The White Peacock (Romance Classic). D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
he said quickly, “we needn’t tell them — don’t let them know.”
I sat thinking of the pain in my own chest, and wishing I could remember hearing Annable’s jaw smash, and wishing that my knuckles were more bruised than they were — though that was bad enough. I got up, and helped George to rise. He swayed, almost pulling me over. But in a while he could walk unevenly.
“Am I,” he said, “covered with clay and stuff?”
“Not much,” I replied, troubled by the shame and confusion with which he spoke.
“Get it off,” he said, standing still to be cleaned.
I did my best. Then we walked about the fields for a time, gloomy, silent, and sore.
Suddenly, as we went by the pond-side, we were startled by great, swishing black shadows that swept just above our heads. The swans were flying up for shelter, now that a cold wind had begun to fret Nethermere. They swung down on to the glassy millpond, shaking the moonlight in flecks across the deep shadows; the night rang with the clacking of their wings on the water; the stillness and calm were broken; the moonlight was furrowed and scattered, and broken. The swans, as they sailed into shadow, were dim, haunting spectres; the wind found us shivering.
“Don’t — you won’t say anything?” he asked as I was leaving him.
“No.”
“Nothing at all — not to anybody?”
“No.”
“Good night.”
About the end of September, our countryside was alarmed by the harrying of sheep by strange dogs. One morning, the squire, going the round of his fields as was his custom, to his grief and horror found two of his sheep torn and dead in the hedge-bottom, and the rest huddled in a corner swaying about in terror, smeared with blood. The squire did not recover his spirits for days.
There was a report of two grey wolvish dogs. The squire’s keeper had heard yelping in the fields of Dr Collins of the Abbey, about dawn. Three sheep lay soaked in blood when the labourer went to tend the flocks.
Then the farmers took alarm. Lord, of the White House farm, intended to put his sheep in pen, with his dogs in charge. It was Saturday, however, and the lads ran off to the little travelling theatre that had halted at Westwold. While they sat open-mouthed in the theatre, gloriously nicknamed the “Blood-Tub”, watching heroes die with much writhing and heaving, and struggling up to say a word, and collapsing without having said it, six of their silly sheep were slaughtered in the field. At every house it was inquired’ of the dog; nowhere had one been loose.
Mr Saxton had some thirty sheep on the Common. George determined that the easiest thing was for him to sleep out with them. He built a shelter of hurdles interlaced with brushwood, and in the sunny afternoon we collected piles of bracken, browning to the ruddy winter-brown now. He slept there for a week, but that week aged his mother like a year. She was out in the cold morning twilight watching, with her apron over her head, for his approach. She did not rest with the thought of him out on the Common.
Therefore, on Saturday night he brought down his rugs, and took up Gyp to watch in his stead. For some time we sat looking at the stars over the dark hills. Now and then a sheep coughed, or a rabbit rustled beneath the brambles, and Gyp whined. The mist crept over the grose-bushes, and the webs on the brambles were white — the devil throws his net over the blackberries as soon as September’s back is turned, they say.
“I saw two fellows go by with bags and nets,” said George, as we sat looking out of his little shelter.
“Poachers,” said I. “Did you speak to them?”
“No — they didn’t see me. I was dropping asleep when a rabbit rushed under the blanket, all of a shiver, and a whippet dog after it. I gave the whippet a punch in the neck, and he yelped off. The rabbit stopped with me quite a long time — then it went.”
“How did you feel?”
“I didn’t care. I don’t care much what happens just now. Father could get along without me, and Mother has the children. I think I shall emigrate.”
“Why didn’t you before?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There are a lot of little comforts and interests at home that one would miss. Besides, you feel somebody in your own countryside, and you’re nothing in a foreign part, I expect.”
“But you’re going?”
“What is there to stop here for? The valley is all running wild and unprofitable. You’ve no freedom for thinking of what the other folks think of you, and everything round you keeps the same, and so you can’t change yourself — because everything you look at brings up the same old feeling, and stops you from feeling fresh things. And what is there that’s worth anything? — What’s worth having in my life?”
“I thought,” said I, “your comfort was worth having.”
He sat still and did not answer.
“What’s shaken you out of your nest?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve not felt the same since that row with Annable. And Lettie said to me, ‘Here, you can’t live as you like — in any way or circumstance. You’re like a bit out of those coloured marble mosaics in the hall, you have to fit in your own set, fit into your own pattern, because you’re put there from the first. But you don’t want to be like a fixed bit of a mosaic — you want to fuse into life, and melt and mix with the rest of folk, to have some things burned out of you —’ She was downright serious.”
“Well, you need not believe her. When did you see her?”
“She came down on Wednesday, when I was getting the apples in the morning. She climbed a tree with me, and there was a wind, that was why I was getting all the apples, and it rocked us, me right up at the top, she sitting half-way down holding the basket. I asked her didn’t she think that free kind of life was the best, and that was how she answered me.”
“You should have contradicted her.”
“It seemed true. I never thought of it being wrong, in fact.”
“Come — that sounds bad.”
“No — I thought she looked down on us — on our way of life. I thought she meant I was like a toad in a hole.”
“You should have shown her different.”
“How could I when I could see no different?”
“It strikes me you’re in love.”
He laughed at the idea, saying, “No, but it is rotten to find that there isn’t a sine thing you have to be proud of.”
“This is a new tune for you.”
He pulled the grass moodily.
“And when do you think of going?”
“Oh — I don’t know — I’ve said nothing to Mother. Not yet — at any rate, not till spring.”
“Not till something has happened,” said I.
“What?” he asked.
“Something decisive.”
“I don’t know what can happen — unless the squire turns us out.”
“No?” I said.
He did not speak.
“You should make things happen,” said I.
“Don’t make me feel a worse fool, Cyril,” he replied despairingly.
Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs among the blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist crept along the ground.
“But, for all that, Cyril,” he said, “to have her laugh at you across the table; to