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diff --git a/78189-h/78189-h.htm b/78189-h/78189-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0480f1b --- /dev/null +++ b/78189-h/78189-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6059 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + The Virgin and the Gipsy | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} + +/* faux-h2 for front matter */ +.front { + font-size: x-large; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +/* misc text formatting */ +.small {font-size: small;} +.large {font-size: large;} + +/* Transcriber's notes (includes pagebreak before) */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; + page-break-before: always; +} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78189 ***</div> + +<h1> +THE VIRGIN AND THE GIPSY +</h1> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<p class="front">THE VIRGIN AND THE GIPSY</p> + +<p class="front">BY D. H. LAWRENCE</p> + +<br><br><br> +<p class="center">LONDON<br> +<span class="large">MARTIN SECKER</span><br> +<span class="small">NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<p class="small center">LONDON: MARTIN SECKER LTD. 1930<br> +NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +TO<br> +FRIEDA +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<div class="poetry-container"><p> + <i>This novel lacks the author’s final<br> + revision, and has been printed from<br> + the manuscript exactly as it stands.</i> +</p></div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="I"> + I + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When the vicar’s wife went off with a +young and penniless man the scandal knew +no bounds. Her two little girls were only +seven and nine years old respectively. And +the vicar was such a good husband. True, +his hair was grey. But his moustache was +dark, he was handsome, and still full of +furtive passion for his unrestrained and +beautiful wife.</p> + +<p>Why did she go? Why did she burst +away with such an <i lang="fr">éclat</i> of revulsion, like +a touch of madness?</p> + +<p>Nobody gave any answer. Only the +pious said she was a bad woman. While +some of the good women kept silent. +They knew.</p> + +<p>The two little girls never knew. Wounded, +they decided that it was because their +mother found them negligible.</p> + +<p>The ill wind that blows nobody any good +swept away the vicarage family on its +blast. Then lo and behold! the vicar, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>who was somewhat distinguished as an +essayist and a controversialist, and whose +case had aroused sympathy among the +bookish men, received the living of Papplewick. +The Lord had tempered the wind +of misfortune with a rectorate in the north +country.</p> + +<p>The rectory was a rather ugly stone +house down by the river Papple, before +you come into the village. Further on, +beyond where the road crosses the stream, +were the big old stone cotton-mills, once +driven by water. The road curved up-hill, +into the bleak stone streets of the village.</p> + +<p>The vicarage family received decided +modification, upon its transference into +the rectory. The vicar, now the rector, +fetched up his old mother and his sister, +and a brother from the city. The two +little girls had a very different milieu from +the old home.</p> + +<p>The rector was now forty-seven years +old; he had displayed an intense and not +very dignified grief after the flight of his +wife. Sympathetic ladies had stayed him +from suicide. His hair was almost white, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>and he had a wild-eyed, tragic look. You +had only to look at him, to know how +dreadful it all was, and how he had been +wronged.</p> + +<p>Yet somewhere there was a false note. +And some of the ladies, who had sympathised +most profoundly with the vicar, +secretly rather disliked the rector. There +was a certain furtive self-righteousness +about him, when all was said and done.</p> + +<p>The little girls, of course, in the vague +way of children, accepted the family +verdict. Granny, who was over seventy +and whose sight was failing, became the +central figure in the house. Aunt Cissie, +who was over forty, pale, pious, and +gnawed by an inward worm, kept house. +Uncle Fred, a stingy and grey-faced man +of forty, who just lived dingily for himself, +went into town every day. And the rector, +of course, was the most important person, +after Granny.</p> + +<p>They called her the Mater. She was +one of those physically vulgar, clever old +bodies who had got her own way all her +life by buttering the weaknesses of her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>men-folk. Very quickly she took her cue. +The rector still “loved” his delinquent +wife, and would “love her” till he died. +Therefore hush! The rector’s feeling was +sacred. In his heart was enshrined the +pure girl he had wedded and worshipped.</p> + +<p>Out in the evil world, at the same time, +there wandered a disreputable woman who +had betrayed the rector and abandoned +his little children. She was now yoked to +a young and despicable man, who no +doubt would bring her the degradation +she deserved. Let this be clearly understood, +and then hush! For in the pure +loftiness of the rector’s heart still bloomed +the pure white snow-flower of his young +bride. This white snow-flower did not +wither. That other creature, who had +gone off with that despicable young man, +was none of his affair.</p> + +<p>The Mater, who had been somewhat +diminished and insignificant as a widow +in a small house, now climbed into the +chief arm-chair in the rectory, and planted +her old bulk firmly again. She was not +going to be dethroned. Astutely she gave +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>a sigh of homage to the rector’s fidelity to +the pure white snow-flower, while she +pretended to disapprove. In sly reverence +for her son’s great love, she spoke no word +against that nettle which flourished in the +evil world, and which had once been +called Mrs. Arthur Saywell. Now, thank +heaven, having married again, she was no +more Mrs. Arthur Saywell. No woman +bore the rector’s name. The pure white +snow-flower bloomed <i>in perpetuum</i>, without +nomenclature. The family even thought +of her as She-who-was-Cynthia.</p> + +<p>All this was water on the Mater’s mill. +It secured her against Arthur’s ever marrying +again. She had him by his feeblest +weakness, his skulking self-love. He had +married an imperishable white snow-flower. +Lucky man! He had been injured. +Unhappy man! He had suffered. +Ah, what a heart of love! And he had—forgiven! +Yes, the white snow-flower was +forgiven. He even had made provision +in his will for her, when that other +scoundrel—But hush! Don’t even <i>think</i> +too near to that horrid nettle in the rank +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>outer world! She-who-was-Cynthia. Let +the white snow-flower bloom inaccessible +on the heights of the past. The present +is another story.</p> + +<p>The children were brought up in this +atmosphere of cunning self-sanctification +and of unmentionability. They too, saw +the snow-flower on inaccessible heights. +They too knew that it was throned in +lone splendour aloft their lives, never to +be touched.</p> + +<p>At the same time, out of the squalid +world sometimes would come a rank, evil +smell of selfishness and degraded lust, the +smell of that awful nettle, She-who-was-Cynthia. +This nettle actually contrived +at intervals, to get a little note through +to the girls, her children. And at this +the silver-haired Mater shook inwardly +with hate. For if She-who-was-Cynthia +ever came back, there wouldn’t be much +left of the Mater. A secret gust of hate +went from the old granny to the girls, +children of that foul nettle of lust, that +Cynthia who had had such an affectionate +contempt for the Mater.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> + +<p>Mingled with all this, was the children’s +perfectly distinct recollection of their real +home, the vicarage in the south, and +their glamorous but not very dependable +mother, Cynthia. She had made a +great glow, a flow of life, like a swift and +dangerous sun in the home, forever coming +and going. They always associated her presence +with brightness, but also with danger; +with glamour, but with fearful selfishness.</p> + +<p>Now the glamour was gone, and the +white snow-flower, like a porcelain wreath, +froze on its grave. The danger of instability, +the peculiarly <i>dangerous</i> sort of +selfishness, like lions and tigers, was also +gone. There was now a complete stability, +in which one could perish safely.</p> + +<p>But they were growing up. And as they +grew, they became more definitely confused, +more actively puzzled. The Mater, +as she grew older, grew blinder. Somebody +had to lead her about. She did not +get up till towards midday. Yet blind or +bed-ridden, she held the house.</p> + +<p>Besides, she wasn’t bed-ridden. Whenever +the <i>men</i> were present, the Mater was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>in her throne. She was too cunning to +court neglect. Especially as she had rivals.</p> + +<p>Her great rival was the younger girl, +Yvette. Yvette had some of the vague, +careless blitheness of She-who-was-Cynthia. +But this one was more docile. Granny +perhaps had caught her in time. Perhaps!</p> + +<p>The rector adored Yvette, and spoiled her +with a doting fondness; as much as to say: +am I not a soft-hearted, indulgent old boy! +He liked to have this opinion of himself, +and the Mater knew his weaknesses to a +hair’s-breadth. She knew them, and she +traded on them by turning them into +decorations for him, for his character. +He wanted, in his own eyes, to have a +fascinating character, as women want to +have fascinating dresses. And the Mater +cunningly put beauty-spots over his defects +and deficiencies. Her mother-love gave +her the clue to his weaknesses, and she hid +them for him with decorations. Whereas +She-who-was-Cynthia—! But don’t mention +<i>her</i>, in this connection. In her eyes, +the rector was almost hump-backed and +an idiot.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + +<p>The funny thing was, Granny secretly +hated Lucille, the elder girl, more than +the pampered Yvette. Lucille, the uneasy +and irritable, was more conscious of being +under Granny’s power, than was the +spoilt and vague Yvette.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, Aunt Cissie hated +Yvette. She hated her very name. Aunt +Cissie’s life had been sacrificed to the +Mater, and Aunt Cissie knew it, and the +Mater knew she knew it. Yet as the years +went on, it became a convention. The +convention of Aunt Cissie’s sacrifice was +accepted by everybody, including the self-same +Cissie. She prayed a good deal +about it. Which also showed that she +had her own private feelings somewhere, +poor thing. She had ceased to be Cissie, +she had lost her life and her sex. And +now, she was creeping towards fifty, +strange green flares of rage would come +up in her, and at such times, she was insane.</p> + +<p>But Granny held her in her power. +And Aunt Cissie’s one object in life was to +look after the Mater.</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie’s green flares of hellish hate +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>would go up against all young things, +sometimes. Poor thing, she prayed and +tried to obtain forgiveness from heaven. +But what had been done to her, <i>she</i> could +not forgive, and the vitriol would spurt in +her veins sometimes.</p> + +<p>It was not as if the Mater were a warm, +kindly soul. She wasn’t. She only seemed +it, cunningly. And the fact dawned +gradually on the girls. Under her old-fashioned +lace cap, under her silver hair, +under the black silk of her stout, short, +forward-bulging body, this old woman +had a cunning heart, seeking forever her +own female power. And through the +weakness of the unfresh, stagnant men +she had bred, she kept her power, as her +years rolled on, from seventy to eighty, and +from eighty on the new lap, towards +ninety.</p> + +<p>For in the family there was a whole tradition +of “loyalty”; loyalty to one another, +and especially to the Mater. The Mater, +of course, was the pivot of the family. +The family was her own extended ego. +Naturally she covered it with her power. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>And her sons and daughters, being weak +and disintegrated, naturally were loyal. +Outside the family, what was there for +them but danger and insult and ignominy? +Had not the rector experienced it, in his +marriage? So now, caution! Caution +and loyalty, fronting the world! Let +there be as much hate and friction <i>inside</i> +the family, as you like. To the outer +world, a stubborn fence of unison.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="II"> + II + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>But it was not until the girls finally came +home from school that they felt the full +weight of Granny’s dead old hand on +their lives. Lucille was now nearly twenty-one, +and Yvette nineteen. They had been +to a good girls’ school, and had had a +finishing year in Lausanne, and were quite +the usual thing, tall young creatures with +fresh, sensitive faces and bobbed hair and +young-manly, deuce-take-it manners.</p> + +<p>“What’s so awfully <i>boring</i> about Papplewick,” +said Yvette, as they stood on the +Channel boat watching the grey, grey cliffs +of Dover draw near, “is that there are no +<i>men</i> about. Why doesn’t Daddy have some +good old sports for friends? As for Uncle +Fred, he’s the limit!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you never know what will turn +up,” said Lucille, more philosophic.</p> + +<p>“You jolly well know what to expect,” +said Yvette. “Choir on Sundays, and I +hate mixed choirs. Boys’ voices are <i>lovely</i>, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>when there are no women. And Sunday +School and Girls’ Friendly, and socials, +all the dear old souls that enquire after +Granny! Not a decent young fellow +for miles.”</p> + +<p>“Oh I don’t know!” said Lucille. +“There’s always the Framleys. And you +know Gerry Somercotes <i>adores</i> you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh but I <i>hate</i> fellows who adore me!” +cried Yvette, turning up her sensitive nose. +“They <i>bore</i> me. They hang on like +lead.”</p> + +<p>“Well what <i>do</i> you want, if you can’t +stand being adored? <i>I</i> think it’s perfectly +all right to be adored. You know you’ll +never marry them, so why not let them go +on adoring, if it amuses them.”</p> + +<p>“Oh but I <i>want</i> to get married,” cried +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“Well in that case, let them go on +adoring you till you find one that you can +<i>possibly</i> marry.”</p> + +<p>“I never should, that way. Nothing +puts me off like an adoring fellow. They +<i>bore</i> me so! They make me feel beastly.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, so they do me, if they get pressing. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>But at a distance, I think they’re rather +nice.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to fall <i>violently</i> in love.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, very likely! I shouldn’t! I should +hate it. Probably so would you, if it +actually happened. After all, we’ve got +to settle down a bit, before we know what +we want.”</p> + +<p>“But don’t you <i>hate</i> going back to +Papplewick?” cried Yvette, turning up +her young, sensitive nose.</p> + +<p>“No, not particularly. I suppose we +shall be rather bored. I wish Daddy +would get a car. I suppose we shall have +to drag the old bikes out. Wouldn’t you +like to get up to Tansy Moor?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <i>love</i> it! Though it’s an awful +<i>strain</i>, shoving an old push-bike up those +hills.”</p> + +<p>The ship was nearing the grey cliffs. +It was summer, but a grey day. The +two girls wore their coats with fur collars +turned up, and little <i lang="fr">chic</i> hats pulled down +over their ears. Tall, slender, fresh-faced, +naïve, yet confident, too confident, in their +school-girlish arrogance, they were so +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>terribly English. They seemed so free, +and were as a matter of fact so tangled and +tied up, inside themselves. They seemed +so dashing and unconventional, and were +really so conventional, so, as it were, shut +up indoors inside themselves. They looked +like bold, tall young sloops, just slipping +from the harbour into the wide seas of life. +And they were, as a matter of fact, two +poor young rudderless lives, moving from +one chain anchorage to another.</p> + +<p>The rectory struck a chill into their +hearts as they entered. It seemed ugly, +and almost sordid, with the dank air of +that middle-class, degenerated comfort +which has ceased to be comfortable and +has turned stuffy, unclean. The hard, +stone house struck the girls as being unclean, +they could not have said why. The +shabby furniture seemed somehow sordid, +nothing was fresh. Even the food at meals +had that awful dreary sordidness which +is so repulsive to a young thing coming +from abroad. Roast beef and wet cabbage, +cold mutton and mashed potatoes, sour +pickles, inexcusable puddings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span></p> + +<p>Granny, who “loved a bit of pork,” +also had special dishes, beef-tea and rusks, +or a small savoury custard. The grey-faced +Aunt Cissie ate nothing at all. She +would sit at table, and take a single lonely +and naked boiled potato on to her plate. +She never ate meat. So she sat in sordid +durance, while the meal went on, and +Granny quickly slobbered her portion—lucky +if she spilled nothing on her protuberant +stomach. The food was not +appetising in itself: how could it be, +when Aunt Cissie hated food herself, hated +the fact of eating, and never could keep +a maid-servant for three months? The +girls ate with repulsion, Lucille bravely +bearing up, Yvette’s tender nose showing +her disgust. Only the rector, white-haired, +wiped his long grey moustache with his +serviette, and cracked jokes. He too was +getting heavy and inert, sitting in his +study all day, never taking exercise. But +he cracked sarcastic little jokes all the +time, sitting there under the shelter of +the Mater.</p> + +<p>The country, with its steep hills and its +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>deep, narrow valleys, was dark and +gloomy, yet had a certain powerful strength +of its own. Twenty miles away was the +black industrialism of the north. Yet the +village of Papplewick was comparatively +lonely, almost lost, the life in it stony and +dour. Everything was stone, with a hardness +that was almost poetic, it was so +unrelenting.</p> + +<p>It was as the girls had known: they +went back into the choir, they helped in +the parish. But Yvette struck absolutely +against Sunday School, the Band of Hope, +the Girls’ Friendlies—indeed against all +those functions that were conducted by +determined old maids and obstinate, +stupid elderly men. She avoided church +duties as much as possible, and got away +from the rectory whenever she could. +The Framleys, a big, untidy, jolly family +up at the Grange, were an enormous +stand-by. And if anybody asked her out +to a meal, even if a woman in one of the +workmen’s houses asked her to stay to tea, +she accepted at once. In fact, she was +rather thrilled. She liked talking to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>working men, they had often such fine, +hard heads. But of course they were in +another world.</p> + +<p>So the months went by. Gerry Somercotes +was still an adorer. There were +others, too, sons of farmers or mill-owners. +Yvette really ought to have had a good +time. She was always out to parties and +dances, friends came for her in their motor-cars, +and off she went to the city, to the +afternoon dance in the chief hotel, or in +the gorgeous new Palais de Danse, called +the Pally.</p> + +<p>Yet she always seemed like a creature +mesmerised. She was never free to be +quite jolly. Deep inside her worked an +intolerable irritation, which she thought +she <i>ought</i> not to feel, and which she hated +feeling, thereby making it worse. She +never understood at all whence it arose.</p> + +<p>At home, she truly was irritable, and +outrageously rude to Aunt Cissie. In fact, +Yvette’s awful temper became one of the +family by-words.</p> + +<p>Lucille, always more practical, got a +job in the city as private secretary to a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>man who needed somebody with fluent +French and shorthand. She went back +and forth every day, by the same train +as Uncle Fred. But she never travelled +with him, and wet or fine, bicycled to the +station, while he went on foot.</p> + +<p>The two girls were both determined +that what they wanted was a really jolly +social life. And they resented with fury +that the rectory was, for their friends, +impossible. There were only four rooms +downstairs: the kitchen, where lived the +two discontented maid-servants: the dark +dining-room: the rector’s study: and +the big, “homely,” dreary living-room +or drawing-room. In the dining-room +there was a gas fire. Only in the living-room +was a good hot fire kept going. +Because, of course, here Granny reigned.</p> + +<p>In this room the family was assembled. +At evening, after dinner, Uncle Fred and +the rector invariably played cross-word +puzzles with Granny.</p> + +<p>“Now, Mater, are you ready? N blank +blank blank blank W: a Siamese +functionary.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>“Eh? Eh? M blank blank blank +blank W?”</p> + +<p>Granny was hard of hearing.</p> + +<p>“No Mater. Not M! N blank blank +blank blank W: a Siamese functionary.”</p> + +<p>“N blank blank blank blank W: a +Chinese functionary.”</p> + +<p>“SIAMESE.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?”</p> + +<p>“SIAMESE! SIAM!”</p> + +<p>“A Siamese functionary! Now what +can that be?” said the old lady profoundly, +folding her hands on her round +stomach. Her two sons proceeded to +make suggestions, at which she said Ah! +Ah! The rector was amazingly clever +at cross-word puzzles. But Fred had a +certain technical vocabulary.</p> + +<p>“This certainly is a hard nut to crack,” +said the old lady, when they were all +stuck.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Lucille sat in a corner with +her hands over her ears, pretending to +read, and Yvette irritably made drawings, +or hummed loud and exasperating tunes, +to add to the family concert. Aunt Cissie +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>continually reached for a chocolate, and +her jaws worked ceaselessly. She literally +lived on chocolates. Sitting in the distance, +she put another into her mouth, +then looked again at the parish magazine. +Then she lifted her head, and saw it was +time to fetch Granny’s cup of Horlicks.</p> + +<p>While she was gone, in nervous exasperation +Yvette would open the window. +The room was never fresh, she imagined +it smelt: smelt of Granny. And Granny, +who was hard of hearing, heard like a +weasel when she wasn’t wanted to.</p> + +<p>“Did you open the window, Yvette? +I think you might remember there are +older people than yourself in the room,” +she said.</p> + +<p>“It’s stifling! It’s unbearable! No +wonder we’ve all of us always got +colds.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure the room is large enough, +and a good fire burning.” The old lady +gave a little shudder. “A draught to +give us all our death.”</p> + +<p>“Not a draught at all,” roared Yvette. +“A breath of fresh air.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span></p> + +<p>The old lady shuddered again, and said:</p> + +<p>“Indeed!”</p> + +<p>The rector, in silence, marched to the +window and firmly closed it. He did not +look at his daughter meanwhile. He hated +thwarting her. But she must know what’s +what!</p> + +<p>The cross-word puzzles, invented by +Satan himself, continued till Granny had +had her Horlicks, and was to go to bed. +Then came the ceremony of Goodnight! +Everybody stood up. The girls went to +be kissed by the blind old woman, the +rector gave his arm, and Aunt Cissie +followed with a candle.</p> + +<p>But this was already nine o’clock, +although Granny was really getting old, +and should have been in bed sooner. +But when she was in bed, she could not +sleep, till Aunt Cissie came.</p> + +<p>“You see,” said Granny, “I have +<i>never</i> slept alone. For fifty-four years I +never slept a night without the Pater’s +arm round me. And when he was gone +I tried to sleep alone. But as sure as my +eyes closed to sleep, my heart nearly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>jumped out of my body, and I lay in a +palpitation. Oh, you may think what +you will, but it was a fearful experience, +after fifty-four years of perfect married life! +I would have prayed to be taken first, but +the Pater, well, no I don’t think he would +have been able to bear up.”</p> + +<p>So Aunt Cissie slept with Granny. +And she hated it. She said <i>she</i> could +never sleep. And she grew greyer and +greyer, and the food in the house got +worse, and Aunt Cissie had to have an +operation.</p> + +<p>But the Mater rose as ever, towards +noon, and at the midday meal, she presided +from her arm-chair, with her stomach +protruding; her reddish, pendulous face, +that had a sort of horrible majesty, +dropping soft under the wall of her high +brow, and her blue eyes peering unseeing. +Her white hair was getting scanty, it was +altogether a little indecent. But the rector +jovially cracked his jokes to her, and she +pretended to disapprove. But she was +perfectly complacent, sitting in her ancient +obesity, and after meals, getting the wind +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>from her stomach, pressing her bosom +with her hand as she “rifted” in gross +physical complacency.</p> + +<p>What the girls minded most was that, +when they brought their young friends to +the house, Granny always was there, like +some awful idol of old flesh, consuming +all the attention. There was only the one +room for everybody. And there sat the +old lady, with Aunt Cissie keeping an +acrid guard over her. Everybody must +be presented first to Granny: she was +ready to be genial, she liked company. +She had to know who everybody was, +where they came from, every circumstance +of their lives. And then, when she was +<i lang="fr">au fait</i>, she could get hold of the conversation.</p> + +<p>Nothing could be more exasperating to +the girls. “Isn’t old Mrs. Saywell wonderful! +She takes <i>such</i> an interest in life, +at nearly ninety!”</p> + +<p>“She does take an interest in people’s +affairs, if that’s life,” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>Then she would immediately feel guilty. +After all, it <i>was</i> wonderful to be nearly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>ninety, and have such a clear mind! And +Granny never <i>actually</i> did anybody any +harm. It was more that she was in the +way. And perhaps it was rather awful +to hate somebody because they were old +and in the way.</p> + +<p>Yvette immediately repented, and was +nice. Granny blossomed forth into reminiscences +of when she was a girl, in the +little town in Buckinghamshire. She +talked and talked away, and was <i>so</i> +entertaining. She really <i>was</i> rather +wonderful.</p> + +<p>Then in the afternoon Lottie and Ella +and Bob Framley came, with Leo Wetherell.</p> + +<p>“Oh, come in!”—and in they all +trooped to the sitting-room, where Granny, +in her white cap, sat by the fire.</p> + +<p>“Granny, this is Mr. Wetherell.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. What-did-you-say? You must +excuse me, I’m a little deaf!”</p> + +<p>Granny gave her hand to the uncomfortable +young man, and gazed silently at +him, sightlessly.</p> + +<p>“You are not from our parish?” she +asked him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> + +<p>“Dinnington!” he shouted.</p> + +<p>“We want to go a picnic tomorrow, to +Bonsall Head, in Leo’s car. We can all +squeeze in,” said Ella, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“Did you say Bonsall Head?” asked +Granny.</p> + +<p>“Yes!”</p> + +<p>There was a blank silence.</p> + +<p>“Did you say you were going in a car?”</p> + +<p>“Yes! In Mr. Wetherell’s.”</p> + +<p>“I hope he’s a good driver. It’s a very +dangerous road.”</p> + +<p>“He’s a <i>very</i> good driver.”</p> + +<p>“Not a very good driver?”</p> + +<p>“Yes! He <i>is</i> a very good driver.”</p> + +<p>“If you go to Bonsall Head, I think I +must send a message to Lady Louth.”</p> + +<p>Granny always dragged in this miserable +Lady Louth, when there was company.</p> + +<p>“Oh, we shan’t go that way,” cried +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“Which way?” said Granny. “You +must go by Heanor.”</p> + +<p>The whole party sat, as Bob expressed it, +like stuffed ducks, fidgeting on their +chairs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie came in—and then the maid +with the tea. There was the eternal and +everlasting piece of bought cake. Then +appeared a plate of little fresh cakes. +Aunt Cissie had actually sent to the baker’s.</p> + +<p>“Tea, Mater!”</p> + +<p>The old lady gripped the arms of her +chair. Everybody rose and stood, while +she waded slowly across, on Aunt Cissie’s +arm, to her place at table.</p> + +<p>During tea Lucille came in from town, +from her job. She was simply worn out, +with black marks under her eyes. She +gave a cry, seeing all the company.</p> + +<p>As soon as the noise had subsided, and +the awkwardness was resumed, Granny +said:</p> + +<p>“You have never mentioned Mr. Wetherell +to me, have you, Lucille?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember,” said Lucille.</p> + +<p>“You can’t have done. The name is +strange to me.”</p> + +<p>Yvette absently grabbed another cake, +from the now almost empty plate. Aunt +Cissie, who was driven almost crazy by +Yvette’s vague and inconsiderate ways, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>felt the green rage fuse in her heart. She +picked up her own plate, on which was +the one cake she allowed herself, and said +with vitriolic politeness, offering it to +Yvette:</p> + +<p>“Won’t you have mine?”</p> + +<p>“Oh thanks!” said Yvette, starting in +her angry vagueness. And with an appearance +of the same insouciance, she +helped herself to Aunt Cissie’s cake also, +adding as an afterthought: “If you’re +sure you don’t want it.”</p> + +<p>She now had two cakes on her plate. +Lucille had gone white as a ghost, bending +to her tea. Aunt Cissie sat with a green +look of poisonous resignation. The awkwardness +was an agony.</p> + +<p>But Granny, bulkily enthroned and +unaware, only said, in the centre of the +cyclone:</p> + +<p>“If you are motoring to Bonsall Head +tomorrow, Lucille, I wish you would take +a message from me to Lady Louth.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Lucille, giving a queer +look across the table at the sightless old +woman. Lady Louth was the King +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>Charles’ Head of the family, invariably +produced by Granny for the benefit of +visitors. “Very well!”</p> + +<p>“She was so very kind last week. She +sent her chauffeur over with a Cross-word +Puzzle book for me.”</p> + +<p>“But you thanked her then,” cried +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“I should like to send her a note.”</p> + +<p>“We can post it,” cried Lucille.</p> + +<p>“Oh no! I should like you to take it. +When Lady Louth called last time....”</p> + +<p>The young ones sat like a shoal of young +fishes dumbly mouthing at the surface of +the water, while Granny went on about +Lady Louth. Aunt Cissie, the two girls +knew, was still helpless, almost unconscious +in a paroxysm of rage about the +cake. Perhaps, poor thing, she was +praying.</p> + +<p>It was a mercy when the friends departed. +But by that time the two girls +were both haggard-eyed. And it was then +that Yvette, looking round, suddenly saw +the stony, implacable will-to-power in the +old and motherly-seeming Granny. She +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>sat there bulging backwards in her chair, +impassive, her reddish, pendulous old face +rather mottled, almost unconscious, but +implacable, her face like a mask that hid +something stony, relentless. It was the +static inertia of her unsavoury power. +Yet in a minute she would open her +ancient mouth to find out every detail +about Leo Wetherell. For the moment +she was hibernating in her oldness, her +agedness. But in a minute her mouth +would open, her mind would flicker awake +and with her insatiable greed for life, +other people’s life, she would start on her +quest for every detail. She was like the +old toad which Yvette had watched, fascinated, +as it sat on the ledge of the beehive, +immediately in front of the little +entrance by which the bees emerged, and +which, with a demonish lightning-like +snap of its pursed jaws, caught every bee +as it came out to launch into the air, +swallowed them one after the other, as if +it could consume the whole hive-full, into +its aged, bulging, purse-like wrinkledness. +It had been swallowing bees as they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>launched into the air of spring, year after +year, year after year, for generations.</p> + +<p>But the gardener, called by Yvette, was +in a rage, and killed the creature with +a stone.</p> + +<p>“’Appen tha <i>art</i> good for th’ snails,” he +said, as he came down with the stone. +“But tha ’rt none goin’ ter emp’y th’ +bee-’ive into thy guts.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="III"> + III + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The next day was dull and low, and the +roads were awful, for it had been raining +for weeks, yet the young ones set off on +their trip, without taking Granny’s message +either. They just slipped out while she +was making her slow trip upstairs after +lunch. Not for anything would they have +called at Lady Louth’s house. That widow +of a knighted doctor, a harmless person indeed, +had become an obnoxity in their lives.</p> + +<p>Six young rebels, they sat very perkily +in the car as they swished through the +mud. Yet they had a peaked look too. +After all, they had nothing really to rebel +against, any of them. They were left so +very free in their movements. Their +parents let them do almost entirely as +they liked. There wasn’t really a fetter +to break, nor a prison-bar to file through, +nor a bolt to shatter. The keys of their +lives were in their own hands. And there +they dangled inert.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> + +<p>It is very much easier to shatter prison +bars than to open undiscovered doors to +life. As the younger generation finds out +somewhat to its chagrin. True, there was +Granny. But poor old Granny, you +couldn’t actually say to her: “Lie down +and die, you old woman!” She might +be an old nuisance, but she never really +<i>did</i> anything. It wasn’t fair to hate her.</p> + +<p>So the young people set off on their +jaunt, trying to be very full of beans. +They could really do as they liked. And +so, of course, there was nothing to do +but sit in the car and talk a lot of criticism +of other people, and silly flirty gallantry +that was really rather a bore. If there +had only been a few “strict orders” to be +disobeyed! But nothing: beyond the +refusal to carry the message to Lady Louth, +of which the rector would approve because +he didn’t encourage King Charles’ Head +either.</p> + +<p>They sang, rather scrappily, the latest +would-be comic songs, as they went through +the grim villages. In the great park the +deer were in groups near the road, roe +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>deer and fallow, nestling in the gloom of +the afternoon under the oaks by the road, +as if for the stimulus of human company.</p> + +<p>Yvette insisted on stopping and getting +out to talk to them. The girls, in their +Russian boots, tramped through the damp +grass, while the deer watched them with +big, unfrightened eyes. The hart trotted +away mildly, holding back his head, +because of the weight of the horns. But +the doe, balancing her big ears, did not +rise from under the tree, with her half-grown +young ones, till the girls were +almost in touch. Then she walked light-foot +away, lifting her tail from her spotted +flanks, while the young ones nimbly +trotted.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t they awfully dainty and nice!” +cried Yvette. “You’d wonder they could +lie so cosily in this horrid wet grass.”</p> + +<p>“Well I suppose they’ve got to lie down +<i>sometime</i>,” said Lucille. “And it’s <i>fairly</i> +dry under the tree.” She looked at the +crushed grass, where the deer had lain.</p> + +<p>Yvette went and put her hand down, to +feel how it felt.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes!” she said doubtfully, “I believe +it’s a bit warm.”</p> + +<p>The deer had bunched again a few +yards away, and were standing motionless +in the gloom of the afternoon. Away +below the slopes of grass and trees, beyond +the swift river with its balustraded bridge, +sat the huge ducal house, one or two +chimneys smoking bluely. Behind it rose +purplish woods.</p> + +<p>The girls, pushing their fur collars up +to their ears, dangling one long arm, +stood watching in silence, their wide Russian +boots protecting them from the wet +grass. The great house squatted square +and creamy-grey below. The deer, in +little groups, were scattered under the +old trees close by. It all seemed so still, +so unpretentious, and so sad.</p> + +<p>“I wonder where the Duke is now,” +said Ella.</p> + +<p>“Not here, wherever he is,” said Lucille. +“I expect he’s abroad where the sun +shines.”</p> + +<p>The motor horn called from the road, +and they heard Leo’s voice:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p> + +<p>“Come on, boys! If we’re going to +get to the Head and down to Amberdale +for tea, we’d better move.”</p> + +<p>They crowded into the car again, with +chilled feet, and set off through the park, +past the silent spire of the church, out +through the great gates and over the +bridge, on into the wide, damp, stony +village of Woodlinkin, where the river ran. +And thence, for a long time, they stayed +in the mud and dark and dampness of the +valley, often with sheer rock above them; +the water brawling on one hand, the steep +rock or dark trees on the other.</p> + +<p>Till, through the darkness of overhanging +trees, they began to climb, and +Leo changed the gear. Slowly the car +toiled up through the whitey-grey mud, +into the stony village of Bolehill, that hung +on the slope, round the old cross, with its +steps, that stood where the road branched, +on past the cottages whence came a +wonderful smell of hot tea-cakes, and +beyond, still upwards, under dripping +trees and past broken slopes of bracken, +always climbing. Until the cleft became +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>shallower, and the trees finished, and the +slopes on either side were bare, gloomy +grass, with low dry-stone walls. They +were emerging on to the Head.</p> + +<p>The party had been silent for some time. +On either side the road was grass, then a +low stone fence, and the swelling curve of +the hill-summit, traced with the low, dry +stone walls. Above this, the low sky.</p> + +<p>The car ran out, under the low, grey +sky, on the naked tops.</p> + +<p>“Shall we stay a moment?” called Leo.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes!” cried the girls.</p> + +<p>And they scrambled out once more, to +look around. They knew the place quite +well. But still, if one came to the Head, +one got out to look.</p> + +<p>The hills were like the knuckles of a +hand, the dales were below, between the +fingers, narrow, steep, and dark. In the +deeps a train was steaming, slowly pulling +north: a small thing of the underworld. +The noise of the engine re-echoed curiously +upwards. Then came the dull, familiar +sound of blasting in a quarry.</p> + +<p>Leo, always on the go, moved quickly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<p>“Shall we be going?” he said. “Do +we <i>want</i> to get down to Amberdale for tea? +Or shall we try somewhere nearer?”</p> + +<p>They all voted for Amberdale, for the +Marquis of Grantham.</p> + +<p>“Well, which way shall we go back? +Shall we go by Codnor and over Crosshill, +or shall we go by Ashbourne?”</p> + +<p>There was the usual dilemma. Then +they finally decided on the Codnor top +road. Off went the car, gallantly.</p> + +<p>They were on the top of the world, now, +on the back of the fist. It was naked, too, +as the back of your fist, high under heaven, +and dull, heavy green. Only it was +veined with a network of old stone walls, +dividing the fields, and broken here and +there with ruins of old lead-mines and +works. A sparse stone farm bristled +with six naked sharp trees. In the distance +was a patch of smoky grey stone, +a hamlet. In some fields grey, dark +sheep fed silently, sombrely. But there +was not a sound nor a movement. It was +the roof of England, stony and arid as +any roof. Beyond, below, were the shires.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p> + +<p>“‘And see the coloured counties,’” +said Yvette to herself. Here anyhow they +were not coloured. A stream of rooks +trailed out from nowhere. They had been +walking, pecking, on a naked field that +had been manured. The car ran on +between the grass and the stone walls of +the upland lane, and the young people +were silent, looking out over the far network +of stone fences, under the sky, looking +for the curves downward that indicated a +drop to one of the underneath, hidden dales.</p> + +<p>Ahead was a light cart, driven by a man, +and trudging along at the side was a +woman, sturdy and elderly, with a pack +on her back. The man in the cart had +caught her up, and now was keeping pace.</p> + +<p>The road was narrow. Leo sounded +the horn sharply. The man on the cart +looked round, but the woman on foot only +trudged steadily, rapidly forward, without +turning her head.</p> + +<p>Yvette’s heart gave a jump. The man +on the cart was a gipsy, one of the black, +loose-bodied, handsome sort. He remained +seated on his cart, turning round +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>and gazing at the occupants of the motor-car, +from under the brim of his cap. And +his pose was loose, his gaze insolent in its +indifference. He had a thin black moustache +under his thin, straight nose, and a +big silk handkerchief of red and yellow +tied round his neck. He spoke a word to +the woman. She stood a second, solid, to +turn round and look at the occupants of +the car, which had now drawn quite close. +Leo honked the horn again, imperiously. +The woman, who had a grey-and-white +kerchief tied round her head, turned +sharply, to keep pace with the cart, whose +driver also had settled back, and was +lifting the reins, moving his loose, light +shoulders. But still he did not pull aside.</p> + +<p>Leo made the horn scream, as he put the +brakes on and the car slowed up near the +back of the cart. The gipsy turned round +at the din, laughing in his dark face under +his dark-green cap, and said something +which they did not hear, showing white +teeth under the line of black moustache, +and making a gesture with his dark, +loose hand.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> + +<p>“Get out o’ the way then!” yelled Leo.</p> + +<p>For answer, the man delicately pulled +the horse to a standstill, as it curved to the +side of the road. It was a good roan horse +and a good, natty, dark-green cart.</p> + +<p>Leo, in a rage, had to jam on the brake +and pull up too.</p> + +<p>“Don’t the pretty young ladies want to +hear their fortunes?” said the gipsy on +the cart, laughing except for his dark, +watchful eyes, which went from face to +face, and lingered on Yvette’s young, +tender face.</p> + +<p>She met his dark eyes for a second, their +level search, their insolence, their complete +indifference to people like Bob and +Leo, and something took fire in her +breast. She thought: “He is stronger +than I am! He doesn’t care!”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes! let’s!” cried Lucille at once.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes!” chorused the girls.</p> + +<p>“I say! What about the time?” +cried Leo.</p> + +<p>“Oh bother the old time! Somebody’s +always dragging in time by the forelock,” +cried Lucille.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, if you don’t mind <i>when</i> we get +back, <i>I</i> don’t!” said Leo heroically.</p> + +<p>The gipsy man had been sitting loosely +on the side of his cart, watching the faces. +He now jumped softly down from the +shaft, his knees a bit stiff. He was apparently +a man something over thirty, and +a beau in his way. He wore a sort of +shooting-jacket, double-breasted, coming +only to the hips, of dark green-and-black +frieze; rather tight black trousers, black +boots, and a dark-green cap; with the +big yellow-and-red bandanna handkerchief +round his neck. His appearance +was curiously elegant, and quite expensive +in its gipsy style. He was handsome, too, +pressing in his chin with the old, gipsy +conceit, and now apparently not heeding +the strangers any more, as he led his good +roan horse off the road, preparing to back +his cart.</p> + +<p>The girls saw for the first time a deep +recess in the side of the road, and two +caravans smoking. Yvette got quickly +down. They had suddenly come upon +a disused quarry, cut into the slope of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>road-side, and in this sudden lair, almost +like a cave, were three caravans, dismantled +for the winter. There was also deep at +the back, a shelter built of boughs, as a +stable for the horse. The grey, crude +rock rose high above the caravans, and +curved round towards the road. The +floor was heaped chips of stone, with +grasses growing among. It was a hidden, +snug winter camp.</p> + +<p>The elderly woman with the pack had +gone into one of the caravans, leaving the +door open. Two children were peeping +out, shewing black heads. The gipsy man +gave a little call, as he backed his cart into +the quarry, and an elderly man came out +to help him untackle.</p> + +<p>The gipsy himself went up the steps into +the newest caravan, that had its door +closed. Underneath, a tied-up dog ranged +forth. It was a white hound spotted liver-coloured. +It gave a low growl as Leo +and Bob approached.</p> + +<p>At the same moment, a dark-faced +gipsy-woman with a pink shawl or kerchief +round her head and big gold ear-rings in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>her ears, came down the steps of the newest +caravan, swinging her flounced, voluminous +green skirt. She was handsome +in a bold, dark, long-faced way, just a bit +wolfish. She looked like one of the bold, +loping Spanish gipsies.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning, my ladies and gentlemen,” +she said, eyeing the girls from her +bold, predative eyes. She spoke with a +certain foreign stiffness.</p> + +<p>“Good afternoon!” said the girls.</p> + +<p>“Which beautiful little lady like to +hear her fortune? Give me her little +hand?”</p> + +<p>She was a tall woman, with a frightening +way of reaching forward her neck like +a menace. Her eyes went from face to +face, very active, heartlessly searching out +what she wanted. Meanwhile the man, +apparently her husband, appeared at the +top of the caravan steps smoking a pipe, +and with a small, black-haired child in his +arms. He stood on his limber legs, casually +looking down on the group, as if from +a distance, his long black lashes lifted from +his full, conceited, impudent black eyes. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>There was something peculiarly transfusing +in his stare. Yvette felt it, felt it in +her knees. She pretended to be interested +in the white-and-liver-coloured hound.</p> + +<p>“How much do you want, if we all have +our fortunes told?” asked Lottie Framley, +as the six fresh-faced young Christians +hung back rather reluctantly from this +pagan pariah woman.</p> + +<p>“All of you? ladies and gentlemen, +all?” said the woman shrewdly.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want mine told! You go +ahead!” cried Leo.</p> + +<p>“Neither do I,” said Bob. “You four +girls.”</p> + +<p>“The four ladies?” said the gipsy +woman, eyeing them shrewdly, after having +looked at the boys. And she fixed her +price. “Each one give me a sheeling, +and a little bit more for luck? a little bit!” +She smiled in a way that was more wolfish +than cajoling, and the force of her will was +felt, heavy as iron beneath the velvet of +her words.</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Leo. “Make it a +shilling a head. Don’t spin it out too long.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, <i>you</i>!” cried Lucille at him. +“We want to hear it <i>all</i>.”</p> + +<p>The woman took two wooden stools, +from under a caravan, and placed them +near the wheel. Then she took the tall, +dark Lottie Framley by the hand, and +bade her sit down.</p> + +<p>“You don’t care if everybody hear?” she +said, looking up curiously into Lottie’s face.</p> + +<p>Lottie blushed dark with nervousness, +as the gipsy woman held her hand, and +stroked her palm with hard, cruel-seeming +fingers.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said.</p> + +<p>The gipsy woman peered into the palm +tracing the lines of the hand with a hard, +dark forefinger. But she seemed clean.</p> + +<p>And slowly she told the fortune, while +the others, standing listening, kept on +crying out: “Oh, that’s Jim Baggaley! +Oh, I don’t believe it! Oh, that’s not +true! A fair woman who lives beneath +a tree! Why, whoever’s that?” until Leo +stopped them with a manly warning:</p> + +<p>“Oh, hold on, girls! You give everything +away.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span></p> + +<p>Lottie retired blushing and confused, +and it was Ella’s turn. She was much +more calm and shrewd, trying to read the +oracular words. Lucille kept breaking out +with: “Oh, I say!” The gipsy man at +the top of the steps stood imperturbable, +without any expression at all. But his +bold eyes kept staring at Yvette, she +could feel them on her cheek, on her neck, +and she dared not look up. But Framley +would sometimes look up at him, and got +a level stare back from the handsome face +of the male gipsy, from the dark conceited +proud eyes. It was a peculiar look, in the +eyes that belonged to the tribe of the +humble: the pride of the pariah, the +half-sneering challenge of the outcast, +who sneered at law-abiding men, and +went his own way. All the time, the +gipsy man stood there, holding his child +in his arms, looking on without being +concerned.</p> + +<p>Lucille was having her hand read—“You +have been across the sea, and there +you met a man—a brown-haired man—but +he was too old——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I <i>say</i>!” cried Lucille, looking +round at Yvette.</p> + +<p>But Yvette was abstracted, agitated, +hardly heeding: in one of her mesmerised +states.</p> + +<p>“You will marry in a few years—not +now, but a few years—perhaps four—and +you will not be rich, but you will have +plenty—enough—and you will go away, +a long journey.”</p> + +<p>“With my husband, or without?” +cried Lucille.</p> + +<p>“With him——.”</p> + +<p>When it came to Yvette’s turn, and the +woman looked up boldly, cruelly, searching +for a long time in her face, Yvette said +nervously:</p> + +<p>“I don’t think I want mine told. No, +I won’t have mine told! No I won’t, +really!”</p> + +<p>“You are afraid of something?” said +the gipsy woman cruelly.</p> + +<p>“No, it’s not that——” Yvette fidgeted.</p> + +<p>“You have some secret? You are +afraid I shall say it? Come, would you like +to go in the caravan, where nobody hears?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + +<p>The woman was curiously insinuating; +while Yvette was always wayward, perverse. +The look of perversity was on her +soft, frail young face now, giving her a +queer hardness.</p> + +<p>“Yes!” she said suddenly. “Yes! +I might do that!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I say!” cried the others. “Be a +sport!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you’d <i>better</i>!” cried +Lucille.</p> + +<p>“Yes!” said Yvette, with that hard +little way of hers. “I’ll do that. I’ll go +in the caravan.”</p> + +<p>The gipsy woman called something to +the man on the steps. He went into the +caravan for a moment or two, then reappeared, +and came down the steps, +setting the small child on its uncertain feet, +and holding it by the hand. A dandy, in +his polished black boots, tight black +trousers and tight dark-green jersey, he +walked slowly across with the toddling +child to where the elderly gipsy was +giving the roan horse a feed of oats, in +the bough shelter between pits of grey +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>rock, with dry bracken upon the stone +chip floor. He looked at Yvette as he +passed, staring her full in the eyes, with +his pariah’s bold yet dishonest stare. +Something hard inside her met his stare. +But the surface of her body seemed to +turn to water. Nevertheless, something +hard in her registered the peculiar pure +lines of his face, of his straight, pure nose, +of his cheeks and temples. The curious +dark, suave purity of all his body, outlined +in the green jersey: a purity like a living +sneer.</p> + +<p>And as he loped slowly past her, on his +flexible hips, it seemed to her still that he +was stronger than she was. Of all the men +she had ever seen, this one was the only +one who was stronger than she was, in her +own kind of strength, her own kind of +understanding.</p> + +<p>So, with curiosity, she followed the +woman up the steps of the caravan, the +skirts of her well-cut tan coat swinging +and almost showing her knees, under the +pale-green cloth dress. She had long, +long-striding, fine legs, too slim rather +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>than too thick, and she wore curiously-patterned +pale-and-fawn stockings of fine +wool, suggesting the legs of some delicate +animal.</p> + +<p>At the top of the steps she paused and +turned, debonair, to the others, saying in +her naïve, lordly way, so off-hand:</p> + +<p>“I won’t let her be long.”</p> + +<p>Her grey fur collar was open, showing +her soft throat and pale green dress, her +little plaited tan-coloured hat came down +to her ears, round her soft, fresh face. +There was something soft and yet overbearing, +unscrupulous, about her. She +knew the gipsy man had turned to look +at her. She was aware of the pure dark +nape of his neck, the black hair groomed +away. He watched as she entered his house.</p> + +<p>What the gipsy told her, no one ever +knew. It was a long time to wait, the +others felt. Twilight was deepening on +the gloom, and it was turning raw and +cold. From the chimney on the second +caravan came smoke and a smell of rich +food. The horse was fed, a yellow blanket +strapped round him, and two gipsy men +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>talked together in the distance, in low +tones. There was a peculiar feeling of +silence and secrecy in that lonely, hidden +quarry.</p> + +<p>At last the caravan door opened, and +Yvette emerged, bending forward and +stepping with long, witch-like slim legs +down the steps. There was a stooping, +witch-like silence about her as she emerged +on the twilight.</p> + +<p>“Did it seem long?” she said vaguely, +not looking at anybody and keeping her +own counsel hard within her soft, vague +waywardness. “I hope you weren’t +bored! Wouldn’t tea be nice! Shall +we go?”</p> + +<p>“You get in!” said Bob. “I’ll pay.”</p> + +<p>The gipsy-woman’s full, metallic skirts +of jade-green alpaca came swinging down +the steps. She rose to her height, a big, +triumphant-looking woman with a dark-wolf +face. The pink cashmere kerchief +stamped with red roses, was slipping to +one side over her black and crimped hair. +She gazed at the young people in the +twilight with bold arrogance.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span></p> + +<p>Bob put two half-crowns in her hand.</p> + +<p>“A little bit more, for luck, for your +young lady’s luck,” she wheedled, like a +wheedling wolf. “Another bit of silver, +to bring you luck.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve got a shilling for luck, that’s +enough,” said Bob calmly and quietly, +as they moved away to the car.</p> + +<p>“A little bit of silver! Just a little bit, +for your luck in love!”</p> + +<p>Yvette, with the sudden long, startling +gestures of her long limbs, swung round +as she was entering the car, and with long +arm outstretched, strode and put something +into the gipsy’s hand, then stepped, bending +her height, into the car.</p> + +<p>“Prosperity to the beautiful young +lady, and the gipsy’s blessing on her,” +came the suggestive, half-sneering voice +of the woman.</p> + +<p>The engine <i>birred!</i> then <i>birred!</i> again +more fiercely, and started. Leo switched +on the lights, and immediately the quarry +with the gipsies fell back into the blackness +of night.</p> + +<p>“Goodnight!” called Yvette’s voice, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>as the car started. But hers was the only +voice that piped up, chirpy and impudent +in its nonchalance. The headlights glared +down the stone lane.</p> + +<p>“Yvette, you’ve got to tell us what she +said to you,” cried Lucille, in the teeth of +Yvette’s silent will <i>not</i> to be asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing at <i>all</i> thrilling,” said +Yvette, with false warmth. “Just the +usual old thing: a dark man who means +good luck, and a fair one who means bad: +and a death in the family, which if it means +Granny, won’t be so <i>very</i> awful: and I +shall marry when I’m twenty-three, and +have heaps of money and heaps of love, +and two children. All sounds very nice, +but it’s a bit too much of a good thing, +you know.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but why did you give her more +money?”</p> + +<p>“Oh well, I wanted to! You <i>have</i> to +be a bit lordly with people like that——.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="IV"> + IV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>There was a terrific rumpus down at the +rectory, on account of Yvette and the +Window Fund. After the war, Aunt +Cissie had set her heart on a stained glass +window in the church, as a memorial for +the men of the parish who had fallen. +But the bulk of the fallen had been non-conformists, +so the memorial took the +form of an ugly little monument in front +of the Wesleyan chapel.</p> + +<p>This did not vanquish Aunt Cissie. +She canvassed, she had bazaars, she made +the girls get up amateur theatrical shows, +for her precious window. Yvette, who +quite liked the acting and showing-off part +of it, took charge of the farce called +<i>Mary in the Mirror</i>, and gathered in the +proceeds, which were to be paid to the +Window Fund when accounts were settled. +Each of the girls was supposed to have a +money-box for the Fund.</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie, feeling that the united +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>sums must now almost suffice, suddenly +called in Yvette’s box. It contained fifteen +shillings. There was a moment of green +horror.</p> + +<p>“Where is all the rest?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Yvette casually. “I just +borrowed it. It wasn’t so awfully much.”</p> + +<p>“What about the three pounds thirteen +for <i>Mary in the Mirror</i>?” asked Aunt +Cissie, as if the jaws of Hell were +yawning.</p> + +<p>“Oh quite! I just borrowed it. I can +pay it back.”</p> + +<p>Poor Aunt Cissie! The green tumour +of hate burst inside her, and there was a +ghastly, abnormal scene, which left Yvette +shivering with fear and nervous loathing.</p> + +<p>Even the rector was rather severe.</p> + +<p>“If you needed money, why didn’t you +tell me?” he said coldly. “Have you +ever been refused anything in reason?”</p> + +<p>“I—I thought it didn’t matter,” stammered +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“And what have you done with the +money?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I’ve spent it,” said Yvette, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>with wide distraught eyes and a peaked +face.</p> + +<p>“Spent it, on what?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t remember everything: stockings +and things, and I gave some of it +away.”</p> + +<p>Poor Yvette! Her lordly airs and ways +were already hitting back at her, on the +reflex. The rector was angry: his face +had a snarling, doggish look, a sort of +sneer. He was afraid his daughter was +developing some of the rank, tainted +qualities of She-who-was-Cynthia.</p> + +<p>“You <i>would</i> do the large with somebody +else’s money, wouldn’t you?” he said, +with a cold, mongrel sort of sneer, which +showed what an utter unbeliever he was, +at the heart. The inferiority of a heart +which has no core of warm belief in it, no +pride in life. He had utterly no belief +in her.</p> + +<p>Yvette went pale, and very distant. +Her pride, that frail, precious flame which +everybody tried to quench, recoiled like a +flame blown far away, on a cold wind, as +if blown out, and her face, white now and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>still like a snowdrop, the white snow-flower +of his conceit, seemed to have no +life in it, only this pure, strange abstraction.</p> + +<p>“He has no belief in me!” she thought +in her soul. “I am really nothing to him. +I am nothing, only a shameful thing. +Everything is shameful, everything is +shameful!”</p> + +<p>A flame of passion or rage, while it +might have overwhelmed or infuriated her, +would not have degraded her as did her +father’s unbelief, his final attitude of a +sneer against her.</p> + +<p>He became a little afraid, in the silence +of sterile thought. After all, he needed +the <i>appearance</i> of love and belief and bright +life, he would never dare to face the fat +worm of his own unbelief, that stirred in +his heart.</p> + +<p>“What have you to say for yourself?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>She only looked at him from that senseless +snowdrop face which haunted him +with fear, and gave him a helpless sense +of guilt. That other one, She-who-was-Cynthia, +she had looked back at him with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>the same numb, white fear, the fear of his +degrading unbelief, the worm which was +his heart’s core. He <i>knew</i> his heart’s core +was a fat, awful worm. His dread was +lest anyone else should know. His anguish +of hate was against anyone who knew, and +recoiled.</p> + +<p>He saw Yvette recoiling, and immediately +his manner changed to the worldly old +good-humoured cynic which he affected.</p> + +<p>“Ah well!” he said. “You have to +pay it back, my girl, that’s all. I will +advance you the money out of your allowance. +But I shall charge you four per cent. +a month’s interest. Even the devil himself +must pay a percentage on his debts. +Another time, if you can’t trust yourself, +don’t handle money which isn’t your own. +Dishonesty isn’t pretty.”</p> + +<p>Yvette remained crushed, and deflowered +and humiliated. She crept about, trailing +the rays of her pride. She had a revulsion +even from herself. Oh, why had she ever +touched the leprous money! Her whole +flesh shrank as if it were defiled. Why +was that? Why, why was that?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>She admitted herself wrong in having +spent the money. “Of course I shouldn’t +have done it. They are quite right to be +angry,” she said to herself.</p> + +<p>But where did the horrible wincing of +her flesh come from? Why did she feel +she had caught some physical contagion?</p> + +<p>“Where you’re so <i>silly</i>, Yvette,” Lucille +lectured her: poor Lucille was in great +distress—“is that you give yourself away +to them all. You might <i>know</i> they’d find +out. I could have raised the money for +you, and saved all this bother. It’s perfectly +awful! But you never will think +beforehand where your actions are going +to land you! Fancy Aunt Cissie saying +all those things to you! How <i>awful</i>! +Whatever would Mamma have said, if +she’d heard it?”</p> + +<p>When things went very wrong, they +thought of their mother, and despised +their father and all the low brood of the +Saywells. Their mother, of course, had +belonged to a higher, if more dangerous +and “immoral” world. More selfish, +decidedly. But with a showier gesture. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>More unscrupulous and more easily moved +to contempt: but not so humiliating.</p> + +<p>Yvette always considered that she got +her fine, delicate flesh from her mother. +The Saywells were all a bit leathery, and +grubby somewhere inside. But then the +Saywells never let you down. Whereas +the fine She-who-was-Cynthia had let the +rector down with a bang, and his little +children along with him. Her little children! +They could not quite forgive her.</p> + +<p>Only dimly, after the row, Yvette began +to realise the other sanctity of herself, the +sanctity of her sensitive, clean flesh and +blood, which the Saywells with their so-called +morality succeeded in defiling. +They always wanted to defile it. They +were the life unbelievers. Whereas, perhaps +She-who-was-Cynthia had only been +a moral unbeliever.</p> + +<p>Yvette went about dazed and peaked +and confused. The rector paid in the +money to Aunt Cissie, much to that lady’s +rage. The helpless tumour of her rage +was still running. She would have liked +to announce her niece’s delinquency in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>parish magazine. It was anguish to the +destroyed woman that she could not +publish the news to all the world. The +selfishness! The selfishness! The selfishness!</p> + +<p>Then the rector handed his daughter a +little account with himself: her debt to +him, interest thereon, the amount deducted +from her small allowance. But +to her credit he had placed a guinea, +which was the fee he had to pay for +complicity.</p> + +<p>“As father of the culprit,” he said +humorously, “I am fined one guinea. +And with that I wash the ashes out of +my hair.”</p> + +<p>He was always generous about money. +But somehow, he seemed to think that by +being free about money he could absolutely +call himself a generous man. +Whereas he used money, even generosity, +as a hold over her.</p> + +<p>But he let the affair drop entirely. He +was by this time more amused than anything, +to judge from appearances. He +thought still he was safe.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie, however, could not get +over her convulsion. One night when +Yvette had gone rather early, miserably, +to bed, when Lucille was away at a party, +and she was lying with soft, peaked limbs +aching with a sort of numbness and defilement, +the door softly opened, and there +stood Aunt Cissie, pushing her grey-green +face through the opening of the door. +Yvette started up in terror.</p> + +<p>“Liar! Thief! Selfish little beast!” +hissed the maniacal face of Aunt Cissie. +“You little hypocrite! You liar! +You selfish beast! You greedy little +beast!”</p> + +<p>There was such extraordinary impersonal +hatred in that grey-green mask, and those +frantic words, that Yvette opened her +mouth to scream with hysterics. But +Aunt Cissie shut the door as suddenly as +she had opened it, and disappeared. +Yvette leaped from her bed and turned the +key. Then she crept back, half demented +with fear of the squalid abnormal, half +numbed with paralysis of damaged pride. +And amid it all, up came a bubble of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>distracted laughter. It <i>was</i> so filthily +ridiculous!</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie’s behaviour did not hurt the +girl so very much. It was after all somewhat +fantastic. Yet hurt she was: in her +limbs, in her body, in her sex, hurt. Hurt, +numbed, and half destroyed, with only +her nerves vibrating and jangled. And +still so young, she could not conceive +what was happening.</p> + +<p>Only she lay and wished she were a +gipsy. To live in a camp, in a caravan, +and never set foot in a house, not know +the existence of a parish, never look at a +church. Her heart was hard with repugnance +against the rectory. She loathed +these houses with their indoor sanitation +and their bathrooms, and their extraordinary +repulsiveness. She hated the +rectory, and everything it implied. The +whole stagnant, sewerage sort of life, where +sewerage is never mentioned, but where +it seems to smell from the centre to every +two-legged inmate, from Granny to the +servants, was foul. If gipsies had no bathrooms, +at least they had no sewerage. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>There was fresh air. In the rectory there +was <i>never</i> fresh air. And in the souls of +the people, the air was stale till it stank.</p> + +<p>Hate kindled her heart, as she lay with +numbed limbs. And she thought of the +words of the gipsy woman: “There is a +dark man who never lived in a house. He +loves you. The other people are treading +on your heart. They will tread on your +heart till you think it is dead. But the +dark man will blow the one spark up into +fire again, good fire. You will see what +good fire.”</p> + +<p>Even as the woman was saying it, +Yvette felt there was some duplicity somewhere. +But she didn’t mind. She hated +with the cold, acrid hatred of a child the +rectory interior, the sort of putridity in the +life. She liked that big, swarthy, wolf-like +gipsy-woman, with the big gold rings in +her ears, the pink scarf over her wavy +black hair, the tight bodice of brown +velvet, the green, fan-like skirt. She liked +her dusky, strong, relentless hands, that +had pressed so firm, like wolf’s paws, in +Yvette’s own soft palm. She liked her. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>She liked the danger and the covert fearlessness +of her. She liked her covert, unyielding +sex, that was immoral, but with +a hard, defiant pride of its own. Nothing +would ever get that woman under. She +would despise the rectory and the rectory +morality, utterly! She would strangle +Granny with one hand. And she would +have the same contempt for Daddy and +for Uncle Fred, as men, as she would have +for fat old slobbery Rover, the Newfoundland +dog. A great, sardonic female contempt, +for such domesticated dogs, calling +themselves men.</p> + +<p>And the gipsy man himself! Yvette +quivered suddenly, as if she had seen his +big, bold eyes upon her, with the naked +insinuation of desire in them. The absolutely +naked insinuation of desire made +her lie prone and powerless in the bed, as +if a drug had cast her in a new, molten +mould.</p> + +<p>She never confessed to anybody that two +of the ill-starred Window Fund pounds +had gone to the gipsy woman. What if +Daddy and Aunt Cissie knew <i>that</i>! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>Yvette stirred luxuriously in the bed. The +thought of the gipsy had released the life +of her limbs, and crystallised in her heart +the hate of the rectory: so that now she +felt potent, instead of impotent.</p> + +<p>When, later, Yvette told Lucille about +Aunt Cissie’s dramatic interlude in the +bedroom doorway, Lucille was indignant.</p> + +<p>“Oh, hang it all!” cried she. “She +might let it drop now. I should think +we’ve heard enough about it by now! +Good heavens, you’d think Aunt Cissie +was a perfect bird of paradise! Daddy’s +dropped it, and after all, it’s his business +if it’s anybody’s. Let Aunt Cissie shut +up!”</p> + +<p>It was the very fact that the rector had +dropped it, and that he again treated the +vague and inconsiderate Yvette as if she +were some specially-licensed being, that +kept Aunt Cissie’s bile flowing. The fact +that Yvette really was most of the time +unaware of other people’s feelings, and +being unaware, couldn’t care about them, +nearly sent Aunt Cissie mad. Why should +that young creature, with a delinquent +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>mother, go through life as a privileged +being, even unaware of other people’s existence, +though they were under her nose?</p> + +<p>Lucille at this time was very irritable. +She seemed as if she simply went a little +unbalanced, when she entered the rectory. +Poor Lucille, she was so thoughtful and +responsible. She did all the extra troubling, +thought about doctors, medicines, +servants, and all that sort of thing. She +slaved conscientiously at her job all day +in town, working in a room with artificial +light from ten till five. And she came +home to have her nerves rubbed almost +to frenzy by Granny’s horrible and persistent +inquisitiveness and parasitic agedness.</p> + +<p>The affair of the Window Fund had +apparently blown over, but there remained +a stuffy tension in the atmosphere. The +weather continued bad. Lucille stayed at +home on the afternoon of her half holiday, +and did herself no good by it. The rector +was in his study, she and Yvette were +making a dress for the latter young woman, +Granny was resting on the couch.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p> + +<p>The dress was of blue silk velours, +French material, and was going to be very +becoming. Lucille made Yvette try it on +again: she was nervously uneasy about +the hang, under the arms.</p> + +<p>“Oh bother!” cried Yvette, stretching +her long, tender, childish arms, that +tended to go bluish with the cold. “Don’t +be so frightfully <i>fussy</i>, Lucille! It’s quite +all right.”</p> + +<p>“If that’s all the thanks I get, slaving +my half-day away making dresses for you, +I might as well do something for myself!”</p> + +<p>“Well, Lucille! You know I never +<i>asked</i> you! You know you can’t bear it +unless you <i>do</i> supervise,” said Yvette, with +that irritating blandness of hers, as she +raised her naked elbows and peered over +her shoulder into the long mirror.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes! you never <i>asked</i> me!” cried +Lucille. “As if I didn’t know what you +meant, when you started sighing and +flouncing about.”</p> + +<p>“I!” said Yvette, with vague surprise. +“Why, when did I start sighing and +flouncing about?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> + +<p>“Of course you know you did.”</p> + +<p>“Did I? No, I didn’t know! When +was it?” Yvette could put a peculiar +annoyance into her mild, straying questions.</p> + +<p>“I shan’t do another thing to this +frock, if you don’t stand still and <i>stop</i> it,” +said Lucille, in her rather sonorous, burning +voice.</p> + +<p>“You know you are most awfully +nagging and irritable, Lucille,” said Yvette, +standing as if on hot bricks.</p> + +<p>“Now Yvette!” cried Lucille, her eyes +suddenly flashing in her sister’s face, with +wild flashes. “Stop it at once! Why +should everybody put up with your abominable +and overbearing temper?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know about <i>my</i> temper,” +said Yvette, writhing slowly out of the +half-made frock, and slipping into her +dress again.</p> + +<p>Then, with an obstinate little look on +her face, she sat down again at the table, +in the gloomy afternoon, and began to +sew at the blue stuff. The room was +littered with blue clippings, the scissors +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>were lying on the floor, the workbasket +was spilled in chaos all over the table, +and a second mirror was perched perilously +on the piano.</p> + +<p>Granny, who had been in a semi-coma, +called a doze, roused herself on the big, +soft couch and put her cap straight.</p> + +<p>“I don’t get much peace for my nap,” +she said, slowly feeling her thin white hair, +to see that it was in order. She had heard +vague noises.</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie came in, fumbling in a bag +for a chocolate.</p> + +<p>“I never saw such a mess!” she said. +“You’d better clear some of that litter +away, Yvette.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Yvette. “I will in +a minute.”</p> + +<p>“Which means never!” sneered Aunt +Cissie, suddenly darting and picking up +the scissors.</p> + +<p>There was silence for a few moments, +and Lucille slowly pushed her hands in +her hair, as she read a book.</p> + +<p>“You’d better clear away, Yvette,” +persisted Aunt Cissie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p> + +<p>“I will, before tea,” replied Yvette, +rising once more and pulling the blue dress +over her head, flourishing her long, naked +arms through the sleeveless armholes. +Then she went between the mirrors, to +look at herself once more.</p> + +<p>As she did so, she sent the second mirror, +that she had perched carelessly on the +piano, sliding with a rattle to the floor. +Luckily it did not break. But everybody +started badly.</p> + +<p>“She’s smashed the mirror!” cried +Aunt Cissie.</p> + +<p>“Smashed a mirror! Which mirror! +Who’s smashed it?” came Granny’s sharp +voice.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t smashed anything,” came +the calm voice of Yvette. “It’s quite all +right.”</p> + +<p>“You’d better not perch it up there +again,” said Lucille.</p> + +<p>Yvette, with a little impatient shrug at +all the fuss, tried making the mirror stand +in another place. She was not successful.</p> + +<p>“If one had a fire in one’s own room,” +she said crossly, “one needn’t have a lot +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>of people fussing when one wants to +sew.”</p> + +<p>“Which mirror are you moving about?” +asked Granny.</p> + +<p>“One of our own that came from the +vicarage,” said Yvette rudely.</p> + +<p>“Don’t break it in <i>this</i> house, wherever +it came from,” said Granny.</p> + +<p>There was a sort of family dislike for +the furniture that had belonged to She-who-was-Cynthia. +It was most of it +shoved into the kitchen, and the servants’ +bedrooms.</p> + +<p>“Oh, <i>I’m</i> not superstitious,” said Yvette, +“about mirrors or any of that sort of +thing.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you’re not,” said Granny. +“People who never take the responsibility +for their own actions usually don’t care +what happens.”</p> + +<p>“After all,” said Yvette, “I may say +it’s my own looking-glass, even if I did +break it.”</p> + +<p>“And I say,” said Granny, “that there +shall be no mirrors broken in <i>this</i> house, if +we can help it; no matter who they belong +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>to, or did belong to. Cissie, have I got +my cap straight?”</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie went over and straightened +the old lady. Yvette loudly and irritatingly +trilled a tuneless tune.</p> + +<p>“And now, Yvette, will you please clear +away?” said Aunt Cissie.</p> + +<p>“Oh bother!” cried Yvette angrily. +“It’s simply <i>awful</i> to live with a lot of +people who are always nagging and fussing +over trifles.”</p> + +<p>“What people, may I ask?” said Aunt +Cissie ominously.</p> + +<p>Another row was imminent. Lucille +looked up with a queer cast in her eyes. +In the two girls, the blood of She-who-was-Cynthia +was roused.</p> + +<p>“Of course you may ask! You know +quite well I mean the people in this +beastly house,” said the outrageous +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“At least,” said Granny, “we don’t +come of half-depraved stock.”</p> + +<p>There was a second’s electric pause. +Then Lucille sprang from her low seat, +with sparks flying from her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> + +<p>“You shut up!” she shouted, in a blast +full upon the mottled majesty of the old +lady.</p> + +<p>The old woman’s breast began to heave +with heaven knows what emotions. The +pause this time, as after the thunderbolt, +was icy.</p> + +<p>Then Aunt Cissie, livid, sprang upon +Lucille, pushing her like a fury.</p> + +<p>“Go to your room!” she cried hoarsely. +“Go to your room!”</p> + +<p>And she proceeded to push the white +but fiery-eyed Lucille from the room. +Lucille let herself be pushed, while Aunt +Cissie vociferated:</p> + +<p>“Stay in your room till you’ve apologised +for this!—till you’ve apologised to +the Mater for this!”</p> + +<p>“I shan’t apologise!” came the clear +voice of Lucille, from the passage, while +Aunt Cissie shoved her.</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie drove her more wildly +upstairs.</p> + +<p>Yvette stood tall and bemused in the +sitting-room, with the air of offended +dignity, at the same time bemused, which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>was so odd on her. She still was bare-armed, +in the half-made blue dress. And +even <i>she</i> was half-aghast at Lucille’s attack +on the majesty of age. But also, she was +coldly indignant against Granny’s aspersion +of the maternal blood in their veins.</p> + +<p>“Of course I meant no offence,” said +Granny.</p> + +<p>“Didn’t you?” said Yvette coolly.</p> + +<p>“Of course not. I only said we’re not +depraved, just because we happen to be +superstitious about breaking mirrors.”</p> + +<p>Yvette could hardly believe her ears. +Had she heard right? Was it possible! +Or was Granny, at her age, just telling a +barefaced lie?</p> + +<p>Yvette knew that the old woman was +telling a cool, barefaced lie. But already, +so quickly, Granny believed her own +statement.</p> + +<p>The rector appeared, having left time +for a lull.</p> + +<p>“What’s wrong?” he asked cautiously, +genially.</p> + +<p>“Oh nothing!” drawled Yvette. +“Lucille told Granny to shut up, when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>she was saying something. And Aunt +Cissie drove her up to her room. <i lang="fr">Tant de +bruit pour une omelette!</i> Though Lucille +<i>was</i> a bit over the mark, that time.”</p> + +<p>The old lady couldn’t quite catch what +Yvette said.</p> + +<p>“Lucille really will have to learn to +control her nerves,” said the old woman. +“The mirror fell down, and it worried me. +I said so to Yvette, and she said something +about superstitions and the people in the +beastly house. I told her the people in +the house were not depraved, if they +happened to mind when a mirror was +broken. And at that Lucille flew at me +and told me to shut up. It really is disgraceful +how these children give way to +their nerves. I know it’s nothing but +nerves.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie had come in during this +speech. At first even she was dumb. +Then it seemed to her, it was as Granny +had said.</p> + +<p>“I have forbidden her to come down +until she comes to apologise to the Mater,” +she said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + +<p>“I doubt if she’ll apologise,” said the +calm, queenly Yvette, holding her bare arms.</p> + +<p>“And I don’t want any apology,” said +the old lady. “It is merely nerves. I +don’t know what they’ll come to, if they +have nerves like that, at their age! She +must take Vibrofat.—I am sure Arthur +would like his tea, Cissie.”</p> + +<p>Yvette swept her sewing together, to go +upstairs. And again she trilled her tune, +rather shrill and tuneless. She was trembling +inwardly.</p> + +<p>“More glad rags!” said her father to +her, genially.</p> + +<p>“More glad rags!” she reiterated +sagely, as she sauntered upstairs, with her +day dress over one arm. She wanted to +console Lucille, and ask her how the blue +stuff hung now.</p> + +<p>At the first landing she stood as she +nearly always did, to gaze through the +window that looked to the road and the +bridge. Like the Lady of Shalott, she +seemed always to imagine that someone +would come along singing <i>Tirra-lirra!</i> or +something equally intelligent, by the river.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="V"> + V + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was nearly tea-time. The snowdrops +were out by the short drive going to the +gate from the side of the house, and the +gardener was pottering at the round, damp +flower-beds, on the wet grass that sloped +to the stream. Past the gate went the +whitish muddy road, crossing the stone +bridge almost immediately, and winding +in a curve up to the steep, clustering, +stony, smoking northern village, that +perched over the grim stone mills which +Yvette could see ahead down the narrow +valley, their tall chimneys long and erect.</p> + +<p>The rectory was on one side the Papple, +in the rather steep valley, the village was +beyond and above, further down, on the +other side the swift stream. At the back +of the rectory the hill went up steep, with +a grove of dark, bare larches, through +which the road disappeared. And immediately +across stream from the rectory, +facing the house, the river-bank rose +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>steep and bushy, up to the sloping, dreary +meadows, that sloped up again to dark +hillsides of trees, with grey rock cropping +out.</p> + +<p>But from the end of the house, Yvette +could only see the road curving round +past the wall with its laurel hedge, down +to the bridge, then up again round the +shoulder to that first hard cluster of houses +in Papplewick village, beyond the dry-stone +walls of the steep fields.</p> + +<p>She always expected <i>something</i> to come +down the slant of the road from Papplewick, +and she always lingered at the +landing window. Often a cart came, or +a motor-car, or a lorry with stone, or a +labourer, or one of the servants. But +never anybody who sang <i>Tirra-lirra!</i> by +the river. The tirralirraing days seem to +have gone by.</p> + +<p>This day, however, round the corner +on the white-grey road, between the grass +and the low stone walls, a roan horse +came stepping bravely and briskly downhill, +driven by a man in a cap, perched +on the front of his light cart. The man +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>swayed loosely to the swing of the cart, +as the horse stepped down-hill, in the +silent sombreness of the afternoon. At +the back of the cart, long duster-brooms +of reed and feather stuck out, nodding +on their stalks of cane.</p> + +<p>Yvette stood close to the window, and +put the casement-cloth curtains behind her, +clutching her bare upper arms with her +hands.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the slope the horse +started into a brisk trot to the bridge. +The cart rattled on the stone bridge, the +brooms bobbed and flustered, the driver +sat as if in a kind of dream, swinging along. +It was like something seen in a sleep.</p> + +<p>But as he crossed the end of the bridge, +and was passing along the rectory wall, +he looked up at the grim stone house that +seemed to have backed away from the +gate, under the hill. Yvette moved her +hands quickly on her arms. And as +quickly, from under the peak of his cap, +he had seen her, his swarthy predative +face was alert.</p> + +<p>He pulled up suddenly at the white +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>gate, still gazing upwards at the landing +window; while Yvette, always clasping +her cold and mottled arms, still gazed +abstractedly down at him, from the +window.</p> + +<p>His head gave a little, quick jerk of +signal, and he led his horse well aside, +on to the grass. Then, limber and alert, +he turned back the tarpaulin of the cart, +fetched out various articles, pulled forth +two or three of the long brooms of reed or +turkey-feathers, covered the cart, and +turned towards the house, looking up at +Yvette as he opened the white gate.</p> + +<p>She nodded to him, and flew to the +bathroom to put on her dress, hoping she +had disguised her nod so that he wouldn’t +be sure she had nodded. Meanwhile she +heard the hoarse deep roaring of that old +fool, Rover, punctuated by the yapping +of that young idiot, Trixie.</p> + +<p>She and the housemaid arrived at the +same moment at the sitting-room door.</p> + +<p>“Was it the man selling brooms?” said +Yvette to the maid. “All right!” and +she opened the door. “Aunt Cissie, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>there’s a man selling brooms. Shall I +go?”</p> + +<p>“What sort of a man?” said Aunt +Cissie, who was sitting at tea with the +rector and the Mater: the girls having +been excluded for once from the meal.</p> + +<p>“A man with a cart,” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“A gipsy,” said the maid.</p> + +<p>Of course Aunt Cissie rose at once. She +had to look at him.</p> + +<p>The gipsy stood at the back door, under +the steep dark bank where the larches +grew. The long brooms flourished from +one hand, and from the other hung various +objects of shining copper and brass: a +saucepan, a candlestick, plates of beaten +copper. The man himself was neat and +dapper, almost rakish, in his dark green +cap and double-breasted green check coat. +But his manner was subdued, very quiet: +and at the same time proud, with a touch +of condescension and aloofness.</p> + +<p>“Anything today, lady?” he said, +looking at Aunt Cissie with dark, shrewd, +searching eyes, but putting a very quiet +tenderness into his voice.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span></p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie saw how handsome he was, +saw the flexible curve of his lips under the +line of black moustache, and she was +fluttered. The merest hint of roughness +or aggression on the man’s part would +have made her shut the door contemptuously +in his face. But he managed to +insinuate such a subtle suggestion of +submission into his male bearing, that she +began to hesitate.</p> + +<p>“The candlestick is lovely!” said +Yvette. “Did you make it?”</p> + +<p>And she looked up at the man with +her naïve, childlike eyes, that were as +capable of double meanings as his own.</p> + +<p>“Yes lady!” He looked back into her +eyes for a second, with that naked suggestion +of desire which acted on her like +a spell, and robbed her of her will. Her +tender face seemed to go into a sleep.</p> + +<p>“It’s awfully nice!” she murmured +vaguely.</p> + +<p>Aunt Cissie began to bargain for the +candlestick: which was a low, thick stem +of copper, rising from a double bowl. +With patient aloofness the man attended +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>to her, without ever looking at Yvette, +who leaned against the doorway and +watched in a muse.</p> + +<p>“How is your wife?” she asked him +suddenly, when Aunt Cissie had gone +indoors to show the candlestick to the +rector, and ask him if he thought it was +worth it.</p> + +<p>The man looked fully at Yvette, and a +scarcely discernible smile curled his lips. +His eyes did not smile: the insinuation in +them only hardened to a glare.</p> + +<p>“She’s all right. When are you coming +that way again?” he murmured, in a low, +caressive, intimate voice.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” said Yvette +vaguely.</p> + +<p>“You come Fridays, when I’m there,” +he said.</p> + +<p>Yvette gazed over his shoulder as if she +had not heard him. Aunt Cissie returned, +with the candlestick and the money to +pay for it. Yvette turned nonchalant +away, trilling one of her broken tunes, +abandoning the whole affair with a certain +rudeness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> + +<p>Nevertheless, hiding this time at the +landing window, she stood to watch the +man go. What she wanted to know, was +whether he really had any power over her. +She did not intend him to see her this time.</p> + +<p>She saw him go down to the gate, with +his brooms and pans, and out to the cart. +He carefully stowed away his pans and +his brooms, and fixed down the tarpaulin +over the cart. Then with a slow, effortless +spring of his flexible loins, he was on +the cart again, and touching the horse +with the reins. The roan horse was away +at once, the cart-wheels grinding uphill, +and soon the man was gone, without +looking round. Gone like a dream which +was only a dream, yet which she could not +shake off.</p> + +<p>“No, he hasn’t any power over me!” +she said to herself: rather disappointed +really, because she wanted somebody, or +something, to have power over her.</p> + +<p>She went up to reason with the pale and +overwrought Lucille, scolding her for +getting into a state over nothing.</p> + +<p>“What does it <i>matter</i>,” she expostulated, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>“if you told Granny to shut up! Why, +everybody ought to be told to shut up, +when they’re being beastly. But she +didn’t mean it, you know. No, she didn’t +mean it. And she’s quite sorry she said it. +There’s absolutely no reason to make a +fuss. Come on, let’s dress ourselves up +and sail down to dinner like duchesses. +Let’s have our own back that way. Come +on, Lucille!”</p> + +<p>There was something strange and mazy, +like having cobwebs over one’s face, about +Yvette’s vague blitheness; her queer, +misty side-stepping from an unpleasantness. +It was cheering too. But it was like +walking in one of those autumn mists, when +gossamer strands blow over your face. +You don’t quite know where you are.</p> + +<p>She succeeded, however, in persuading +Lucille, and the girls got out their best +party frocks: Lucille in green and silver, +Yvette in a pale lilac colour with turquoise +chenille threading. A little rouge and +powder, and their best slippers, and the +gardens of paradise began to blossom. +Yvette hummed and looked at herself, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>and put on her most <i lang="fr">dégagé</i> airs of one of +the young marchionesses. She had an +odd way of slanting her eyebrows and +pursing her lips, and to all appearances +detaching herself from every earthly consideration, +and floating through the cloud +of her own pearl-coloured reserves. It +was amusing, and not quite convincing.</p> + +<p>“Of course I am beautiful, Lucille,” +she said blandly. “And you’re perfectly +lovely, now you look a bit reproachful. +Of course you’re the most aristocratic of +the two of us, with your nose! And now +your eyes look reproachful, that adds an +appealing look, and you’re perfect, perfectly +lovely. But I’m more <i>winning</i>, in a +way.—Don’t you agree?” She turned +with arch, complicated simplicity to Lucille.</p> + +<p>She was truly simple in what she said. +It was just what she thought. But it gave +no hint of the very different feeling that also +preoccupied her: the <i>feeling</i> that she +had been looked upon, not from the +outside, but from the inside, from her +secret female self. She was dressing herself +up and looking her most dazzling, just to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>counteract the effect that the gipsy had +had on her, when he had looked at her, +and seen none of her pretty face and her +pretty ways, but just the dark, tremulous +potent secret of her virginity.</p> + +<p>The two girls started downstairs in state +when the dinner-gong rang: but they +waited till they heard the voices of the men. +Then they sailed down and into the sitting-room, +Yvette preening herself in her vague, +debonair way, always a little bit absent; +and Lucille shy, ready to burst into +tears.</p> + +<p>“My goodness gracious!” exclaimed +Aunt Cissie, who was still wearing her +dark-brown knitted sports coat. “What +an apparition! Wherever do you think +you’re going?”</p> + +<p>“We’re dining with the family,” said +Yvette naïvely, “and we’ve put on our +best gewgaws in honour of the occasion.”</p> + +<p>The rector laughed aloud, and Uncle +Fred said:</p> + +<p>“The family feels itself highly honoured.”</p> + +<p>Both the elderly men were quite gallant, +which was what Yvette wanted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> + +<p>“Come and let me feel your dresses, +do!” said Granny. “Are they your +best? It <i>is</i> a shame I can’t see them.”</p> + +<p>“Tonight, Mater,” said Uncle Fred, +“we shall have to take the young ladies +in to dinner, and live up to the honour. +Will you go with Cissie?”</p> + +<p>“I certainly will,” said Granny. “Youth +and beauty must come first.”</p> + +<p>“Well, tonight, Mater!” said the rector, +pleased.</p> + +<p>And he offered his arm to Lucille, while +Uncle Fred escorted Yvette.</p> + +<p>But it was a draggled, dull meal, all the +same. Lucille tried to be bright and +sociable, and Yvette really was most +amiable, in her vague, cobwebby way. +Dimly, at the back of her mind, she was +thinking: Why are we all only like mortal +pieces of furniture? Why is nothing +<i>important</i>?</p> + +<p>That was her constant refrain to herself: +Why is nothing important? Whether she +was in church, or at a party of young +people, or dancing in the hotel in the city, +the same little bubble of a question rose +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>repeatedly on her consciousness: Why is +nothing important?</p> + +<p>There were plenty of young men to make +love to her: even devotedly. But with +impatience she had to shake them off. +Why were they so unimportant?—so +irritating!</p> + +<p>She never even thought of the gipsy. +He was a perfectly negligible incident. +Yet the approach of Friday loomed +strangely significant. “What are we doing +on Friday?” she said to Lucille. To +which Lucille replied that they were doing +nothing. And Yvette was vexed.</p> + +<p>Friday came, and in spite of herself she +thought all day of the quarry off the road +up high Bonsall Head. She wanted to be +there. That was all she was conscious of. +She wanted to be there. She had not even +a dawning idea of going there. Besides, +it was raining again. But as she sewed the +blue dress, finishing it for the party up +at Lambley Close tomorrow, she just felt +that her soul was up there, at the quarry, +among the caravans, with the gipsies. +Like one lost, or whose soul was stolen, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>she was not present in her body, the shell +of her body. Her intrinsic body was away +at the quarry, among the caravans.</p> + +<p>The next day, at the party, she had no +idea that she was being sweet to Leo. +She had no idea that she was snatching +him away from the tortured Ella Framley. +Not until, when she was eating her +pistachio ice, he said to her:</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you and me get engaged, +Yvette? I’m absolutely sure it’s the right +thing for us both.”</p> + +<p>Leo was a bit common, but good-natured +and well-off. Yvette quite liked him. +But engaged! How perfectly silly! She +felt like offering him a set of her silk +underwear, to get engaged to.</p> + +<p>“But I thought it was Ella!” she said, +in wonder.</p> + +<p>“Well! It might ha’ been, but for you. +It’s your doings, you know! Ever since +those gipsies told your fortune, I felt it was +me or nobody, for you, and you or nobody, +for me.”</p> + +<p>“Really!” said Yvette, simply lost in +amazement. “Really!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> + +<p>“Didn’t you feel a bit the same?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>“Really!” Yvette kept on gasping +softly, like a fish.</p> + +<p>“You felt a bit the same, didn’t you?” +he said.</p> + +<p>“What? About what?” she asked, +coming to.</p> + +<p>“About me, as I feel about you.”</p> + +<p>“Why? What? Getting engaged, you +mean? I? no! Why how <i>could</i> I? I +could never have dreamed of such an +impossible thing.”</p> + +<p>She spoke with her usual heedless +candour, utterly unoccupied with his +feelings.</p> + +<p>“What was to prevent you?” he said, +a bit nettled. “I thought you did.”</p> + +<p>“Did you <i>really now</i>?” she breathed in +amazement, with that soft, virgin, heedless +candour which made her her admirers +and her enemies.</p> + +<p>She was so completely amazed, there +was nothing for him to do but twiddle his +thumbs in annoyance.</p> + +<p>The music began, and he looked at her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> + +<p>“No! I won’t dance any more,” she +said, drawing herself up and gazing away +rather loftily over the assembly, as if he +did not exist. There was a touch of +puzzled wonder on her brow, and her soft, +dim virgin face did indeed suggest the +snowdrop of her father’s pathetic imagery.</p> + +<p>“But of course <i>you</i> will dance,” she said, +turning to him with young condescension. +“Do ask somebody to have this with you.”</p> + +<p>He rose, angry, and went down the +room.</p> + +<p>She remained soft and remote in her +amazement. Expect Leo to propose to +her! She might as well have expected +old Rover the Newfoundland dog to +propose to her. Get engaged, to any +man on earth? No, good heavens, +nothing more ridiculous could be +imagined!</p> + +<p>It was then, in a fleeting side-thought, +that she realised that the gipsy existed. +Instantly, she was indignant. Him, of all +things! Him! Never!</p> + +<p>“Now why?” she asked herself, again +in hushed amazement. “Why? It’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span><i>absolutely</i> impossible: absolutely! So why +is it?”</p> + +<p>This was a nut to crack. She looked at +the young men dancing, elbows out, hips +prominent, waists elegantly in. They gave +her no clue to her problem. Yet she did +particularly dislike the forced elegance of +the waists and the prominent hips, over +which the well-tailored coats hung with +such effeminate discretion.</p> + +<p>“There is something about me which +they don’t see and never would see,” she +said angrily to herself. And at the same +time, she was relieved that they didn’t and +couldn’t. It made life so very much +simpler.</p> + +<p>And again, since she was one of the +people who are conscious in visual images, +she saw the dark-green jersey rolled on +the black trousers of the gipsy, his fine, +quick hips, alert as eyes. They were +elegant. The elegance of these dancers +seemed so stuffed, hips merely wadded +with flesh. Leo the same, thinking himself +such a fine dancer! and a fine figure of +a fellow!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p> + +<p>Then she saw the gipsy’s face; the +straight nose, the slender mobile lips, and +the level, significant stare of the black +eyes, which seemed to shoot her in some +vital, undiscovered place, unerring.</p> + +<p>She drew herself up angrily. How +dared he look at her like that? So she +gazed glaringly at the insipid beaux on the +dancing floor. And she despised them. +Just as the raggle-taggle gipsy women +despise men who are not gipsies, despise +their dog-like walk down the streets, she +found herself despising this crowd. Where +among them was the subtle, lonely, insinuating +challenge that could reach her?</p> + +<p>She did not want to mate with a housedog.</p> + +<p>Her sensitive nose turned up, her soft +brown hair fell like a soft sheath round her +tender, flower-like face, as she sat musing. +She seemed so virginal. At the same time, +there was a touch of the tall young virgin +<i>witch</i> about her, that made the housedog +men shy off. She might metamorphose +into something uncanny before you knew +where you were.</p> + +<p>This made her lonely, in spite of all the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>courting. Perhaps the courting only made +her lonelier.</p> + +<p>Leo, who was a sort of mastiff among +the housedogs, returned after his dance, +with fresh cheery-o! courage.</p> + +<p>“You’ve had a little think about it, +haven’t you?” he said, sitting down +beside her: a comfortable, well-nourished, +determined sort of fellow. She did not +know why it irritated her so unreasonably, +when he hitched up his trousers at the +knee, over his good-sized but not very +distinguished legs, and lowered himself +assuredly on to a chair.</p> + +<p>“Have I?” she said vaguely. “About +what?”</p> + +<p>“You know what about,” he said. +“Did you make up your mind?”</p> + +<p>“Make up my mind about what?” +she asked, innocently.</p> + +<p>In her upper consciousness, she truly +had forgotten.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Leo, settling his trousers +again. “About me and you getting engaged, +you know.” He was almost as +off-hand as she.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh that’s <i>absolutely</i> impossible,” she +said, with mild amiability, as if it were +some stray question among the rest. “Why +I never even thought of it again. Oh, +don’t talk about that sort of nonsense! +That sort of thing is <i>absolutely</i> impossible,” +she reiterated like a child.</p> + +<p>“That sort of thing is, is it?” he said, +with an odd smile at her calm, distant +assertion. “Well what sort of thing is +possible, then? You don’t want to die +an old maid, do you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh I don’t mind,” she said absently.</p> + +<p>“I do,” he said.</p> + +<p>She turned round and looked at him +in wonder.</p> + +<p>“Why?” she said. “Why should you +mind if I was an old maid?”</p> + +<p>“Every reason in the world,” he said, +looking up at her with a bold, meaningful +smile, that wanted to make its meaning +blatant, if not patent.</p> + +<p>But instead of penetrating into some +deep, secret place, and shooting her there, +Leo’s bold and patent smile only hit her +on the outside of the body, like a tennis +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>ball, and caused the same kind of sudden +irritated reaction.</p> + +<p>“I think this sort of thing is awfully +silly,” she said, with minx-like spite. +“Why, you’re practically engaged to—to——” +she pulled herself up in time—“probably +half a dozen other girls. I’m +not flattered by what you’ve said. I should +hate it if anybody knew!—Hate it!—I +shan’t breathe a word of it, and I hope +you’ll have the sense not to.—There’s +Ella!”</p> + +<p>And keeping her face averted from him, +she sailed away like a tall, soft flower, to +join poor Ella Framley.</p> + +<p>Leo flapped his white gloves.</p> + +<p>“Catty little bitch!” he said to himself. +But he was of the mastiff type, he rather +liked the kitten to fly in his face. He +began definitely to single her out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VI"> + VI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The next week it poured again with rain. +And this irritated Yvette with strange +anger. She had intended it should be +fine. Especially she insisted it should be +fine towards the week-end. Why, she did +not ask herself.</p> + +<p>Thursday, the half-holiday, came with +a hard frost, and sun. Leo arrived with +his car, the usual bunch. Yvette disagreeably +and unaccountably refused to go.</p> + +<p>“No thanks, I don’t feel like it,” she said.</p> + +<p>She rather enjoyed being Mary-Mary-quite-contrary.</p> + +<p>Then she went for a walk by herself, +up the frozen hills, to the Black Rocks.</p> + +<p>The next day also came sunny and +frosty. It was February, but in the north +country the ground did not thaw in the +sun. Yvette announced that she was +going for a ride on her bicycle, and taking +her lunch as she might not be back till +afternoon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span></p> + +<p>She set off, not hurrying. In spite of +the frost, the sun had a touch of spring. +In the park, the deer were standing in +the distance, in the sunlight, to be warm. +One doe, white spotted, walked slowly +across the motionless landscape.</p> + +<p>Cycling, Yvette found it difficult to keep +her hands warm, even when bodily she +was quite hot. Only when she had to +walk up the long hill, to the top, and +there was no wind.</p> + +<p>The upland was very bare and clear, +like another world. She had climbed on +to another level. She cycled slowly, a +little afraid of taking the wrong lane, in +the vast maze of stone fences. As she +passed along the lane she thought was +the right one, she heard a faint tapping +noise, with a slight metallic resonance.</p> + +<p>The gipsy man was seated on the ground +with his back to the cart-shaft, hammering +a copper bowl. He was in the sun, bare-headed, +but wearing his green jersey. +Three small children were moving quietly +round, playing in the horse’s shelter: the +horse and cart were gone. An old woman, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>bent, with a kerchief round her head, was +cooking over a fire of sticks. The only +sound was the rapid, ringing tap-tap-tap! +of the small hammer on the dull copper.</p> + +<p>The man looked up at once, as Yvette +stepped from her bicycle, but he did not +move, though he ceased hammering. A +delicate, barely discernible smile of triumph +was on his face. The old woman +looked round, keenly, from under her +dirty grey hair. The man spoke a half-audible +word to her, and she turned +again to her fire. He looked up at +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“How are you all getting on?” she +asked politely.</p> + +<p>“All right, eh! You sit down a +minute?” He turned as he sat, and +pulled a stool from under the caravan for +Yvette. Then, as she wheeled her bicycle +to the side of the quarry, he started hammering +again, with that bird-like, rapid +light stroke.</p> + +<p>Yvette went to the fire to warm her +hands.</p> + +<p>“Is this the dinner cooking?” she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>asked childishly, of the old gipsy, as she +spread her long tender hands, mottled red +with the cold, to the embers.</p> + +<p>“Dinner, yes!” said the old woman. +“For him! And for the children.”</p> + +<p>She pointed with the long fork at the +three black-eyed, staring children, who +were staring at her from under their black +fringes. But they were clean. Only the +old woman was not clean. The quarry +itself they had kept perfectly clean.</p> + +<p>Yvette crouched in silence, warming her +hands. The man rapidly hammered away +with intervals of silence. The old hag +slowly climbed the steps to the third, +oldest caravan. The children began to +play again, like little wild animals, quiet +and busy.</p> + +<p>“Are they your children?” asked +Yvette, rising from the fire and turning +to the man.</p> + +<p>He looked her in the eyes, and nodded.</p> + +<p>“But where’s your wife?”</p> + +<p>“She’s gone out with the basket. +They’ve all gone out, cart and all, selling +things. I don’t go selling things. I make +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>them, but I don’t go selling them. Not +often. I don’t often.”</p> + +<p>“You make all the copper and brass +things?” she said.</p> + +<p>He nodded, and again offered her the +stool. She sat down.</p> + +<p>“You said you’d be here on Fridays,” +she said. “So I came this way, as it was +so fine.”</p> + +<p>“Very fine day!” said the gipsy, +looking at her cheek, that was still a bit +blanched by the cold, and the soft hair +over her reddened ear, and the long, still +mottled hands on her knee.</p> + +<p>“You get cold, riding a bicycle?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>“My hands!” she said, clasping them +nervously.</p> + +<p>“You didn’t wear gloves?”</p> + +<p>“I did, but they weren’t much +good.”</p> + +<p>“Cold comes through,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes!” she replied.</p> + +<p>The old woman came slowly, grotesquely +down the steps of the caravan, with some +enamel plates.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p> + +<p>“The dinner cooked, eh?” he called +softly.</p> + +<p>The old woman muttered something, +as she spread the plates near the fire. +Two pots hung from a long iron horizontal +bar, over the embers of the fire. A little +pan seethed on a small iron tripod. In the +sunshine, heat and vapour wavered +together.</p> + +<p>He put down his tools and the pot, and +rose from the ground.</p> + +<p>“You eat something along of us?” he +asked Yvette, not looking at her.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I brought my lunch,” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“You eat some stew?” he said. And +again he called quietly, secretly to the old +woman, who muttered in answer, as she +slid the iron pot towards the end of the +bar.</p> + +<p>“Some beans, and some mutton in it,” +he said.</p> + +<p>“Oh thanks awfully!” said Yvette. +Then, suddenly taking courage, added: +“Well yes, just a very little, if I +may.”</p> + +<p>She went across to untie her lunch from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>her bicycle, and he went up the steps to +his own caravan. After a minute, he +emerged, wiping his hands on a towel.</p> + +<p>“You want to come up and wash your +hands?” he said.</p> + +<p>“No, I think not,” she said. “They are +clean.”</p> + +<p>He threw away his wash-water, and set +off down the road with a high brass jug, +to fetch clean water from the spring that +trickled into a small pool, taking a cup to +dip it with.</p> + +<p>When he returned, he set the jug and +the cup by the fire, and fetched himself a +short log, to sit on. The children sat on +the floor, by the fire, in a cluster, eating +beans and bits of meat with spoon or +fingers. The man on the log ate in silence, +absorbedly. The woman made coffee in +the black pot on the tripod, hobbling +upstairs for the cups. There was silence +in the camp. Yvette sat on her stool, +having taken off her hat and shaken her +hair in the sun.</p> + +<p>“How many children have you?” +Yvette asked suddenly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span></p> + +<p>“Say five,” he replied slowly, as he +looked up into her eyes.</p> + +<p>And again the bird of her heart sank +down and seemed to die. Vaguely, as in +a dream, she received from him the cup +of coffee. She was aware only of his +silent figure, sitting like a shadow there on +the log, with an enamel cup in his hand, +drinking his coffee in silence. Her will +had departed from her limbs, he had power +over her: his shadow was on her.</p> + +<p>And he, as he blew his hot coffee, was +aware of one thing only, the mysterious +fruit of her virginity, her perfect tenderness +in the body.</p> + +<p>At length he put down his coffee-cup +by the fire, then looked round at her. Her +hair fell across her face, as she tried to sip +from the hot cup. On her face was that +tender look of sleep, which a nodding +flower has when it is full out. Like a +mysterious early flower, she was full out, +like a snowdrop which spreads its three +white wings in a flight into the waking +sleep of its brief blossoming. The waking +sleep of her full-opened virginity, entranced +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>like a snowdrop in the sunshine, was upon +her.</p> + +<p>The gipsy, supremely aware of her, +waited for her like the substance of +shadow, as shadow waits and is +there.</p> + +<p>At length his voice said, without breaking +the spell:</p> + +<p>“You want to go in my caravan now, +and wash your hands?”</p> + +<p>The childlike, sleep-waking eyes of her +moment of perfect virginity looked into +his, unseeing. She was only aware of the +dark strange effluence of him bathing her +limbs, washing her at last purely will-less. +She was aware of <i>him</i>, as a dark, complete +power.</p> + +<p>“I think I might,” she said.</p> + +<p>He rose silently, then turned to speak, +in a low command, to the old woman. +And then again he looked at Yvette, and +putting his power over her, so that she +had no burden of herself, or of action.</p> + +<p>“Come!” he said.</p> + +<p>She followed simply, followed the silent, +secret, overpowering motion of his body +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>in front of her. It cost her nothing. She +was gone in his will.</p> + +<p>He was at the top of the steps, and she +at the foot, when she became aware of an +intruding sound. She stood still, at the +foot of the steps. A motor-car was coming. +He stood at the top of the steps, looking +round strangely. The old woman harshly +called something, as with rapidly increasing +sound, a car rushed near. It was +passing.</p> + +<p>Then they heard the cry of a woman’s +voice, and the brakes on the car. It had +pulled up, just beyond the quarry.</p> + +<p>The gipsy came down the steps, having +closed the door of the caravan.</p> + +<p>“You want to put your hat on,” he +said to her.</p> + +<p>Obediently she went to the stool by the +fire, and took up her hat. He sat down +by the cart-wheel, darkly, and took up +his tools. The rapid tap-tap-tap of his +hammer, rapid and angry now like the +sound of a tiny machine-gun, broke out +just as the voice of the woman was heard +crying:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + +<p>“May we warm our hands at the camp +fire?”</p> + +<p>She advanced, dressed in a sleek but +bulky coat of sable fur. A man followed, +in a blue great-coat; pulling off his fur +gloves and pulling out a pipe.</p> + +<p>“It looked so tempting,” said the woman +in the coat of many dead little animals, +smiling a broad, half-condescending, half-hesitant +simper, around the company.</p> + +<p>No one said a word.</p> + +<p>She advanced to the fire, shuddering a +little inside her coat, with the cold. They +had been driving in an open car.</p> + +<p>She was a very small woman, with a +rather large nose: probably a Jewess. +Tiny almost as a child, in that sable coat +she looked much more bulky than she +should, and her wide, rather resentful +brown eyes of a spoilt Jewess gazed oddly +out of her expensive get-up.</p> + +<p>She crouched over the low fire, spreading +her little hands, on which diamonds and +emeralds glittered.</p> + +<p>“Ugh!” she shuddered. “Of course +we ought not to have come in an open car! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>But my husband won’t even let me say +I’m cold!” She looked round at him +with her large, childish, reproachful eyes, +that had still the canny shrewdness of a +bourgeois Jewess: a rich one, probably.</p> + +<p>Apparently she was in love, in a Jewess’s +curious way, with the big, blond man. +He looked back at her with his abstracted +blue eyes, that seemed to have no lashes, +and a small smile creased his smooth, +curiously naked cheeks. The smile didn’t +mean anything at all.</p> + +<p>He was a man one connects instantly +with winter sports, ski-ing and skating. +Athletic, unconnected with life, he slowly +filled his pipe, pressing in the tobacco +with long, powerful, reddened finger.</p> + +<p>The Jewess looked at him to see if she +got any response from him. Nothing at +all, but that odd, blank smile. She +turned again to the fire, tilting her eyebrows +and looking at her small, white, +spread hands.</p> + +<p>He slipped off his heavily-lined coat, +and appeared in one of the handsome, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>sharp-patterned knitted jerseys, in yellow +and grey and black, over well-cut trousers, +rather wide. Yes, they were both expensive! +And he had a magnificent +figure, an athletic, prominent chest. Like +an experienced camper, he began building +the fire together, quietly: like a soldier +on campaign.</p> + +<p>“D’you think they’d mind if we put +some fir-cones on, to make a blaze?” he +asked of Yvette, with a silent glance at +the hammering gipsy.</p> + +<p>“Love it, I should think,” said Yvette, +in a daze, as the spell of the gipsy slowly +left her, feeling stranded and blank.</p> + +<p>The man went to the car, and returned +with a little sack of cones, from which he +drew a handful.</p> + +<p>“Mind if we make a blaze?” he called +to the gipsy.</p> + +<p>“Eh?”</p> + +<p>“Mind if we make a blaze with a few +cones!”</p> + +<p>“You go ahead!” said the gipsy.</p> + +<p>The man began placing the cones lightly, +carefully on the red embers. And soon, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>one by one, they caught fire, and burned +like roses of flame, with a sweet scent.</p> + +<p>“Ah lovely! lovely!” cried the little +Jewess, looking up at her man again. He +looked down at her quite kindly, like the +sun on ice. “Don’t you love fire? Oh, +I love it!” the little Jewess cried to Yvette, +across the hammering.</p> + +<p>The hammering annoyed her. She +looked round with a slight frown on her +fine little brows, as if she would bid the +man stop. Yvette looked round too. The +gipsy was bent over his copper bowl, legs +apart, head down, lithe arm lifted. Already +he seemed so far from her.</p> + +<p>The man who accompanied the little +Jewess strolled over to the gipsy, and stood +in silence looking down on him, holding +his pipe to his mouth. Now they were two +men, like two strange male dogs, having to +sniff one another.</p> + +<p>“We’re on our honeymoon,” said the +little Jewess, with an arch, resentful look +at Yvette. She spoke in a rather high, +defiant voice, like some bird, a jay, or a +rook, calling.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> + +<p>“Are you really?” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“Yes! Before we’re married! Have +you heard of Simon Fawcett?”—she +named a wealthy and well-known engineer +of the north country. “Well, I’m Mrs. +Fawcett, and he’s just divorcing me!” +She looked at Yvette with curious defiance +and wistfulness.</p> + +<p>“Are you really!” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>She understood now the look of resentment +and defiance in the little Jewess’s +big, childlike brown eyes. She was an +honest little thing, but perhaps her honesty +was <i>too</i> rational. Perhaps it partly explained +the notorious unscrupulousness of +the well-known Simon Fawcett.</p> + +<p>“Yes! As soon as we get the +divorce, I’m going to marry Major Eastwood.”</p> + +<p>Her cards were now all on the table. +She was not going to deceive anybody.</p> + +<p>Behind her, the two men were talking +briefly. She glanced round, and fixed the +gipsy with her big brown eyes.</p> + +<p>He was looking up, as if shyly, at the big +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>fellow in the sparkling jersey, who was +standing pipe in mouth, man to man, +looking down.</p> + +<p>“With the horses back of Arras,” said +the gipsy, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>They were talking war. The gipsy had +served with the artillery teams, in the +Major’s own regiment.</p> + +<p><span lang="de">“Ein schöner Mensch!”</span> said the +Jewess. “A handsome man, eh?”</p> + +<p>For her, too, the gipsy was one of the +common men, the Tommies.</p> + +<p>“Quite handsome!” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“You are cycling?” asked the Jewess +in a tone of surprise.</p> + +<p>“Yes! Down to Papplewick. My +father is rector of Papplewick: Mr. +Saywell!”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said the Jewess. “I know! +A clever writer! Very clever! I have +read him.”</p> + +<p>The fir-cones were all consumed already, +the fire was a tall pile now of crumbling, +shattering fire-roses. The sky was clouding +over for afternoon. Perhaps towards +evening it would snow.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> + +<p>The Major came back, and slung himself +into his coat.</p> + +<p>“I thought I remembered his face!” +he said. “One of our grooms, A1 man +with horses.”</p> + +<p>“Look!” cried the Jewess to Yvette. +“Why don’t you let us motor you down +to Normanton. We live in Scoresby. We +can tie the bicycle on behind.”</p> + +<p>“I think I will,” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“Come!” called the Jewess to the +peeping children, as the blond man +wheeled away the bicycle. “Come! +Come here!” and taking out her little +purse, she held out a shilling.</p> + +<p>“Come!” she cried. “Come and take +it!”</p> + +<p>The gipsy had laid down his work, and +gone into his caravan. The old woman +called hoarsely to the children, from her +enclosure. The two elder children came +stealing forward. The Jewess gave them +the two bits of silver, a shilling and a +florin, which she had in her purse, and +again the hoarse voice of the unseen old +woman was heard.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + +<p>The gipsy descended from his caravan +and strolled to the fire. The Jewess +searched his face with the peculiar bourgeois +boldness of her race.</p> + +<p>“You were in the war, in Major Eastwood’s +regiment?” she said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, lady!”</p> + +<p>“Imagine you both being here now!—It’s +going to snow.” She looked up at +the sky.</p> + +<p>“Later on,” said the man, looking at +the sky.</p> + +<p>He too had gone inaccessible. His race +was very old, in its peculiar battle with +established society, and had no conception +of winning. Only now and then it could +score.</p> + +<p>But since the war, even the old sporting +chance of scoring now and then, was pretty +well quenched. There was no question +of yielding. The gipsy’s eyes still had +their bold look: but it was hardened and +directed far away, the touch of insolent +intimacy was gone. He had been through +the war.</p> + +<p>He looked at Yvette.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> + +<p>“You’re going back in the motor-car?” +he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes!” she replied, with a rather +mincing mannerism. “The weather is +so treacherous!”</p> + +<p>“Treacherous weather!” he repeated, +looking at the sky.</p> + +<p>She could not tell in the least what his +feelings were. In truth, she wasn’t very +much interested. She was rather fascinated, +now, by the little Jewess, mother +of two children, who was taking her +wealth away from the well-known engineer +and transferring it to the penniless, sporting +young Major Eastwood, who must be five +or six years younger than she. Rather +intriguing!</p> + +<p>The blond man returned.</p> + +<p>“A cigarette, Charles!” cried the little +Jewess, plaintively.</p> + +<p>He took out his case, slowly, with his +slow, athletic movement. Something sensitive +in him made him slow, cautious, as +if he had hurt himself against people. He +gave a cigarette to his wife, then one to +Yvette, then offered the case, quite +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>simply, to the gipsy. The gipsy took +one.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, sir!”</p> + +<p>And he went quietly to the fire, and +stooping, lit it at the red embers. Both +women watched him.</p> + +<p>“Well goodbye!” said the Jewess, with +her old bourgeois freemasonry. “Thank +you for the warm fire.”</p> + +<p>“Fire is everybody’s,” said the gipsy.</p> + +<p>The young child came toddling to him.</p> + +<p>“Goodbye!” said Yvette. “I hope it +won’t snow for you.”</p> + +<p>“We don’t mind a bit of snow,” said the +gipsy.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you?” said Yvette. “I should +have thought you would!”</p> + +<p>“No!” said the gipsy.</p> + +<p>She flung her scarf royally over her +shoulder, and followed the fur coat of the +Jewess, which seemed to walk on little legs +of its own.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VII"> + VII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Yvette was rather thrilled by the Eastwoods, +as she called them. The little +Jewess had only to wait three months now, +for the final decree. She had boldly +rented a small summer cottage, by the +moors up at Scoresby, not far from the +hills. Now it was dead winter, and she +and the Major lived in comparative +isolation, without any maid-servant. He +had already resigned his commission in +the regular army, and called himself Mr. +Eastwood. In fact, they were already Mr. +and Mrs. Eastwood, to the common world.</p> + +<p>The little Jewess was thirty-six, and her +two children were both over twelve years +of age. The husband had agreed that she +should have the custody, as soon as she +was married to Eastwood.</p> + +<p>So there they were, this queer couple, +the tiny, finely-formed little Jewess with +her big, resentful reproachful eyes, and her +mop of carefully-barbered black, curly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>hair, an elegant little thing in her way; +and the big, pale-eyed young man, powerful +and wintry, the remnant, surely of some +old uncanny Danish stock: living together +in a small modern house near the moors +and the hills, and doing their own housework.</p> + +<p>It was a funny household. The cottage +was hired furnished, but the little Jewess +had brought along her dearest pieces of +furniture. She had an odd little taste for +the rococo, strange curving cupboards +inlaid with mother of pearl, tortoiseshell, +ebony, heaven knows what; strange tall +flamboyant chairs, from Italy, with sea-green +brocade: astonishing saints with +wind-blown, richly-coloured carven garments +and pink faces: shelves of weird +old Saxe and Capo di Monte figurines: +and finally, a strange assortment of astonishing +pictures painted on the back of glass, +done probably in the early years of the +nineteenth century, or in the late +eighteenth.</p> + +<p>In this crowded and extraordinary interior +she received Yvette, when the latter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>made a stolen visit. A whole system of +stoves had been installed into the cottage, +every corner was warm, almost hot. And +there was the tiny rococo figurine of the +Jewess herself, in a perfect little frock, and +an apron, putting slices of ham on the dish, +while the great snow-bird of a major, in +a white sweater and grey trousers, cut +bread, mixed mustard, prepared coffee, +and did all the rest. He had even made +the dish of jugged hare which followed the +cold meats and caviare.</p> + +<p>The silver and the china were really +valuable, part of the bride’s trousseau. +The Major drank beer from a silver mug, +the little Jewess and Yvette had champagne +in lovely glasses, the Major brought in +coffee. They talked away. The little +Jewess had a burning indignation against +her first husband. She was intensely +moral, so moral, that she was a divorcée. +The Major too, strange wintry bird, so +powerful, handsome, too, in his way, but +pale round the eyes as if he had no eyelashes, +like a bird, he too had a curious +indignation against life, because of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>false morality. That powerful, athletic +chest hid a strange, snowy sort of anger. +And his tenderness for the little Jewess +was based on his sense of outraged justice, +the abstract morality of the north +blowing him, like a strange wind, into +isolation.</p> + +<p>As the afternoon drew on, they went to +the kitchen, the Major pushed back his +sleeves, showing his powerful athletic white +arms, and carefully, deftly washed the +dishes, while the women wiped. It was +not for nothing his muscles were trained. +Then he went round attending to the +stoves of the small house, which only +needed a moment or two of care each day. +And after this, he brought out the small, +closed car and drove Yvette home, in the +rain, depositing her at the back gate, a +little wicket among the larches, through +which the earthen steps sloped downwards +to the house.</p> + +<p>She was really amazed by this couple.</p> + +<p>“Really, Lucille!” she said. “I do +meet the most extraordinary people!” +And she gave a detailed description.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + +<p>“I think they sound rather nice!” said +Lucille. “I like the Major doing the +housework, and looking so frightfully +Bond-streety with it all. I should think, +<i>when they’re married</i>, it would be rather fun +knowing them.”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” said Yvette vaguely. “Yes! +Yes, it would!”</p> + +<p>The very strangeness of the connection +between the tiny Jewess and that pale-eyed, +athletic young officer made her think +again of her gipsy, who had been utterly +absent from her consciousness, but who +now returned with sudden painful force.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Lucille,” she asked, “that +brings people together? People like the +Eastwoods, for instance? and Daddy and +Mamma, so frightfully unsuitable?—and +that gipsy woman who told my fortune, +like a great horse, and the gipsy man, so +fine and delicately cut? What is it?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it’s sex, whatever that is,” +said Lucille.</p> + +<p>“Yes, what is it? It’s not really anything +<i>common</i>, like common sensuality, +you know, Lucille. It really isn’t.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> + +<p>“No, I suppose not,” said Lucille. +“Anyhow I suppose it needn’t be.”</p> + +<p>“Because, you see, the <i>common</i> fellows, +you know, who make a girl feel <i>low</i>: +nobody cares much about them. Nobody +feels any connection with them. Yet +they’re supposed to be the sexual +sort.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” said Lucille, “there’s the +low sort of sex, and there’s the other sort, +that isn’t low. It’s frightfully complicated, +really! I <i>loathe</i> common fellows. And I +never feel anything <i>sexual</i>—” she laid a +rather disgusted stress on the word—“for +fellows who aren’t common. Perhaps I +haven’t got any sex.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just it!” said Yvette. “Perhaps +neither of us has. Perhaps we haven’t +really <i>got</i> any sex, to connect us with men.”</p> + +<p>“How horrible it sounds: <i>connect us +with men</i>!” cried Lucille, with revulsion. +“Wouldn’t you hate to be connected with +men that way? Oh I think it’s an awful +pity there has to <i>be</i> sex! It would be so +much better if we could still be men and +women, without that sort of thing.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> + +<p>Yvette pondered. Far in the background +was the image of the gipsy as he +had looked round at her, when she had +said: “The weather is so treacherous.” +She felt rather like Peter when the cock +crew, as she denied him. Or rather, she +did not deny the gipsy; she didn’t care +about his part in the show, anyhow. It +was some hidden part of herself which she +denied: that part which mysteriously and +unconfessedly responded to him. And it +was a strange, lustrous black cock which +crew in mockery of her.</p> + +<p>“Yes!” she said vaguely. “Yes! Sex +is an awful bore, you know, Lucille. +When you haven’t got it, you feel you +<i>ought</i> to have it, somehow. And when +you’ve got it—or <i>if</i> you have it—” she +lifted her head and wrinkled her nose +disdainfully—“you hate it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know!” cried Lucille. +“I think I should <i>like</i> to be awfully in love +with a man.”</p> + +<p>“You think so!” said Yvette, again +wrinkling her nose. “But if you were +you wouldn’t.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> + +<p>“How do you know?” asked Lucille.</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t really,” said Yvette. +“But I think so! Yes I think so!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s very likely!” said Lucille +disgustedly. “And anyhow one would +be sure to get out of love again, and it +would be merely disgusting.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Yvette. “It’s a problem.” +She hummed a little tune.</p> + +<p>“Oh hang it all, it’s not a problem +for us two yet. We’re neither of us +really in love, and we probably never +shall be, so the problem is settled that +way.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not so sure!” said Yvette sagely. +“I’m not so sure. I believe, one day, I +shall fall <i>awfully</i> in love.”</p> + +<p>“Probably you never will,” said Lucille +brutally. “That’s what most old maids +are thinking all the time.”</p> + +<p>Yvette looked at her sister from pensive +but apparently insouciant eyes.</p> + +<p>“Is it?” she said. “Do you really +think so, Lucille? How perfectly awful +for them, poor things! Why ever do +they <i>care</i>?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p> + +<p>“Why do they?” said Lucille. “Perhaps +they don’t, really—Probably it’s all +because people say: <i>Poor old girl, she +couldn’t catch a man.</i>”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it is!” said Yvette. “They +get to mind the beastly things people +always do say about old maids. What a +shame!”</p> + +<p>“Anyhow we have a good time, and +we do have lots of boys who make a fuss +of us,” said Lucille.</p> + +<p>“Yes!” said Yvette. “Yes! But I +couldn’t possibly marry any of them.”</p> + +<p>“Neither could I,” said Lucille. “But +why shouldn’t we? Why should we bother +about marrying, when we have a perfectly +good time with the boys, who are awfully +good sorts, and you must say, Yvette, +awfully sporting and <i>decent</i> to us.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, they are!” said Yvette absently.</p> + +<p>“I think it’s time to think of marrying +somebody,” said Lucille, “when you feel +you’re <i>not</i> having a good time any more. +Then marry, and just settle down.”</p> + +<p>“Quite!” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>But now, under all her bland, soft +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>amiability, she was annoyed with Lucille. +Suddenly she wanted to turn her back on +Lucille.</p> + +<p>Besides, look at the shadows under poor +Lucille’s eyes, and the wistfulness in the +beautiful eyes themselves. Oh, if some +awfully nice, kind, protective sort of man +would but marry her! And if the sporting +Lucille would let him!</p> + +<p>Yvette did not tell the rector, nor Granny +about the Eastwoods. It would only have +started a lot of talk which she detested. +The rector wouldn’t have minded, for +himself, privately. But he too knew the +necessity of keeping as clear as possible +from that poisonous, many-headed serpent, +the tongue of the people.</p> + +<p>“But I don’t <i>want</i> you to come if your +father doesn’t know,” cried the little Jewess.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I’ll have to tell him,” said +Yvette. “I’m sure he doesn’t mind, +really. But if he knew, he’d have to, +I suppose.”</p> + +<p>The young officer looked at her with an +odd amusement, bird-like and unemotional, +in his keen eyes. He too was by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>way of falling in love with Yvette. It +was her peculiar virgin tenderness, and +her straying, absent-minded detachment +from things, which attracted him.</p> + +<p>She was aware of what was happening, +and she rather preened herself. Eastwood +piqued her fancy. Such a smart young +officer, awfully good class, so calm and +amazing with a motor-car, and quite a +champion swimmer, it was intriguing to +see him quietly, calmly washing dishes, +smoking his pipe, doing his job so alert +and skilful. Or, with the same interested +care with which he made his investigation +into the mysterious inside of an automobile, +concocting jugged hare in the cottage +kitchen. Then going out in the icy +weather and cleaning his car till it looked +like a live thing, like a cat when she has +licked herself. Then coming in to talk so +unassumingly and responsively, if briefly, +with the little Jewess. And apparently, +never bored. Sitting at the window with +his pipe in bad weather, silent for hours, +abstracted, musing, yet with his athletic +body alert in its stillness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span></p> + +<p>Yvette did not flirt with him. But she +<i>did</i> like him.</p> + +<p>“But what about your future?” she +asked him.</p> + +<p>“What about it?” he said, taking his +pipe from his mouth, the unemotional +point of a smile in his bird’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“A career! Doesn’t every man have +to carve out a career?—like some huge +goose with gravy?” She gazed with odd +naïveté into his eyes.</p> + +<p>“I’m perfectly all right today, and I +shall be all right tomorrow,” he said, with +a cold, decided look. “Why shouldn’t +my future be continuous todays and +tomorrows?”</p> + +<p>He looked at her with unmoved +searching.</p> + +<p>“Quite!” she said. “I hate jobs, and +all that side of life.” But she was thinking +of the Jewess’s money.</p> + +<p>To which he did not answer. His anger +was of the soft, snowy sort, which comfortably +muffles the soul.</p> + +<p>They had come to the point of talking +philosophically together. The little Jewess +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>looked a bit wan. She was curiously +naïve, and not possessive in her attitude +to the man. Nor was she at all catty with +Yvette. Only rather wan, and dumb.</p> + +<p>Yvette, on a sudden impulse, thought +she had better clear herself.</p> + +<p>“I think life’s <i>awfully</i> difficult,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Life is!” cried the Jewess.</p> + +<p>“What’s so beastly, is that one is supposed +to <i>fall in love</i>, and get married!” +said Yvette, curling up her nose.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you <i>want</i> to fall in love and get +married?” cried the Jewess, with great +glaring eyes of astounded reproach.</p> + +<p>“No, not particularly!” said Yvette. +“Especially as one feels there’s nothing +else to do. It’s an awful chicken-coop one +has to run into.”</p> + +<p>“But you don’t know what love is?” +cried the Jewess.</p> + +<p>“No!” said Yvette. “Do you?”</p> + +<p>“I!” bawled the tiny Jewess. “I! +My goodness, don’t I!” She looked with +reflective gloom at Eastwood, who was +smoking his pipe, the dimples of his disconnected +amusement showing on his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>smooth, scrupulous face. He had a very +fine, smooth skin, which yet did not +suffer from the weather, so that his face +looked naked as a baby’s. But it was not +a round face: it was characteristic enough, +and took queer ironical dimples, like a +mask which is comic but frozen.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to say you don’t know +what love is?” insisted the Jewess.</p> + +<p>“No!” said Yvette, with insouciant +candour. “I don’t believe I do! Is it +awful of me, at my age?”</p> + +<p>“Is there never any man that makes +you feel quite, quite different?” said the +Jewess, with another big-eyed look at +Eastwood. He smoked, utterly unimplicated.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think there is,” said Yvette. +“Unless—yes!—unless it is that gipsy”—she +had put her head pensively sideways.</p> + +<p>“Which gipsy?” bawled the little +Jewess.</p> + +<p>“The one who was a Tommy and looked +after horses in Major Eastwood’s regiment +in the war,” said Yvette coolly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> + +<p>The little Jewess gazed at Yvette with +great eyes of stupor.</p> + +<p>“You’re not in love with that <i>gipsy</i>!” +she said.</p> + +<p>“Well!” said Yvette. “I don’t know. +He’s the only one that makes me feel—different! +He really is!”</p> + +<p>“But how? How? Has he ever <i>said</i> +anything to you?”</p> + +<p>“No! No!”</p> + +<p>“Then how? What has he done?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, just looked at me!”</p> + +<p>“How?”</p> + +<p>“Well you see, I don’t know. But +different! Yes, different! Different, +quite different from the way any man +ever looked at me.”</p> + +<p>“But <i>how</i> did he look at you?” insisted +the Jewess.</p> + +<p>“Why—as if he really, but <i>really</i>, <i>desired</i> +me,” said Yvette, her meditative face +looking like the bud of a flower.</p> + +<p>“What a vile fellow! What <i>right</i> had +he to look at you like that?” cried the +indignant Jewess.</p> + +<p>“A cat may look at a king,” calmly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>interposed the Major, and now his face +had the smiles of a cat’s face.</p> + +<p>“You think he oughtn’t to?” asked +Yvette, turning to him.</p> + +<p>“Certainly not! A gipsy fellow, with +half a dozen dirty women trailing after him! +Certainly not!” cried the tiny Jewess.</p> + +<p>“I wondered!” said Yvette. “Because +it <i>was</i> rather wonderful, really! And it +<i>was</i> something quite different in my life.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” said the Major, taking his +pipe from his mouth, “that desire is the +most wonderful thing in life. Anybody +who can really feel it, is a king, and I envy +nobody else!” He put back his pipe.</p> + +<p>The Jewess looked at him stupefied.</p> + +<p>“But Charles!” she cried. “Every +common low man in Halifax feels nothing +else!”</p> + +<p>He again took his pipe from his mouth.</p> + +<p>“That’s merely appetite,” he said.</p> + +<p>And he put back his pipe.</p> + +<p>“You think the gipsy is the real thing?” +Yvette asked him.</p> + +<p>He lifted his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“It’s not for me to say,” he replied. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>“If I were you, I should know, I shouldn’t +be asking other people.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—but——” Yvette trailed out.</p> + +<p>“Charles! You’re wrong! How <i>could</i> +it be a real thing! As if she could possibly +marry him and go round in a caravan!”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t say marry him,” said Charles.</p> + +<p>“Or a love affair! Why it’s monstrous! +What would she think of herself!—That’s +not love! That’s—that’s prostitution!”</p> + +<p>Charles smoked for some moments.</p> + +<p>“That gipsy was the best man we had, +with horses. Nearly died of pneumonia. +I thought he <i>was</i> dead. He’s a resurrected +man to me. I’m a resurrected man +myself, as far as that goes.” He looked at +Yvette. “I was buried for twenty hours +under snow,” he said. “And not much +the worse for it, when they dug me out.”</p> + +<p>There was a frozen pause in the conversation.</p> + +<p>“Life’s awful!” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“They dug me out by accident,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Oh!——” Yvette trailed slowly. “It +might be destiny, you know.”</p> + +<p>To which he did not answer.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII"> + VIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The rector heard about Yvette’s intimacy +with the Eastwoods, and she was somewhat +startled by the result. She had thought +he wouldn’t care. Verbally, in his would-be +humorous fashion, he was so entirely +unconventional, such a frightfully good +sport. As he said himself, he was a conservative +anarchist; which meant, he was +like a great many more people, a mere +unbeliever. The anarchy extended to his +humorous talk, and his secret thinking. +The conservatism, based on a mongrel fear +of the anarchy, controlled every action. +His thoughts, secretly, were something to +be scared of. Therefore, in his life, he +was fanatically afraid of the unconventional.</p> + +<p>When his conservatism and his abject +sort of fear were uppermost, he always +lifted his lip and bared his teeth a little, +in a dog-like sneer.</p> + +<p>“I hear your latest friends are the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>half-divorced Mrs. Fawcett and the +<i lang="fr">maquereau</i> Eastwood,” he said to Yvette.</p> + +<p>She didn’t know what a <i lang="fr">maquereau</i> was, +but she felt the poison in the rector’s fangs.</p> + +<p>“I just know them,” she said. “They’re +awfully nice, really. And they’ll be married +in about a month’s time.”</p> + +<p>The rector looked at her insouciant face +with hatred. Somewhere inside him, he +was cowed, he had been born cowed. +And those who are born cowed are natural +slaves, and deep instinct makes them fear +with poisonous fear those who might suddenly +snap the slave’s collar round their +necks.</p> + +<p>It was for this reason the rector had +so abjectly curled up, still so abjectly +curled up before She-who-was-Cynthia: +because of his slave’s fear of her contempt, +the contempt of a born-free nature for a +base-born nature.</p> + +<p>Yvette too had a free-born quality. She +too, one day, would know him, and clap +the slave’s collar of her contempt round +his neck.</p> + +<p>But should she? He would fight to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>death, this time, first. The slave in him +was cornered this time, like a cornered +rat, and with the courage of a cornered +rat.</p> + +<p>“I suppose they’re your sort!” he +sneered.</p> + +<p>“Well, they are, really,” she said, with +that blithe vagueness. “I do like them +awfully. They seem so solid, you know, +so honest.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve got a peculiar notion of +honesty!” he sneered. “A young sponge +going off with a woman older than himself, +so that he can live on her money! The +woman leaving her home and her children! +I don’t know where you get your idea of +honesty. Not from me, I hope.—And +you seem to be very well acquainted with +them, considering you say you just know +them. Where did you meet them?”</p> + +<p>“When I was out bicycling. They came +along in their car, and we happened to +talk. She told me at once who she was, +so that I shouldn’t make a mistake. She +<i>is</i> honest.”</p> + +<p>Poor Yvette was struggling to bear up.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> + +<p>“And how often have you seen them +since?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ve just been over twice.”</p> + +<p>“Over where?”</p> + +<p>“To their cottage in Scoresby.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her in hate, as if he could +kill her. And he backed away from her, +against the window-curtains of his study, +like a rat at bay. Somewhere in his mind +he was thinking unspeakable depravities +about his daughter, as he had thought +them of She-who-was-Cynthia. He was +powerless against the lowest insinuations +of his own mind. And these depravities +which he attributed to the still-uncowed +but frightened girl in front of him, made +him recoil, showing all his fangs in his +handsome face.</p> + +<p>“So you just know them, do you?” he +said. “Lying is in your blood, I see. I +don’t believe you get it from me.”</p> + +<p>Yvette half averted her mute face, and +thought of Granny’s bare-faced prevarication. +She did not answer.</p> + +<p>“What takes you creeping round such +couples?” he sneered. “Aren’t there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>enough decent people in the world for +you to know? Anyone would think you +were a stray dog, having to run round +indecent couples, because the decent +ones wouldn’t have you. Have you +got something worse than lying in your +blood?”</p> + +<p>“What have I got worse than lying in +my blood?” she asked. A cold deadness +was coming over her. Was she abnormal, +one of the semi-criminal abnormals? It +made her feel cold and dead.</p> + +<p>In his eyes, she was just brazening out +the depravity that underlay her virgin, +tender, bird-like face. She-who-was-Cynthia +had been like this: a snow-flower. +And he had convulsions of sadistic +horror, thinking what might be the <i>actual</i> +depravity of She-who-was-Cynthia. Even +his <i>own</i> love for her, which had been the +lust-love of the born cowed, had been a +depravity, in secret, to him. So what +must an illegal love be?</p> + +<p>“You know best yourself, what you +have got,” he sneered. “But it is something +you had best curb, and quickly, if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>you don’t intend to finish in a criminal-lunacy +asylum.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” she said, pale and muted, +numbed with frozen fear. “Why criminal +lunacy? What have I done?”</p> + +<p>“That is between you and your Maker,” +he jeered. “I shall never ask. But certain +tendencies end in criminal lunacy, +unless they are curbed in time.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean like knowing the Eastwoods?” +asked Yvette, after a pause of +numb fear.</p> + +<p>“Do I mean like nosing round such +people as Mrs. Fawcett, a Jewess, and +ex-Major Eastwood, a man who goes off +with an older woman for the sake of her +money? Why yes, I do!”</p> + +<p>“But you <i>can’t</i> say that,” cried Yvette. +“He’s an awfully simple, straightforward +man.”</p> + +<p>“He is apparently one of your sort.”</p> + +<p>“Well.—In a way, I thought he was. +I thought you’d like him too,” she +said simply, hardly knowing what she +said.</p> + +<p>The rector backed into the curtains, as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>if the girl menaced him with something +fearful.</p> + +<p>“Don’t say any more,” he snarled, +abject. “Don’t say any more. You’ve +said too much, to implicate you. I don’t +want to learn any more horrors.”</p> + +<p>“But what horrors?” she persisted.</p> + +<p>The very naïveté of her unscrupulous +innocence repelled him, cowed him still +more.</p> + +<p>“Say no more!” he said, in a low, +hissing voice. “But I will kill you +before you shall go the way of your +mother.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him, as he stood there +backed against the velvet curtains of his +study, his face yellow, his eyes distraught +like a rat’s with fear and rage and hate, +and a numb, frozen loneliness came over +her. For her too, the meaning had gone +out of everything.</p> + +<p>It was hard to break the frozen, sterile +silence that ensued. At last, however, she +looked at him. And in spite of herself, +beyond her own knowledge, the contempt +for him was in her young, clear, baffled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>eyes. It fell like the slave’s collar over +his neck, finally.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean I mustn’t know the +Eastwoods?” she said.</p> + +<p>“You can know them if you wish,” he +sneered. “But you must not expect to +associate with your Granny, and your +Aunt Cissie, and Lucille, if you do. I +cannot have <i>them</i> contaminated. Your +Granny was a faithful wife and a faithful +mother, if ever one existed. She has +already had one shock of shame and +abomination to endure. She shall never +be exposed to another.”</p> + +<p>Yvette heard it all dimly, half hearing.</p> + +<p>“I can send a note and say you disapprove,” +she said dimly.</p> + +<p>“You follow your own course of action. +But remember, you have to choose between +clean people, and reverence for your +Granny’s blameless old age, and people +who are unclean in their minds and their +bodies.”</p> + +<p>Again there was a silence. Then she +looked at him, and her face was more +puzzled than anything. But somewhere +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>at the back of her perplexity was that +peculiar calm, virgin contempt of the +free-born for the base-born. He, and all +the Saywells, were base-born.</p> + +<p>“All right,” she said. “I’ll write and +say you disapprove.”</p> + +<p>He did not answer. He was partly +flattered, secretly triumphant, but abjectly.</p> + +<p>“I have tried to keep this from your +Granny and Aunt Cissie,” he said. “It +need not be public property, since you +choose to make your friendship clandestine.”</p> + +<p>There was a dreary silence.</p> + +<p>“All right,” she said. “I’ll go and +write.”</p> + +<p>And she crept out of the room.</p> + +<p>She addressed her little note to Mrs. +Eastwood. “Dear Mrs. Eastwood, Daddy +doesn’t approve of my coming to see you. +So you will understand if we have to break +it off. I’m awfully sorry——.” That +was all.</p> + +<p>Yet she felt a dreary blank when she +had posted her letter. She was now even +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>afraid of her own thoughts. She wanted, +now, to be held against the slender, fine-shaped +breast of the gipsy. She wanted +him to hold her in his arms, if only for +once, for once, and comfort and confirm +her. She wanted to be confirmed by him, +against her father, who had only a repulsive +fear of her.</p> + +<p>And at the same time she cringed and +winced, so that she could hardly walk, +for fear the thought was obscene, a criminal +lunacy. It seemed to wound her heels as +she walked, the fear. The fear, the great +cold fear of the base-born, her father, +everything human and swarming. Like +a great bog humanity swamped her, and +she sank in, weak at the knees, filled with +repulsion and fear of every person she +met.</p> + +<p>She adjusted herself, however, quite +rapidly to her new conception of people. +She had to live. It is useless to quarrel +with one’s bread and butter. And to +expect a great deal out of life is puerile. +So, with the rapid adaptability of the post-war +generation, she adjusted herself to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>new facts. Her father was what he was. +He would always play up to appearances. +She would do the same. She too would +play up to appearances.</p> + +<p>So, underneath the blithe, gossamer-straying +insouciance, a certain hardness +formed, like rock crystallising in her heart. +She lost her illusions in the collapse of her +sympathies. Outwardly, she seemed the +same. Inwardly she was hard and detached, +and, unknown to herself, revengeful.</p> + +<p>Outwardly she remained the same. It +was part of her game. While circumstances +remained as they were, she must remain, +at least in appearance, true to what was +expected of her.</p> + +<p>But the revengefulness came out in her +new vision of people. Under the rector’s +apparently gallant handsomeness, she saw +the weak, feeble nullity. And she despised +him. Yet still, in a way, she liked him too. +Feelings are so complicated.</p> + +<p>It was Granny whom she came to detest +with all her soul. That obese old woman, +sitting there in her blindness like some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>great red-blotched fungus, her neck swallowed +between her heaped-up shoulders +and her rolling, ancient chins, so that she +was neckless as a double potato, her Yvette +really hated, with that pure, sheer hatred +which is almost a joy. Her hate was so +clear, that while she was feeling strong, +she enjoyed it.</p> + +<p>The old woman sat with her big, +reddened face pressed a little back, her +lace cap perched on her thin white hair, +her stub nose still assertive, and her old +mouth shut like a trap. This motherly +old soul, her mouth gave her away. It +always had been one of the compressed +sort. But in her great age, it had gone +like a toad’s, lipless, the jaw pressing up +like the lower jaw of a trap. The look +Yvette most hated was the look of that +lower jaw pressing relentlessly up, with an +ancient prognathous thrust, so that the +snub nose in turn was forced to press +upwards, and the whole face was pressed +a little back, beneath the big, wall-like +forehead. The will, the ancient, toad-like, +obscene <i>will</i> in the old woman, was fearful, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>once you saw it: a toad-like self-will that +was godless, and less than human! It +belonged to the old, enduring race of +toads, or tortoises. And it made one feel +that Granny would never die. She would +live on like these higher reptiles, in a state +of semi-coma, for ever.</p> + +<p>Yvette dared not even suggest to her +father that Granny was not perfect. He +would have threatened his daughter with +the lunatic asylum. That was the threat +he always seemed to have up his sleeve: +the lunatic asylum. Exactly as if a distaste +for Granny and for that horrible +house of relatives was in itself a proof of +lunacy, dangerous lunacy.</p> + +<p>Yet in one of her moods of irritable +depression, she did once fling out:</p> + +<p>“How perfectly beastly this house is! +Aunt Lucy comes, and Aunt Nell, and +Aunt Alice, and they make a ring like a +ring of crows, with Granny and Aunt +Cissie, all lifting their skirts up and warming +their legs at the fire, and shutting +Lucille and me out. We’re nothing but +outsiders in this beastly house!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p> + +<p>Her father glanced at her curiously. +But she managed to put a petulance into +her speech, and a mere cross rudeness into +her look, so that he could laugh, as at a +childish tantrum. Somewhere, though, +he knew that she coldly, venomously +meant what she said, and he was wary +of her.</p> + +<p>Her life seemed now nothing but an +irritable friction against the unsavoury +household of the Saywells, in which she +was immersed. She loathed the rectory +with a loathing that consumed her life, a +loathing so strong that she could not +really go away from the place. While it +endured, she was spell-bound to it, in +revulsion.</p> + +<p>She forgot the Eastwoods again. After +all, what was the revolt of the little Jewess, +compared to Granny and the Saywell +bunch! A husband was never more than +a semi-casual thing! But a family!—an +awful, smelly family that would never +disperse, stuck half dead round the base +of a fungoid old woman! How was one +to cope with that?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p> + +<p>She did not forget the gipsy entirely. +But she had no time for him. She, who +was bored almost to agony, and who had +nothing at all to do, she had not time to +think even, seriously, of anything. Time +being, after all, only the current of the +soul in its flow.</p> + +<p>She saw the gipsy twice. Once he came +to the house, with things to sell. And she, +watching him from the landing window, +refused to go down. He saw her too, as +he was putting his things back into his +cart. But he too gave no sign. Being of +a race that exists only to be harrying the +outskirts of our society, forever hostile +and living only by spoil, he was too much +master of himself, and too wary, to expose +himself openly to the vast and gruesome +clutch of our law. He had been through +the war. He had been enslaved against +his will, that time.</p> + +<p>So now, he showed himself at the rectory, +and slowly, quietly busied himself at his +cart outside the white gate, with that air +of silent and forever-unyielding outsideness +which gave him his lonely, predative grace. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>He knew she saw him. And she should +see him unyielding, quietly hawking his +copper vessels, on an old, old war-path +against such as herself.</p> + +<p>Such as herself? Perhaps he was mistaken. +Her heart, in its stroke, now rang +hard as his hammer upon his copper, +beating against circumstances. But he +struck stealthily on the outside, and she +still more secretly on the inside of the +establishment. She liked him. She liked +the quiet, noiseless clean-cut presence of +him. She liked that mysterious endurance +in him, which endures in opposition, without +any idea of victory. And she liked that +peculiar added relentlessness, the disillusion +in hostility, which belongs to after +the war. Yes, if she belonged to any side, +and to any clan, it was to his. Almost she +could have found it in her heart to go +with him, and be a pariah gipsy-woman.</p> + +<p>But she was born inside the pale. And +she liked comfort, and a certain prestige. +Even as a mere rector’s daughter, one did +have a certain prestige. And she liked +that. Also she liked to chip against the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>pillars of the temple, from the inside. She +wanted to be safe under the temple roof. +Yet she enjoyed chipping fragments off +the supporting pillars. Doubtless many +fragments had been whittled away from +the pillars of the Philistine, before Samson +pulled the temple down.</p> + +<p>“I’m not sure one shouldn’t have one’s +fling till one is twenty-six, and then give +in, and marry!”</p> + +<p>This was Lucille’s philosophy, learned +from older women. Yvette was twenty-one. +It meant she had five more years in +which to have this precious fling. And +the fling meant, at the moment, the gipsy. +The marriage, at the age of twenty-six, +meant Leo or Gerry.</p> + +<p>So, a woman could eat her cake and +have her bread and butter.</p> + +<p>Yvette, pitched in gruesome, deadlocked +hostility to the Saywell household, +was very old and very wise: with the +agedness and the wisdom of the young, +which always overleaps the agedness and +the wisdom of the old, or the elderly.</p> + +<p>The second time she met the gipsy by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>accident. It was March, and sunny +weather, after unheard-of rains. Celandines +were yellow in the hedges, and primroses +among the rocks. But still there came a +smell of sulphur from far-away steel-works, +out of the steel-blue sky.</p> + +<p>And yet it was spring!</p> + +<p>Yvette was cycling slowly along by +Codnor Gate, past the lime quarries, when +she saw the gipsy coming away from the +door of a stone cottage. His cart stood +there in the road. He was returning with +his brooms and copper things, to the cart.</p> + +<p>She got down from her bicycle. As she +saw him, she loved with curious tenderness +the slim lines of his body in the green +jersey, the turn of his silent face. She felt +she knew him better than she knew anybody +on earth, even Lucille, and belonged +to him, in some way, for ever.</p> + +<p>“Have you made anything new and +nice?” she asked innocently, looking at +his copper things.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think,” he said, glancing back +at her.</p> + +<p>The desire was still there, still curious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>and naked, in his eyes. But it was more +remote, the boldness was diminished. +There was a tiny glint, as if he might +dislike her. But this dissolved again, as +he saw her looking among his bits of +copper and brass-work. She searched them +diligently.</p> + +<p>There was a little oval brass plate, with +a queer figure like a palm-tree beaten +upon it.</p> + +<p>“I like that,” she said. “How much +is it?”</p> + +<p>“What you like,” he said.</p> + +<p>This made her nervous: he seemed off-hand, +almost mocking.</p> + +<p>“I’d rather you said,” she told him, +looking up at him.</p> + +<p>“You give me what you like,” he +said.</p> + +<p>“No!” she said, suddenly. “If you +won’t tell me I won’t have it.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said. “Two shilling.”</p> + +<p>She found half-a-crown, and he drew +from his pocket a handful of silver, from +which he gave her her sixpence.</p> + +<p>“The old gipsy dreamed something +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>about you,” he said, looking at her with +curious, searching eyes.</p> + +<p>“Did she!” cried Yvette, at once +interested. “What was it?”</p> + +<p>“She said: Be braver in your heart, +or you lose your game. She said it this +way: ‘Be braver in your body, or your +luck will leave you.’ And she said as well: +‘Listen for the voice of water.’”</p> + +<p>Yvette was very much impressed.</p> + +<p>“And what does it mean?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I asked her,” he said. “She says she +don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me again what it was,” said +Yvette.</p> + +<p>“‘Be braver in your body, or your luck +will go.’ And: ‘Listen for the voice of +water.’”</p> + +<p>He looked in silence at her soft, pondering +face. Something almost like a perfume +seemed to flow from her young bosom +direct to him, in a grateful connection.</p> + +<p>“I’m to be braver in my body, and I’m +to listen for the voice of water! All +right!” she said. “I don’t understand, +but perhaps I shall.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> + +<p>She looked at him with clear eyes. Man +or woman is made up of many selves. +With one self, she loved this gipsy man. +With many selves, she ignored him or had +a distaste for him.</p> + +<p>“You’re not coming up to the Head +no more?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Again she looked at him absently.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I will,” she said, “some +time. Some time.”</p> + +<p>“Spring weather!” he said, smiling +faintly and glancing round at the sun. +“We’re going to break camp soon, and +go away.”</p> + +<p>“When?” she said.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps next week.”</p> + +<p>“Where to?”</p> + +<p>Again he made a move with his head.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps up north,” he said.</p> + +<p>She looked at him.</p> + +<p>“All right!” she said. “Perhaps I +<i>will</i> come up before you go, and say goodbye +to your wife and to the old woman +who sent me the message.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="IX"> + IX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Yvette did not keep her promise. The +few March days were lovely, and she let +them slip. She had a curious reluctance, +always, towards taking action, or making +any real move of her own. She always +wanted someone else to make a move for +her, as if she did not want to play her +own game of life.</p> + +<p>She lived as usual, went out to her +friends, to parties, and danced with the +undiminished Leo. She wanted to go up +and say goodbye to the gipsies. She wanted +to. And nothing prevented her.</p> + +<p>On the Friday afternoon especially she +wanted to go. It was sunny, and the last +yellow crocuses down the drive were in full +blaze, wide open, the first bees rolling in +them. The Papple rushed under the stone +bridge, uncannily full, nearly filling the +arches. There was the scent of a mezereon +tree.</p> + +<p>And she felt too lazy, too lazy, too lazy. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>She strayed in the garden by the river, +half dreamy, expecting something. While +the gleam of spring sun lasted, she would +be out of doors. Indoors Granny, sitting +back like some awful old prelate, in her +bulk of black silk and her white lace cap, +was warming her feet by the fire, and +hearing everything that Aunt Nell had +to say. Friday was Aunt Nell’s day. +She usually came for lunch, and left after +an early tea. So the mother and the large, +rather common daughter, who was a widow +at the age of forty, sat gossiping by the fire, +while Aunt Cissie prowled in and out. +Friday was the rector’s day for going to +town: it was also the housemaid’s half day.</p> + +<p>Yvette sat on a wooden seat in the +garden, only a few feet above the bank of +the swollen river, which rolled a strange, +uncanny mass of water. The crocuses were +passing in the ornamental beds, the grass +was dark green where it was mown, the +laurels looked a little brighter. Aunt +Cissie appeared at the top of the porch +steps, and called to ask if Yvette wanted +that early cup of tea. Because of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>river just below, Yvette could not hear +what Aunt Cissie said, but she guessed, +and shook her head. An early cup of tea, +indoors, when the sun actually shone? +No thanks!</p> + +<p>She was conscious of her gipsy, as she +sat there musing in the sun. Her soul +had the half painful, half easing knack of +leaving her, and straying away to some +place, to somebody that had caught her +imagination. Some days she would be +at the Framleys’, even though she did not +go near them. Some days, she was all +the time in spirit with the Eastwoods. +And today it was the gipsies. She was up +at their encampment in the quarry. She +saw the man hammering his copper, +lifting his head to look at the road; and +the children playing in the horse-shelter: +and the women, the gipsy’s wife and the +strong, elderly woman, coming home with +their packs, along with the elderly man. +For this afternoon, she felt intensely that +<i>that</i> was home for her: the gipsy camp, +the fire, the stool, the man with the +hammer, the old crone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> + +<p>It was part of her nature, to get these +fits of yearning for some place she knew; +to be in a certain place; with somebody +who meant home to her. This afternoon +it was the gipsy camp. And the man in +the green jersey made it home to her. Just +to be where he was, that was to be at home. +The caravans, the brats, the other women: +everything was natural to her, her home, +as if she had been born there. She +wondered if the gipsy was aware of her: +if he could see her sitting on the stool by +the fire; if he would lift his head and see +her as she rose, looking at him slowly and +significantly, turning towards the steps +of his caravan. Did he know? Did +he know?</p> + +<p>Vaguely she looked up the steep of dark +larch trees north of the house, where +unseen the road climbed, going towards +the Head. There was nothing, and her +glance strayed down again. At the foot +of the slope the river turned, thrown back +harshly, ominously, against the low rocks +across stream, then pouring past the garden +to the bridge. It was unnaturally full, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>and whitey-muddy, and ponderous, +“Listen for the voice of water,” she said +to herself. “No need to listen for it, +if the voice means the noise!”</p> + +<p>And again she looked at the swollen +river breaking angrily as it came round +the bend. Above it the black-looking +kitchen garden hung, and the hard-natured +fruit trees. Everything was on +the tilt, facing south and south-west, for +the sun. Behind, above the house and +the kitchen garden hung the steep little +wood of withered-seeming larches. The +gardener was working in the kitchen +garden, high up there, by the edge of the +larch-wood.</p> + +<p>She heard a call. It was Aunt Cissie +and Aunt Nell. They were on the drive, +waving Goodbye! Yvette waved back. +Then Aunt Cissie, pitching her voice +against the waters, called:</p> + +<p>“I shan’t be long. Don’t forget Granny +is alone!”</p> + +<p>“All right!” screamed Yvette rather +ineffectually.</p> + +<p>And she sat on her bench and watched +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>the two undignified, long-coated women +walk slowly over the bridge and begin +the curving climb on the opposite slope, +Aunt Nell carrying a sort of suit-case in +which she brought a few goods for Granny +and took back vegetables or whatever +the rectory garden or cupboard was +yielding. Slowly the two figures diminished, +on the whitish, up-curving road, +labouring slowly up towards Papplewick +village. Aunt Cissie was going as far as +the village for something.</p> + +<p>The sun was yellowing to decline. +What a pity! Oh what a pity the sunny +day was going, and she would have to +turn indoors, to those hateful rooms, and +Granny! Aunt Cissie would be back +directly: it was past five. And all the +others would be arriving from town, +rather irritable and tired, soon after six.</p> + +<p>As she looked uneasily round, she heard, +across the running of water, the sharp +noise of a horse and cart rattling on the +road hidden in the larch trees. The +gardener was looking up too. Yvette +turned away again, lingering, strolling by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>the full river a few paces, unwilling to go +in; glancing up the road to see if Aunt +Cissie were coming. If she saw her, she +would go indoors.</p> + +<p>She heard somebody shouting, and +looked round. Down the path through +the larch trees the gipsy was bounding. +The gardener, away beyond, was also +running. Simultaneously she became +aware of a great roar, which, before she +could move, accumulated to a vast deafening +snarl. The gipsy was gesticulating. +She looked round, behind her.</p> + +<p>And to her horror and amazement, +round the bend of the river she saw a +shaggy, tawny wave-front of water advancing +like a wall of lions. The roaring +sound wiped out everything. She was +powerless, too amazed and wonder-struck, +she wanted to see it.</p> + +<p>Before she could think twice, it was near, +a roaring cliff of water. She almost +fainted with horror. She heard the scream +of the gipsy, and looked up to see him +bounding upon her, his black eyes starting +out of his head.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> + +<p>“Run!” he screamed, seizing her +arm.</p> + +<p>And in the instant the first wave was +washing her feet from under her, swirling, +in the insane noise, which suddenly for +some reason seemed like stillness, with a +devouring flood over the garden. The +horrible mowing of water!</p> + +<p>The gipsy dragged her heavily, lurching, +plunging, but still keeping foot-hold both +of them, towards the house. She was +barely conscious: as if the flood was in +her soul.</p> + +<p>There was one grass-banked terrace of +the garden, near the path round the house. +The gipsy clawed his way up this terrace +to the dry level of the path, dragging her +after him, and sprang with her past the +windows to the porch steps. Before they +got there, a new great surge of water came +mowing, mowing trees down even, and +mowed them down too.</p> + +<p>Yvette felt herself gone in an agonising +mill-race of icy water, whirled, with only +the fearful grip of the gipsy’s hand on her +wrist. They were both down and gone. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>She felt a dull but stunning bruise somewhere.</p> + +<p>Then he pulled her up. He was up, +streaming forth water, clinging to the stem +of the great wisteria that grew against the +wall, crushed against the wall by the water. +Her head was above water, he held her +arm till it seemed dislocated: but she +could not get her footing. With a ghastly +sickness like a dream, she struggled and +struggled, and could not get her feet. +Only his hand was locked on her wrist.</p> + +<p>He dragged her nearer till her one hand +caught his leg. He nearly went down +again. But the wisteria held him, and he +pulled her up to him. She clawed at him, +horribly; and got to her feet, he hanging +on like a man torn in two, to the wisteria +trunk.</p> + +<p>The water was above her knees. The +man and she looked into each other’s +ghastly streaming faces.</p> + +<p>“Get to the steps!” he screamed.</p> + +<p>It was only just round the corner: four +strides! She looked at him: she could +not go. His eyes glared on her like a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>tiger’s, and he pushed her from him. She +clung to the wall, and the water seemed +to abate a little. Round the corner she +staggered, but staggering, reeled and was +pitched up against the cornice of the +balustrade of the porch steps, the man +after her.</p> + +<p>They got on to the steps, when another +roar was heard amid the roar, and the +wall of the house shook. Up heaved the +water round their legs again, but the gipsy +had opened the hall door. In they poured +with the water, reeling to the stairs. And as +they did so, they saw the short but strange +bulk of Granny emerge in the hall, away +down from the dining-room door. She +had her hands lifted and clawing, as the +first water swirled round her legs, and her +coffin-like mouth was opened in a hoarse +scream.</p> + +<p>Yvette was blind to everything but the +stairs. Blind, unconscious of everything +save the steps rising beyond the water, +she clambered up like a wet, shuddering +cat, in a state of unconsciousness. It was +not till she was on the landing, dripping +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>and shuddering till she could not stand +erect, clinging to the banisters, while the +house shook and the water raved below, +that she was aware of the sodden gipsy, +in paroxysms of coughing at the head of +the stairs, his cap gone, his black hair over +his eyes, peering between his washed-down +hair at the sickening heave of water below, +in the hall. Yvette, fainting, looked too +and saw Granny bob up, like a strange +float, her face purple, her blind blue eyes +bolting, spume hissing from her mouth. +One old purple hand clawed at a banister +rail, and held for a moment, showing the +glint of a wedding ring.</p> + +<p>The gipsy, who had coughed himself +free and pushed back his hair, said to that +awful float-like face below:</p> + +<p>“Not good enough! Not good enough!”</p> + +<p>With a low thud like thunder, the house +was struck again, and shuddered, and a +strange cracking, rattling, spitting noise +began. Up heaved the water like a +sea. The hand was gone, all sign +of anything was gone, but upheaving +water.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> + +<p>Yvette turned in blind unconscious +frenzy, staggering like a wet cat to the +upper staircase, and climbing swiftly. +It was not till she was at the door of her +room that she stopped, paralysed by the +sound of a sickening, tearing crash, while +the house swayed.</p> + +<p>“The house is coming down!” yelled +the green-white face of the gipsy, in her +face.</p> + +<p>He glared into her crazed face.</p> + +<p>“Where is the chimney? the back +chimney?—which room? The chimney +will stand——”</p> + +<p>He glared with strange ferocity into her +face, forcing her to understand. And she +nodded with a strange, crazed poise, +nodded quite serenely, saying:</p> + +<p>“In here! In here! It’s all right.”</p> + +<p>They entered her room, which had a +narrow fire-place. It was a back room +with two windows, one on each side the +great chimney-flue. The gipsy, coughing +bitterly and trembling in every limb, went +to the window to look out.</p> + +<p>Below, between the house and the steep +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>rise of the hill, was a wild mill-race of +water rushing with refuse, including +Rover’s green dog-kennel. The gipsy +coughed and coughed, and gazed down +blankly. Tree after tree went down, +mown by the water, which must have been +ten feet deep.</p> + +<p>Shuddering and pressing his sodden +arms on his sodden breast, a look of +resignation on his livid face, he turned to +Yvette. A fearful tearing noise tore the +house, then there was a deep, watery +explosion. Something had gone down, +some part of the house, the floor heaved +and wavered beneath them. For some +moments both were suspended, stupefied. +Then he roused.</p> + +<p>“Not good enough! Not good enough! +This will stand. This here will stand. +See that chimney! like a tower. Yes! +All right! All right! You take your +clothes off and go to bed. You’ll die +of the cold.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all right! It’s quite all right!” +she said to him, sitting on a chair and +looking up into his face with her white, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>insane little face, round which the hair +was plastered.</p> + +<p>“No!” he cried. “No! Take your +things off and I rub you with this towel. +I rub myself. If the house falls then die +warm. If it don’t fall, then live, not die +of pneumonia.”</p> + +<p>Coughing, shuddering violently, he +pulled up his jersey hem and wrestled with +all his shuddering, cold-racked might, to +get off his wet, tight jersey.</p> + +<p>“Help me!” he cried, his face muffled.</p> + +<p>She seized the edge of the jersey, +obediently, and pulled with all her might. +The garment came over his head, and he +stood in his braces.</p> + +<p>“Take your things off! Rub with this +towel!” he commanded ferociously, the +savageness of the war on him. And like +a thing obsessed, he pushed himself out of +his trousers, and got out of his wet, clinging +shirt, emerging slim and livid, shuddering +in every fibre with cold and shock.</p> + +<p>He seized a towel, and began quickly to +rub his body, his teeth chattering like +plates rattling together. Yvette dimly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>saw it was wise. She tried to get out of +her dress. He pulled the horrible wet +death-gripping thing off her, then, resuming +his rubbing, went to the door, tip-toeing +on the wet floor.</p> + +<p>There he stood, naked, towel in hand, +petrified. He looked west, towards where +the upper landing window had been, and +was looking into the sunset, over an insane +sea of waters, bristling with uptorn trees +and refuse. The end corner of the house +where the porch had been, and the stairs, +had gone. The wall had fallen, leaving the +floors sticking out. The stairs had gone.</p> + +<p>Motionless, he watched the water. A +cold wind blew in upon him. He clenched +his rattling teeth with a great effort of will, +and turned into the room again, closing +the door.</p> + +<p>Yvette, naked, shuddering so much that +she was sick, was trying to wipe herself dry.</p> + +<p>“All right!” he cried. “All right! +The water don’t rise no more! All +right!”</p> + +<p>With his towel he began to rub her, +himself shaking all over, but holding her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>gripped by the shoulder, and slowly, +numbedly rubbing her tender body, even +trying to rub up into some dryness the +pitiful hair of her small head.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he left off.</p> + +<p>“Better lie in the bed,” he commanded, +“I want to rub myself.”</p> + +<p>His teeth went snap-snap-snap-snap, in +great snaps, cutting off his words. Yvette +crept shaking and semi-conscious into her +bed. He, making strained efforts to hold +himself still and rub himself warm, went +again to the north window, to look out.</p> + +<p>The water had risen a little. The sun +had gone down, and there was a reddish +glow. He rubbed his hair into a black, +wet tangle, then paused for breath, in a +sudden access of shuddering, then looked +out again, then rubbed again on his +breast, and began to cough afresh, because +of the water he had swallowed. His towel +was red: he had hurt himself somewhere: +but he felt nothing.</p> + +<p>There was still the strange huge noise +of water, and the horrible bump of things +bumping against the walls. The wind +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>was rising with sundown, cold and hard. +The house shook with explosive thuds, +and weird, weird frightening noises came +up.</p> + +<p>A terror creeping over his soul, he went +again to the door. The wind, roaring +with the waters, blew in as he opened it. +Through the awesome gap in the house he +saw the world, the waters, the chaos of +horrible waters, the twilight, the perfect +new moon high above the sunset, a faint +thing, and clouds pushing dark into the +sky, on the cold, blustery wind.</p> + +<p>Clenching his teeth again, fear mingling +with resignation, or fatalism, in his soul, +he went into the room and closed the door, +picking up her towel to see if it were drier +than his own, and less blood-stained, again +rubbing his head, and going to the window.</p> + +<p>He turned away, unable to control his +spasms of shivering. Yvette had disappeared +right under the bedclothes, and +nothing of her was visible but a shivering +mound under the white quilt. He laid +his hand on this shivering mound, as if for +company. It did not stop shivering.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> + +<p>“All right!” he said. “All right! +Water’s going down!”</p> + +<p>She suddenly uncovered her head and +peered out at him from a white face. She +peered into his greenish, curiously calm +face, semiconscious. His teeth were chattering +unheeded, as he gazed down at her, +his black eyes still full of the fire of life +and a certain vagabond calm of fatalistic +resignation.</p> + +<p>“Warm me!” she moaned, with chattering +teeth. “Warm me! I shall die of +shivering.”</p> + +<p>A terrible convulsion went through her +curled-up white body, enough indeed to +rupture her and cause her to die.</p> + +<p>The gipsy nodded, and took her in his +arms, and held her in a clasp like a vice, +to still his own shuddering. He himself +was shuddering fearfully, and only semiconscious. +It was the shock.</p> + +<p>The vice-like grip of his arms round her +seemed to her the only stable point in her +consciousness. It was a fearful relief to +her heart, which was strained to bursting. +And though his body, wrapped round her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>strange and lithe and powerful, like +tentacles, rippled with shuddering as an +electric current, still the rigid tension of +the muscles that held her clenched steadied +them both, and gradually the sickening +violence of the shuddering, caused by +shock, abated, in his body first, then in +hers, and the warmth revived between +them. And as it roused, their tortured, +semiconscious minds became unconscious, +they passed away into sleep.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="X"> + X + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The sun was shining in heaven before men +were able to get across the Papple with +ladders. The bridge was gone. But the +flood had abated, and the house, that +leaned forwards as if it were making a +stiff bow to the stream, stood now in mud +and wreckage, with a great heap of fallen +masonry and debris at the south-west +corner. Awful were the gaping mouths of +rooms!</p> + +<p>Inside, there was no sign of life. But +across-stream the gardener had come to +reconnoitre, and the cook appeared, +thrilled with curiosity. She had escaped +from the back door and up through the +larches to the high-road, when she saw +the gipsy bound past the house: thinking +he was coming to murder somebody. At +the little top gate she had found his cart +standing. The gardener had led the horse +away to the Red Lion up at Darley, when +night had fallen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> + +<p>This the men from Papplewick learned +when at last they got across the stream +with ladders, and to the back of the house. +They were nervous, fearing a collapse +of the building, whose front was all undermined +and whose back was choked up. +They gazed with horror at the silent +shelves of the rector’s rows of books, in +his torn-open study; at the big brass bedstead +of Granny’s room, the bed so deep +and comfortably made, but one brass leg +of the bedstead perching tentatively over +the torn void; at the wreckage of the +maid’s room upstairs. The housemaid +and the cook wept. Then a man climbed +in cautiously through a smashed kitchen +window, into the jungle and morass of the +ground floor. He found the body of the +old woman: or at least he saw her foot, +in its flat black slipper, muddily protruding +from a mud-heap of debris. And +he fled.</p> + +<p>The gardener said he was sure that Miss +Yvette was not in the house. He had +seen her and the gipsy swept away. But +the policeman insisted on a search, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>the Framley boys rushing up at last, the +ladders were roped together. Then the +whole party set up a loud yell. But without +result. No answer from within.</p> + +<p>A ladder was up, Bob Framley climbed, +smashed a window, and clambered into +Aunt Cissie’s room. The perfect homely +familiarity of everything terrified him like +ghosts. The house might go down any +minute.</p> + +<p>They had just got the ladder up to the +top floor, when men came running from +Darley, saying the old gipsy had been to +the Red Lion for the horse and cart, +leaving word that his son had seen Yvette +at the top of the house. But by that time +the policeman was smashing the window +of Yvette’s room.</p> + +<p>Yvette, fast asleep, started from under +the bedclothes with a scream, as the glass +flew. She clutched the sheets round her +nakedness. The policeman uttered a +startled yell, which he converted into a cry +of: “Miss Yvette! Miss Yvette!”</p> + +<p>He turned round on the ladder and +shouted to the faces below:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> + +<p>“Miss Yvette’s in bed!—in bed!”</p> + +<p>And he perched there on the ladder, +an unmarried man, clutching the window +in peril, not knowing what to do.</p> + +<p>Yvette sat up in bed, her hair in a matted +tangle, and stared with wild eyes, clutching +up the sheets at her naked breast. She +had been so very fast asleep, that she was +still not there.</p> + +<p>The policeman, terrified at the flabby +ladder, climbed into the room, saying:</p> + +<p>“Don’t be frightened, Miss! Don’t +you worry any more about it. You’re +safe now.”</p> + +<p>And Yvette, so dazed, thought he meant +the gipsy. Where was the gipsy? This +was the first thing in her mind. Where +was her gipsy of this world’s-end night?</p> + +<p>He was gone! He was gone! And a +policeman was in the room! A policeman!</p> + +<p>She rubbed her hand over her dazed +brow.</p> + +<p>“If you’ll get dressed, Miss, we can +get you down to safe ground. The house +is likely to fall. I suppose there’s nobody +in the other rooms?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span></p> + +<p>He stepped gingerly into the passage +and gazed in terror through the torn-out +end of the house, and far-off saw the rector +coming down in a motor-car, on the sun-lit +hill.</p> + +<p>Yvette, her face gone numb and disappointed, +got up quickly, closing the bedclothes, +and looked at herself a moment, +then opened her drawers for clothing. +She dressed herself, then looked in a +mirror, and saw her matted hair with +horror. Yet she did not care. The gipsy +was gone, anyhow.</p> + +<p>Her own clothes lay in a sodden heap. +There was a great sodden place on the +carpet where his had been, and two blood-stained +filthy towels. Otherwise there +was no sign of him.</p> + +<p>She was tugging at her hair when the +policeman tapped at her door. She called +him to come in. He saw with relief +that she was dressed and in her right +senses.</p> + +<p>“We’d better get out of the house as +soon as possible, Miss,” he reiterated. “It +might fall any minute.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> + +<p>“Really!” said Yvette calmly. “Is it +as bad as that?”</p> + +<p>There were great shouts. She had to +go to the window. There, below, was +the rector, his arms wide open, tears +streaming down his face.</p> + +<p>“I’m perfectly all right, Daddy!” she +said, with the calmness of her contradictory +feelings. She would keep the gipsy a +secret from him. At the same time, tears +ran down her face.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you cry, Miss, don’t you cry! +The rector’s lost his mother, but he’s +thanking his stars to have his daughter. +We all thought you were gone as well, +we did that!”</p> + +<p>“Is Granny drowned?” said Yvette.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid she is, poor lady!” said +the policeman, with a grave face.</p> + +<p>Yvette wept away into her hanky, which +she had had to fetch from a drawer.</p> + +<p>“Dare you go down that ladder, Miss?” +said the policeman.</p> + +<p>Yvette looked at the sagging depth of it, +and said promptly to herself: “No! Not +for anything!”—But then she remembered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>the gipsy’s saying: “Be braver in the +body.”</p> + +<p>“Have you been in all the other +rooms?” she said, in her weeping, turning +to the policeman.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Miss! But you was the only +person in the house, you know, save the +old lady. Cook got away in time, and +Lizzie was up at her mother’s. It was +only you and the poor old lady we was +fretting about. Do you think you dare +go down that ladder?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes!” said Yvette, with indifference. +The gipsy was gone anyway.</p> + +<p>And now the rector in torment watched +his tall, slender daughter slowly stepping +backwards down the sagging ladder, the +policeman, peering heroically from the +smashed window, holding the ladder’s +top end.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the ladder Yvette appropriately +fainted in her father’s arms, and +was borne away with him, in the car, by +Bob, to the Framley home. There the +poor Lucille, a ghost of ghosts, wept with +relief till she had hysterics, and even Aunt +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>Cissie cried out among her tears: “Let +the old be taken and the young spared! +Oh I <i>can’t</i> cry for the Mater, now Yvette +is spared!”</p> + +<p>And she wept gallons.</p> + +<p>The flood was caused by the sudden +bursting of the great reservoir, up in +Papple Highdale, five miles from the +rectory. It was found out later that an +ancient, perhaps even a Roman mine +tunnel, unsuspected, undreamed of, beneath +the reservoir dam, had collapsed, +undermining the whole dam. That was +why the Papple had been, for that last +day, so uncannily full. And then the dam +had burst.</p> + +<p>The rector and the two girls stayed on +at the Framleys’, till a new home could be +found. Yvette did not attend Granny’s +funeral. She stayed in bed.</p> + +<p>Telling her tale, she only told how the +gipsy had got her inside the porch, and +she had crawled to the stairs out of the +water. It was known that he had escaped: +the old gipsy had said so, when he fetched +the horse and cart from the Red Lion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span></p> + +<p>Yvette could tell little. She was vague, +confused, she seemed hardly to remember +anything. But that was just like her.</p> + +<p>It was Bob Framley who said:</p> + +<p>“You know, I think that gipsy deserves +a medal.”</p> + +<p>The whole family suddenly was struck.</p> + +<p>“Oh, we <i>ought</i> to thank him!” cried +Lucille.</p> + +<p>The rector himself went with Bob in the +car. But the quarry was deserted. The +gipsies had lifted camp and gone, no one +knew whither.</p> + +<p>And Yvette, lying in bed, moaned in +her heart: Oh, I love him! I love +him! I love him! The grief over him +kept her prostrate. Yet practically, she +too was acquiescent in the fact of his +disappearance. Her young soul knew the +wisdom of it.</p> + +<p>But after Granny’s funeral, she received +a little letter, dated from some unknown +place.</p> + +<p>“Dear Miss, I see in the paper you are +all right after your ducking, as is the same +with me. I hope I see you again one day, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>maybe at Tideswell cattle fair, or maybe +we come that way again. I come that +day to say goodbye! and I never said it, +well, the water give no time, but I live in +hopes. Your <abbr title="obedient">obdt.</abbr> servant Joe Boswell.”</p> + +<p>And only then she realised that he had +a name.</p> + +<br><br> +<p class="center"><i>The Botolph Printing Works, Gate Street, Kingsway, W.C.2</i></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </h2> +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained.</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 41 added comma following “so still”</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">pp. 84 and 86 italicized the exclamation point in “<i>Tirra-lirra!</i>”</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 131 changed open quote to close quote following “<i>sexual</i>—”</span> +</p> +</div> + + + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78189 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |