The Complete Novels. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
Leslie turned to Emily, who had nervously been pushing two plates over a stain in the cloth, and who was very startled when she found herself addressed.
“My mother would be so glad if you would come to the party, Miss Saxton.”
“I cannot. I shall be at school. Thanks very much.”
“Ah — it’s very good of you,” said the father, beaming. But George smiled contemptuously.
When supper was over Leslie looked at Lettie to inform her that he was ready to go. She, however, refused to see his look, but talked brightly to Mr Saxton, who was delighted. George, flattered, joined in the talk with gusto. Then Leslie’s angry silence began to tell on us all. After a dull lapse, George lifted his head and said to his father:
“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if that little red heifer calved tonight.”
Lettie’s eyes flashed with a sparkle of amusement at this thrust.
“No,” assented the father, “I thought so myself.”
After a moment’s silence, George continued deliberately, “I felt her gristles —”
“George!” said Emily sharply.
“We will go,” said Leslie.
George looked up sideways at Lettie and his black eyes were full of sardonic mischief.
“Lend me a shawl, will you, Emily?” said Lettie. “I brought nothing, and I think the wind is cold.”
Emily, however, regretted that she had no shawl, and so Lettie must needs wear a black coat over her summer dress. It fitted so absurdly that we all laughed, but Leslie was very angry that she should appear ludicrous before them. He showed her all the polite attentions possible, fastened the neck of her coat with his pearl scarf-pin, refusing the pin Emily discovered, after some search. Then we sallied forth.
When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured dignity. She refused it and he began to remonstrate. “I consider you ought to have been home as you promised.”
“Pardon me.” she replied, “but I did not promise.”
“But you knew I was coming,” said he.
“Well — you found me,” she retorted.
“Yes,” he assented. “I did find you; flirting with a common fellow,” he sneered.
“Well,” she returned. “He did — it is true — call a heifer, a heifer.”
“And I should think you liked it,” he said.
“I didn’t mind,” she said, with galling negligence.
“I thought your taste was more refined,” he replied sarcastically. “But I suppose you thought it romantic.”
“Very! Ruddy, dark, and really thrilling eyes,” said she.
“I hate to hear a girl talk rot,” said Leslie. He himself had crisp hair of the “ginger” class.
“But I mean it,” she insisted, aggravating his anger. Leslie was angry. “I’m glad he amuses you!”
“Of course, I’m not hard to please,” she said pointedly. He was stung to the quick.
“Then there’s some comfort in knowing I don’t please you,” he said coldly.
“Oh! but you do! You amuse me also,” she said.
After that he would not speak, preferring, I suppose, not to amuse her.
Lettie took my arm, and with her disengaged hand held her skirts above the wet grass. When he had left us at the end of the riding in the wood, Lettie said:
“What an infant he is!”
“A bit of an ass,” I admitted.
“But really!” she said, “he’s more agreeable on the whole than — than my Taurus.”
“Your bull!” I repeated, laughing.
Chapter 3
A Vendor of Visions
The Sunday following Lettie’s visit to the mill, Leslie came up in the morning, admirably dressed, and perfected by a grand air. I showed him into the dark drawing-room, and left him. Ordinarily he would have wandered to the stairs, and sat there calling to Lettie; today he was silent. I carried the news of his arrival to my sister, who was pinning on her brooch.
“And how is the dear boy?” she asked.
“I have not inquired,” said I.
She laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church before she came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and bowed to him with a beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had nothing to say. She rustled across the room to the window, where the white geraniums grew magnificently. “I must adorn myself,” she said.
It was Leslie’s custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this day, she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the geraniums. So she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of her dress, saying:
“They are very fine, are they not?”
He muttered that they were. Mother came downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if he would take her to church.
“If you will allow me,” said he.
“You are modest today,” laughed Mother.
“Today!” he repeated.
“I hate modesty in a young man,” said Mother —“Come, we shall be late.” Lettie wore the geraniums all day — till evening. She brought Alice Gall home to tea, and bade me bring up “Mon Taureau”, when his farm work was over.
The day had been hot and close. The sun was reddening in the west as we leaped across the lesser brook. The evening scents began to awake, and wander unseen through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would slant through the thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the orange clusters of mountain-ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing together to sleep. Only a few pink orchids stood palely by the path, looking wistfully out at the ranks of red-purple bugle, whose last flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze column, yearned darkly for the sun.
We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the woodlands. As we drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees, from the lover’s seat, where a great tree had fallen and remained mossed and covered with fragile growth. There a crooked bough made a beautiful seat for two.
“Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight,” said I as we continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no lovers there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The cap had fallen from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against a profusion of the little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough so delicately. The man’s clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected. His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept, his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his features twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little groan, gruesome to hear, and then talk to some woman. His features twitched as if with pain, and he moaned slightly.
The lips opened in a grimace, showing the yellow teeth behind the beard. Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight-haunted woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke with a sharp “Ah!”— he looked round in consternation, then sinking down