The Complete Novels. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
she said slowly, looking up at him with pretended scorn, “because there’s no change in your eyes when I look at you. I always think people who are worth much talk with their eyes. That’s why you are forced to respect many quite uneducated people. Their eyes are so eloquent, and full of knowledge.” She had continued to look at him as she spoke — watching his faint appreciation of her upturned face, and her hair, where the light was always tangled, watching his brief self-examination to see if he could feel any truth in her words, watching till he broke into a little laugh which was rather more awkward and less satisfied than usual. Then she turned away, smiling also.
“There’s nothing in this book nice to sing,” she said, turning over the leaves discontentedly. I found her a volume, and she sang “Should he upbraid”. She had a fine soprano voice, and the song delighted him. He moved nearer to her, and when at the finish she looked round with a flashing, mischievous air, she found him pledging her with wonderful eyes.
“You like that,” said she with the air of superior knowledge, as if, dear me, all one had to do was to turn over to the right page of the vast volume of one’s soul to suit these people.
“I do,” he answered emphatically, thus acknowledging her triumph.
“I’d rather ‘dance and sing’ round ‘wrinkled care’ than carefully shut the door on him, while I slept in the chimney-seat wouldn’t you?” she asked.
He laughed, and began to consider what she meant before he replied.
“As you do,” she added.
“What?” he asked.
“Keep half your senses asleep — half alive.”
“Do I?” he asked.
“Of course you do; —‘bos bovis; an ox.’ You are like a stalled ox, food and comfort, no more. Don’t you love comfort?” she smiled.
“Don’t you?” he replied, smiling shamefaced.
“Of course. Come and turn over for me while I play this piece. Well, I’ll nod when you must turn — bring a chair.” She began to play a romance of Schubert’s. He leaned nearer to her to take hold of the leaf of music; she felt her loose hair touch his face, and turned to him a quick, laughing glance, while she played. At the end of the page she nodded, but he was oblivious; “Yes!” she said, suddenly impatient, and he tried to get the leaf over; she quickly pushed his hand aside, turned the page herself and continued playing.
“Sorry!” said he, blushing actually.
“Don’t bother,” she said, continuing to play without observing him. When she had finished:
“There!” she said, “now tell me how you felt while I was playing.”
“Oh — a fool!”— he replied, covered with confusion.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said —“but I didn’t mean that. I meant how did the music make you feel?”
“I don’t know — whether — it made me feel anything,” he replied deliberately, pondering over his answer, as usual.
“I tell you,” she declared, “you’re either asleep or stupid. Did you really see nothing in the music? But what did you think about?”
He laughed — and thought awhile — and laughed again.
“Why!” he admitted, laughing, and trying to tell the exact truth, “I thought how pretty your hands are — and what they are like to touch — and I thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my cheek.” When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a little knock, and left him saying:
“You are worse and worse.”
She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to Emily, and put her arm around my neck.
“Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked.
“Half-past eight — quite early,” said I.
“But I believe — I think I ought to be home now,” she said. “Don’t go,” said he.
“Why?” I asked.
“Stay to supper,” urged Emily.
“But I believe —” she hesitated.
“She has another fish to fry,” I said.
“I am not sure —” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”
“Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly. “Why — no!” she said, blushing.
“Then stay to supper — will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr Nickie Ben reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them good night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared the supper.
“Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr Saxton to Lettie, beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great.
“What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly, but with a deprecating laugh at the end.
“I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said.
“When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.
“Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.”
George thought about it, and he laughed also.
Emily, who was laying the table, said, “There is hardly any water in the pippin, George.”
“Oh, dash!” he exclaimed, “I’ve taken my boots off.”
“It’s not a very big job to put them on again,” said his sister. “Why couldn’t Annie fetch it — what’s she here for?” he said angrily.
Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him.
“I’ll go, I’ll go, after supper,” said the father in a comforting tone.
“After supper!” laughed Emily.
George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the house to a well, and being warm disliked turning out.
We had just sat down to supper when Trip rushed barking to the door. “Be quiet,” ordered the father, thinking of those in bed, and he followed the dog.
It was Leslie. He wanted Lettie to go home with him at once. This she refused to do, so he came indoors, and was persuaded to sit down at table. He swallowed a morsel of bread and cheese, and a cup of coffee, talking to Lettie of a garden party which was going to be arranged at Highclose for the following week.
“What is it for then?” interrupted Mr Saxton.
“For?” echoed Leslie.
“Is it for the missionaries, or the unemployed, or something?” explained Mr Saxton.
“It’s a garden-party, not a bazaar,” said Leslie.
“Oh — a private affair. I thought it would be some church matter of your mother’s. She’s very big at the church, isn’t she?”
“She is interested in the church — yes!” said Leslie, then proceeding to explain to Lettie that he was arranging a tennis tournament in which she was to take part. At this point he became aware that he was monopolising the conversation, and turned to George, just as the latter was taking a piece of cheese from his knife with his teeth, asking:
“Do