第 19 页

He set his sheaves with a keen, faint clash, next to her

sheaves. They rode unsteadily. He tangled the tresses of corn.

It hissed like a fountain. He looked up and laughed.

Then she turned away towards the moon, which seemed glowingly

to uncover her bosom every time she faced it. He went to the

vague emptiness of the field opposite, dutifully.

They stooped, grasped the wet, soft hair of the corn, lifted

the heavy bundles, and returned. She was always first. She set

down her sheaves, making a pent-house with those others. He was

coming shadowy across the stubble, carrying his bundles, She

turned away, hearing only the sharp hiss of his mingling corn.

She walked between the moon and his shadowy figure.

She took her two new sheaves and walked towards him, as he

rose from stooping over the earth. He was coming out of the near

distance. She set down her sheaves to make a new stook. They

were unsure. Her hands fluttered. Yet she broke away, and turned

to the moon, which laid bare her bosom, so she felt as if her

bosom were heaving and panting with moonlight. And he had to put

up her two sheaves, which had fallen down. He worked in silence.

The rhythm of the work carried him away again, as she was coming

near.

They worked together, coming and going, in a rhythm, which

carried their feet and their bodies in tune. She stooped, she

lifted the burden of sheaves, she turned her face to the dimness

where he was, and went with her burden over the stubble. She

hesitated, set down her sheaves, there was a swish and hiss of

mingling oats, he was drawing near, and she must turn again. And

there was the flaring moon laying bare her bosom again, making

her drift and ebb like a wave.

He worked steadily, engrossed, threading backwards and

forwards like a shuttle across the strip of cleared stubble,

weaving the long line of riding shocks, nearer and nearer to the

shadowy trees, threading his sheaves with hers.

And always, she was gone before he came. As he came, she drew

away, as he drew away, she came. Were they never to meet?

Gradually a low, deep-sounding will in him vibrated to her,

tried to set her in accord, tried to bring her gradually to him,

to a meeting, till they should be together, till they should

meet as the sheaves that swished together.

And the work went on. The moon grew brighter, clearer, the

corn glistened. He bent over the prostrate bundles, there was a

hiss as the sheaves left the ground, a trailing of heavy bodies

against him, a dazzle of moonlight on his eyes. And then he was

setting the corn together at the stook. And she was coming

near.

He waited for her, he fumbled at the stook. She came. But she

stood back till he drew away. He saw her in shadow, a dark

column, and spoke to her, and she answered. She saw the

moonlight flash question on his face. But there was a space

between them, and he went away, the work carried them,

rhythmic.

Why was there always a space between them, why were they

apart? Why, as she came up from under the moon, would she halt

and stand off from him? Why was he held away from her? His will

drummed persistently, darkly, it drowned everything else.

Into the rhythm of his work there came a pulse and a steadied

purpose. He stooped, he lifted the weight, he heaved it towards

her, setting it as in her, under the moonlit space. And he went

back for more. Ever with increasing closeness he lifted the

sheaves and swung striding to the centre with them, ever he

drove her more nearly to the meeting, ever he did his share, and

drew towards her, overtaking her. There was only the moving to

and fro in the moonlight, engrossed, the swinging in the

silence, that was marked only by the splash of sheaves, and

silence, and a splash of sheaves. And ever the splash of his

sheaves broke swifter, beating up to hers, and ever the splash

of her sheaves recurred monotonously, unchanging, and ever the

splash of his sheaves beat nearer.

Till at last, they met at the shock, facing each other,

sheaves in hand. And he was silvery with moonlight, with a

moonlit, shadowy face that frightened her. She waited for

him.

"Put yours down," she said.

"No, it's your turn." His voice was twanging and

insistent.

She set her sheaves against the shock. He saw her hands

glisten among the spray of grain. And he dropped his sheaves and

he trembled as he took her in his arms. He had over-taken her,

and it was his privilege to kiss her. She was sweet and fresh

with the night air, and sweet with the scent of grain. And the

whole rhythm of him beat into his kisses, and still he pursued

her, in his kisses, and still she was not quite overcome. He

wondered over the moonlight on her nose! All the moonlight upon

her, all the darkness within her! All the night in his arms,

darkness and shine, he possessed of it all! All the night for

him now, to unfold, to venture within, all the mystery to be

entered, all the discovery to be made.

Trembling with keen triumph, his heart was white as a star as

he drove his kisses nearer.

"My love!" she called, in a low voice, from afar. The low

sound seemed to call to him from far off, under the moon, to him

who was unaware. He stopped, quivered, and listened.

"My love," came again the low, plaintive call, like a bird

unseen in the night.

He was afraid. His heart quivered and broke. He was

stopped.

"Anna," he said, as if he answered her from a distance,

unsure.

"My love."

And he drew near, and she drew near.

"Anna," he said, in wonder and the birthpain of love.

"My love," she said, her voice growing rapturous. And they

kissed on the mouth, in rapture and surprise, long, real kisses.

The kiss lasted, there among the moonlight. He kissed her again,

and she kissed him. And again they were kissing together. Till

something happened in him, he was strange. He wanted her. He

wanted her exceedingly. She was something new. They stood there

folded, suspended in the night. And his whole being quivered

with surprise, as from a blow. He wanted her, and he wanted to

tell her so. But the shock was too great to him. He had never

realized before. He trembled with irritation and unusedness, he

did not know what to do. He held her more gently, gently, much

more gently. The conflict was gone by. And he was glad, and

breathless, and almost in tears. But he knew he wanted her.

Something fixed in him for ever. He was hers. And he was very

glad and afraid. He did not know what to do, as they stood there

in the open, moonlit field. He looked through her hair at the

moon, which seemed to swim liquid-bright.

She sighed, and seemed to wake up, then she kissed him again.

Then she loosened herself away from him and took his hand. It

hurt him when she drew away from his breast. It hurt him with a

chagrin. Why did she draw away from him? But she held his

hand.

"I want to go home," she said, looking at him in a way he

could not understand.

He held close to her hand. He was dazed and he could not

move, he did not know how to move. She drew him away.

He walked helplessly beside her, holding her hand. She went

with bent head. Suddenly he said, as the simple solution stated

itself to him:

"We'll get married, Anna."

She was silent.

"We'll get married, Anna, shall we?"

She stopped in the field again and kissed him, clinging to

him passionately, in a way he could not understand. He could not

understand. But he left it all now, to marriage. That was the

solution now, fixed ahead. He wanted her, he wanted to be

married to her, he wanted to have her altogether, as his own for

ever. And he waited, intent, for the accomplishment. But there

was all the while a slight tension of irritation.

He spoke to his uncle and aunt that night.

"Uncle," he said, "Anna and me think of getting married."

"Oh ay!" said Brangwen.

"But how, you have no money?" said the mother.

The youth went pale. He hated these words. But he was like a

gleaming, bright pebble, something bright and inalterable. He

did not think. He sat there in his hard brightness, and did not

speak.

"Have you mentioned it to your own mother?" asked

Brangwen.

"No--I'll tell her on Saturday."

"You'll go and see her?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause.

"And what are you going to marry on--your pound a

week?"

Again the youth went pale, as if the spirit were being

injured in him.

"I don't know," he said, looking at his uncle with his bright

inhuman eyes, like a hawk's.

Brangwen stirred in hatred.

"It needs knowing," he said.

"I shall have the money later on," said the nephew. "I will

raise some now, and pay it back then."

"Oh ay!--And why this desperate hurry? She's a child of

eighteen, and you're a boy of twenty. You're neither of you of

age to do as you like yet."

Will Brangwen ducked his head and looked at his uncle with

swift, mistrustful eyes, like a caged hawk.

"What does it matter how old she is, and how old I am?" he

said. "What's the difference between me now and when I'm

thirty?"

"A big difference, let us hope."

"But you have no experience--you have no experience, and

no money. Why do you want to marry, without experience or

money?" asked the aunt.

"What experience do I want, Aunt?" asked the boy.

And if Brangwen's heart had not been hard and intact with

anger, like a precious stone, he would have agreed.

Will Brangwen went home strange and untouched. He felt he

could not alter from what he was fixed upon, his will was set.

To alter it he must be destroyed. And he would not be destroyed.

He had no money. But he would get some from somewhere, it did

not matter. He lay awake for many hours, hard and clear and

unthinking, his soul crystallizing more inalterably. Then he

went fast asleep.

It was as if his soul had turned into a hard crystal. He

might tremble and quiver and suffer, it did not alter.

The next morning Tom Brangwen, inhuman with anger spoke to

Anna.

"What's this about wanting to get married?" he said.

She stood, paling a little, her dark eyes springing to the

hostile, startled look of a savage thing that will defend

itself, but trembles with sensitiveness.

"I do," she said, out of her unconsciousness.

His anger rose, and he would have liked to break her.

"You do-you do-and what for?" he sneered with contempt. The

old, childish agony, the blindness that could recognize nobody,

the palpitating antagonism as of a raw, helpless, undefended

thing came back on her.

"I do because I do," she cried, in the shrill, hysterical way

of her childhood. "You are not my father--my father

is dead--you are not my father."

She was still a stranger. She did not recognize him. The cold

blade cut down, deep into Brangwen's soul. It cut him off from

her.

"And what if I'm not?" he said.

But he could not bear it. It had been so passionately dear to

him, her "Father--Daddie."

He went about for some days as if stunned. His wife was

bemused. She did not understand. She only thought the marriage

was impeded for want of money and position.

There was a horrible silence in the house. Anna kept out of

sight as much as possible. She could be for hours alone.

Will Brangwen came back, after stupid scenes at Nottingham.

He too was pale and blank, but unchanging. His uncle hated him.

He hated this youth, who was so inhuman and obstinate.

Nevertheless, it was to Will Brangwen that the uncle, one

evening, handed over the shares which he had transferred to Anna

Lensky. They were for two thousand five hundred pounds. Will

Brangwen looked at his uncle. It was a great deal of the Marsh

capital here given away. The youth, however, was only colder and

more fixed. He was abstract, purely a fixed will. He gave the

shares to Anna.

After which she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes out.

And at night, when she had heard her mother go to bed, she

slipped down and hung in the doorway. Her father sat in his

heavy silence, like a monument. He turned his head slowly.

"Daddy," she cried from the doorway, and she ran to him

sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Daddy--daddy--daddy."

She crouched on the hearthrug with her arms round him and her

face against him. His body was so big and comfortable. But

something hurt her head intolerably. She sobbed almost with

hysteria.

He was silent, with his hand on her shoulder. His heart was

bleak. He was not her father. That beloved image she had broken.

Who was he then? A man put apart with those whose life has no

more developments. He was isolated from her. There was a

generation between them, he was old, he had died out from hot

life. A great deal of ash was in his fire, cold ash. He felt the

inevitable coldness, and in bitterness forgot the fire. He sat

in his coldness of age and isolation. He had his own wife. And

he blamed himself, he sneered at himself, for this clinging to

the young, wanting the young to belong to him.

The child who clung to him wanted her child-husband. As was

natural. And from him, Brangwen, she wanted help, so that her

life might be properly fitted out. But love she did not want.

Why should there be love between them, between the stout,

middle-aged man and this child? How could there be anything

between them, but mere human willingness to help each other? He

was her guardian, no more. His heart was like ice, his face cold

and expressionless. She could not move him any more than a

statue.

She crept to bed, and cried. But she was going to be married

to Will Brangwen, and then she need not bother any more.

Brangwen went to bed with a hard, cold heart, and cursed

himself. He looked at his wife. She was still his wife. Her dark