here comes your fourth," said I.
She did not answer, but continued to watch. The bird wrestled80 heroically, but the wind pushed him aside, tilted81 him, caught under his broad wings and bore him down. He swept in level flight down the stream, outspread and still, as if fixed in despair. I grieved for him. Sadly two of his fellows rose and were carried away after him, like souls hunting for a body to inhabit, and despairing. Only the first ghoul was left on the withered82, silver-grey skeleton of the holly.
"He won't even say 'Nevermore'," I remarked.
"He has more sense," replied Lettie. She looked a trifle lugubrious83. Then she continued: "Better say 'Nevermore' than 'Evermore.'"
"Why?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Fancy this 'Evermore.'"
She had been sure in her own soul that Leslie would come—now she began to doubt:—things were very perplexing.
The bell in the kitchen jangled; she jumped up. I went and opened the door. He came in. She gave him one bright look of satisfaction. He saw it, and understood.
"What a dreadful day!" said mother.
"Oh, fearful! Your face is red, Lettie! What have you been doing?"
"Looking into the fire."
"What did you see?"
"The pictures wouldn't come plain—nothing."
He laughed. We were silent for some time.
"You were expecting me?" he murmured.
"Yes—I knew you'd come."
They were left alone. He came up to her and put his arm around her, as she stood with her elbow on the mantelpiece.
"You do want me," he pleaded softly.
"Yes," she murmured.
He held her in his arms and kissed her repeatedly, again and again, till she was out of breath, and put up her hand, and gently pushed her face away.
"You are a cold little lover—you are a shy bird," he said, laughing into her eyes. He saw her tears rise, swimming on her lids, but not falling.
"Why, my love, my darling—why!"—he put his face to her's and took the tear on his cheek:
"I know you love me," he said, gently, all tenderness.
"Do you know," he murmured. "I can positively85 feel the tears rising up from my heart and throat. They are quite painful gathering86, my love. There—you can do anything with me."
They were silent for some time. After a while, a rather long while, she came upstairs and found mother—and at the end of some minutes I heard my mother go to him.
I sat by my window and watched the low clouds reel and stagger past. It seemed as if everything were being swept along—I myself seemed to have lost my substance, to have become detached from concrete things and the firm trodden pavement of everyday life. Onward87, always onward, not knowing where, nor why, the wind, the clouds, the rain and the birds and the leaves, everything whirling along—why?
All this time the old crow sat motionless, though the clouds tumbled, and were rent and piled, though the trees bent, and the window-pane shivered with running water. Then I found it had ceased to rain; that there was a sickly yellow gleam of sunlight, brightening on some great elm-leaves near at hand till they looked like ripe lemons hanging. The crow looked at me—I was certain he looked at me.
"What do you think of it all?" I asked him.
He eyed me with contempt: great featherless, half winged bird as I was, incomprehensible, contemptible88, but awful. I believe he hated me.
He looked wearily away. Nevertheless my gaze disquieted90 him. He turned uneasily; he rose, waved his wings as if for flight, poised91, then settled defiantly92 down again.
"You are no good," said I, "you won't help even with a word."
He sat stolidly93 unconcerned. Then I heard the lapwings in the meadow crying, crying. They seemed to seek the storm, yet to rail at it. They wheeled in the wind, yet never ceased to complain of it. They enjoyed the struggle, and lamented94 it in wild lament95, through which came a sound of exultation96. All the lapwings cried, cried the same tale, "Bitter, bitter, the struggle—for nothing, nothing, nothing,"—and all the time they swung about on their broad wings, revelling97.
"There," said I to the crow, "they try it, and find it bitter, but they wouldn't like to miss it, to sit still like you, you old corpse98."
He could not endure this. He rose in defiance99, flapped his wings, and launched off, uttering one "Caw" of sinister100 foreboding. He was soon whirled away.
I discovered that I was very cold, so I went downstairs.
Twisting a curl round his finger, one of those loose curls that always dance free from the captured hair, Leslie said:
"Look how fond your hair is of me; look how it twines101 round my finger. Do you know, your hair—the light in it is like—oh—buttercups in the sun."
"It is like me—it won't be kept in bounds," she replied.
"Behave! Now be still, and I'll tell you what sort of music you make."
"Oh—well—tell me."
"Like the calling of throstles and blackies, in the evening, frightening the pale little wood-anemones, till they run panting and swaying right up to our wall. Like the ringing of bluebells103 when the bees are at them; like Hippomenes, out-of-breath, laughing because he'd won."
He kissed her with rapturous admiration105.
"Marriage music, sir," she added.
"What golden apples did I throw?" he asked lightly.
"What!" she exclaimed, half mocking.
"This Atalanta," he replied, looking lovingly upon her, "this Atalanta—I believe she just lagged at last on purpose."
"You have it," she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses106. "It was you—the apples of your firm heels—the apples of your eyes—the apples Eve bit—that won me—hein!"
"That was it—you are clever, you are rare. And I've won, won the ripe apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists—they can't stop me—and—and—all your roundness and warmness and softness—I've won you, Lettie."
She nodded wickedly, saying:
"All those—those—yes."
"All—she admits it—everything!"
"Oh!—but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?"
"Yes, and you gave it me."
"Not yet. Everything though?"
"Every atom."
"But—now you look——"
"Did I look aside?"
"With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels——"
"Well—don't interrupt now—suppose I were one—like the 'Blessed Damosel.'"
"With a warm bosom——!"
"Don't be foolish, now—I a 'Blessed Damosel' and you kicking the brown beech58 leaves below thinking——"
"What are you driving at?"
"Would you be thinking—thoughts like prayers?"
"What on earth do you ask that for? Oh—I think I'd be cursing—eh?"
"Hang thin souls, Lettie! I'm not one of your souly sort. I can't stand Pre-Raphaelities. You—You're not a Burne-Jonesess—you're an Albert Moore. I think there's more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a prayer. I'll pray with kisses."
"And when you can't?"
"I'll wait till prayer-time again. By Jove, I'd rather feel my arms full of you; I'd rather touch that red mouth—you grudger109!—than sing hymns110 with you in any heaven."
"I'm afraid you'll never sing hymns with me in heaven."
"Well—I have you here—yes, I have you now."
"Our life is but a fading dawn?"
"Liar!—Well, you called me! Besides, I don't care; 'Carpe diem', my rosebud111, my fawn112. There's a nice Carmen about a fawn. 'Time to leave its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.' Poor old Horace—I've forgotten him."
"Then poor old Horace."
"Ha! Ha!—Well, I shan't forget you. What's that queer look in your eyes?"
"What is it?"
"Nay—you tell me. You are such a tease, there's no getting to the bottom of you."
"I will—I will——"
After a while he asked:
"When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?"
"Oh, wait till Christmas—till I am twenty-one."
"Nearly three months! Why on earth——"
"It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free choice then."
"But three months!"
"I shall consider thee engaged—it doesn't matter about other people."
"I thought we should be married in three months."
"Ah—married in haste——. But what will your mother say?"
"Say! Oh, she'll say it's the first wise thing I've done. You'll make a fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that."
"You will flutter brilliantly."
"We will."
"No—you'll be the moth11—I'll paint your wings—gaudy feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or when you play dodge114 with a butterfly net—away goes my part—you can't fly—I—alas, poor me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth brushes his wings against a butterfly net?"
"What are you making so many words about? You don't know now, do you?"
"No—that I don't."
"Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes."
"Narcissus, Narcissus!—Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter you?—Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments."
"I can't see anything—only feel you looking—you are laughing at me.—What have you behind there—what joke?"
"I—I'm thinking you're just like Narcissus—a sweet, beautiful youth."
"Be serious—do."
"It would be dangerous. You'd die of it, and I—I should——"
"What!"
"Be just like I am now—serious."
He looked proudly, thinking she referred to the earnestness of her love.
In the wood the wind rumbled115 and roared hoarsely116 overhead, but not a breath stirred among the saddened bracken. An occasional raindrop was shaken out of the trees; I slipped on the wet paths. Black bars striped the grey tree-trunks, where water had trickled117 down; the bracken was overthrown118, its yellow ranks broken. I slid down the steep path to the gate, out of the wood.
Armies of cloud marched in rank across the sky, heavily laden119, almost brushing the gorse on the common. The wind was cold and disheartening. The ground sobbed120 at every step. The brook121 was full, swirling122 along, hurrying, talking to itself, in absorbed intent tones. The clouds darkened; I felt the rain. Careless of the mud, I ran, and burst into the farm kitchen.
The children were painting, and they immediately claimed my help.
"Emily—and George—are in the front room," said the mother quietly, for it was Sunday afternoon. I satisfied the little ones; I said a few words to the mother, and sat down to take off my clogs123.
In the parlour, the father, big and comfortable, was sleeping in an arm-chair. Emily was writing at the table—she hurriedly hid her papers when I entered. George was sitting by the fire, reading. He looked up as I entered, and I loved him when he looked up at me, and as he lingered on his quiet "Hullo!" His eyes were beautifully eloquent124—as eloquent as a kiss.
We talked in subdued125 murmurs126, because the father was asleep, opulently asleep, his tanned face as still as a brown pear against the wall. The clock itself went slowly, with languid throbs127. We gathered round the fire, and talked quietly, about nothing—blissful merely in the sound of our voices, a murmured, soothing128 sound—a grateful, dispassionate love trio.
At last George rose, put down his book—looked at his father—and went out.
In the barn there was a sound of the pulper129 crunching131 the turnips133. The crisp strips of turnip132 sprinkled quietly down onto a heap of gold which grew beneath the pulper. The smell of pulped134 turnips, keen and sweet, brings back to me the feeling of many winter nights, when frozen hoof-prints crunch130 in the yard, and Orion is in the south; when a friendship was at its mystical best.
"Father didn't do it yesterday; it's his work; and I didn't notice it. You know—Father often forgets—he doesn't like to have to work in the afternoon, now."
The cattle stirred in their stalls; the chains rattled136 round the posts; a cow coughed noisily. When George had finished pulping, and it was quiet enough for talk, just as he was spreading the first layers of chop and turnip and meal—in ran Emily, with her hair in silken, twining confusion, her eyes glowing—to bid us go in to tea before the milking was begun. It was the custom to milk before tea on Sunday—but George abandoned it without demur—his father willed it so, and his father was master, not to be questioned on farm matters, however one disagreed.
The last day in October had been dreary enough; the night could not come too early. We had tea by lamplight, merrily, with the father radiating comfort as the lamp shone yellow light. Sunday tea was imperfect without a visitor; with me, they always declared, it was perfect. I loved to hear them say so. I smiled, rejoicing quietly into my teacup when the Father said:
"It seems proper to have Cyril here at Sunday tea, it seems natural."
He was most loath137 to break the delightful138 bond of the lamp-lit tea-table; he looked up with a half-appealing glance when George at last pushed back his chair and said he supposed he'd better make a start.
"Ay," said the father in a mild, conciliatory tone, "I'll be out in a minute."
The lamp hung against the barn-wall, softly illuminating139 the lower part of the building, where bits of hay and white dust lay in the hollows between the bricks, where the curled chips of turnip scattered140 orange gleams over the earthen floor; the lofty roof, with its swallows' nests under the tiles, was deep in shadow, and the corners were full of darkness, hiding, half hiding, the hay, the chopper, the bins141. The light shone along the passages before the stalls, glistening142 on the moist noses of the cattle, and on the whitewash143 of the walls.
George was very cheerful; but I wanted to tell him my message. When he had finished the feeding, and had at last sat down to milk, I said:
"I told you Leslie Tempest was at our house when I came away."
He sat with the bucket between his knees, his hands at the cow's udder, about to begin to milk. He looked up a question at me.
"They are practically engaged now," I said.
He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me. As one who is listening for a far-off noise, he sat with his eyes fixed. Then he bent his head, and leaned it against the side of the cow, as if he would begin to milk. But he did not. The cow looked round and stirred uneasily. He began to draw the milk, and then to milk mechanically. I watched the movement of his hands, listening to the rhythmic144 clang of the jets of milk on the bucket, as a relief. After a while the movement of his hands became slower, thoughtful—then stopped.
"She has really said yes?"
I nodded.
"And what does your mother say?"
"She is pleased."
He began to milk again. The cow stirred uneasily, shifting her legs. He looked at her angrily, and went on milking. Then, quite upset, she shifted again, and swung her tail in his face.
"Stand still!" he shouted, striking her on the haunch. She seemed to cower145 like a beaten woman. He swore at her, and continued to milk. She did not yield much that night; she was very restive146; he took the stool from beneath him and gave her a good blow; I heard the stool knock on her prominent hip104 bone. After that she stood still, but her milk soon ceased to flow.
When he stood up, he paused before he went to the next beast, and I thought he was going to talk. But just then the father came along with his bucket. He looked in the shed, and, laughing in his mature, pleasant way, said:
"Nay," said I, "Sunday is a day of rest—and milking makes your hands ache."
"You only want a bit more practice," he said, joking in his ripe fashion. "Why George, is that all you've got from Julia?"
"It is."
"H'm—she's soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don't go and turn skinny."
When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I heard his good-humoured "Stand over, old lass," from the other shed, and the drum-beats of the first jets of milk on the pail.
"You really expected Lettie to have him," I said.
"I suppose so," he replied, "then she'd made up her mind to it. It didn't matter—what she wanted—at the bottom."
"You?" said I.
"If it hadn't been that he was a prize—with a ticket—she'd have had——"
"You!" said I.
"She was afraid—look how she turned and kept away——"
"From you?" said I.
"I should like to squeeze her till she screamed."
"You should have gripped her before, and kept her," said I.
"She—she's like a woman, like a cat—running to comforts—she strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen."
"Don't generalise, it's no good."
"She's like a prostitute——"
He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his doubt and perplexity.
"She, what——?"
"Loves him—honestly."
"She'd 'a loved me better," he muttered, and turned to his milking. I left him and went to talk to his father. When the latter's four beasts were finished, George's light still shone in the other shed.
I went and found him at the fifth, the last cow. When at length he had finished he put down his pail, and going over to poor Julia, stood scratching her back, and her poll, and her nose, looking into her big, startled eye and murmuring. She was afraid; she jerked her head, giving him a good blow on the cheek with her horn.
"You can't understand them," he said sadly, rubbing his face, and looking at me with his dark, serious eyes.
"I never knew I couldn't understand them. I never thought about it——till. But you know, Cyril, she led me on."
I laughed at his rueful appearance.
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1
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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3
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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4
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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5
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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7
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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9
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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10
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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11
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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12
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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13
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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14
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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15
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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16
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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17
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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18
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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19
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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20
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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21
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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22
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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23
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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24
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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25
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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26
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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27
encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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28
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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29
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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31
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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32
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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33
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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34
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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35
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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36
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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37
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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38
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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39
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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40
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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41
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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42
pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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43
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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44
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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45
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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46
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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47
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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48
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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49
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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50
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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51
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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52
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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53
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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54
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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55
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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56
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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57
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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58
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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59
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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60
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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61
soddened
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| v.（液体）沸腾( seethe的过去分词 )( sodden的过去分词 )；激动，大怒；强压怒火；生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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62
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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63
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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64
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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65
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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66
petulantly
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67
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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68
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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69
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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70
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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71
tangling
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的现在分词 ) | |
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72
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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73
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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74
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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75
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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76
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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77
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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78
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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80
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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81
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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82
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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83
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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84
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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85
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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86
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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87
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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88
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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89
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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90
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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92
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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93
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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94
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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96
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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97
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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98
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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99
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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100
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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101
twines
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| n.盘绕( twine的名词复数 )；麻线；捻；缠绕在一起的东西 | |
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102
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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103
bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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104
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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107
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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108
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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109
grudger
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| 不满； 怨恨； 恶意； 妒忌 | |
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110
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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111
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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112
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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113
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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114
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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115
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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116
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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117
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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118
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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119
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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120
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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122
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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123
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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124
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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125
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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126
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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127
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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128
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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129
pulper
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| （咖啡豆的）果肉采集器； 搅碎机； 碎浆机 | |
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130
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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131
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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132
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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133
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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134
pulped
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| 水果的肉质部分( pulp的过去式和过去分词 )； 果肉； 纸浆； 低级书刊 | |
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135
pulping
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| 水果的肉质部分( pulp的现在分词 )； 果肉； 纸浆； 低级书刊 | |
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136
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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137
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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138
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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139
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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140
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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141
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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142
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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143
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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144
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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145
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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146
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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