Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

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      “Go on,” I said.

      “Well — she was engaged to him —

      “Pah — you thought you were too good to be rejected.”

      He was very pale, and when he was pale, the tan on his skin looked sickly. He regarded me with his dark eyes, which were now full of misery and a child’s big despair.

      “And nothing else,” I completed, with which the little, exhausted gunboat of my anger wrecked and sank utterly. Yet no thoughts would spread sail on the sea of my pity: I was like water that heaves with yearning, and is still.

      Leslie was very ill for some time. He had a slight brain fever, and was delirious, insisting that Lettie was leaving him. She stayed most of her days at Highclose.

      One day in June he lay resting on a deck-chair in the shade of the cedar, and she was sitting by him. It was a yellow, sultry day, when all the atmosphere seemed inert, and all things were languid.

      “Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “it would be better for us not to marry?”

      He lifted his head nervously from the cushions; his face was emblazoned with a livid red bar on a field of white, and he looked worn, wistful.

      “Do you mean not yet?” he asked.

      “Yes — and, perhaps — perhaps never.”

      “Ha,” he laughed, sinking down again. “I must be getting like myself again, if you begin to tease me.”

      “But,” she said, struggling valiantly, “I’m not sure I ought to marry you.”

      He laughed again, though a little apprehensively.

      “Are you afraid I shall always be weak in my noddle?” he asked. “But you wait a month.”

      “No, that doesn’t bother me —”

      “Oh, doesn’t it!”

      “Silly boy — no, it’s myself.”

      “I’m sure I’ve made no complaint about you.”

      “Not likely — but I wish you’d let me go.”

      “I’m a strong man to hold you, aren’t I? Look at my muscular paw!”— he held out his hands, frail and white with sickness.

      “You know you hold me — and I want you to let me go. I don’t want to

      “To what?”

      “To get married at all — let me be, let me go.”

      “What for?”

      “Oh — for my sake.”

      “You mean you don’t love me?”

      “Love — love — I don’t know anything about it. But I can’t — we can’t be-don’t you see — oh, what do they say — flesh of one flesh.”

      “Why?” he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery.

      She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards hers his white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot understand, and is afraid, and wants to cry. Then slowly tears gathered full in her eyes, and she wept from pity and despair.

      This excited him terribly. He got up from his chair, and the cushions fell on to the grass.

      “What’s the matter, what’s the matter! — Oh, Lettie — is it me? — don’t you want me now? — is that it? — tell me, tell me now, tell me,”— he grasped her wrists, and tried to pull her hands from her face. The tears were running down his cheeks. She felt him trembling, and the sound of his voice alarmed her from herself. She hastily smeared the tears from her eyes, got up, and put her arms round him. He hid his head on her shoulder and sobbed, while she bent over him, and so they cried out their cries, till they were ashamed, looking round to see if anyone were near. Then she hurried about, picking up the cushions, making him lie down, and arranging him comfortably, so that she might be busy. He was querulous, like a sick, indulged child. He would have her arm under his shoulders, and her face near his.

      “Well,” he said, smiling faintly again after a time. “You are naughty to give us such rough times — is it for the pleasure of making up, bad little Schnucke — aren’t you?”

      She kept close to him, and he did not see the wince and quiver of her lips.

      “I wish I was strong again — couldn’t we go boating — or ride on horseback — and you’d have to behave then. Do you think I shall be strong in a month? Stronger than you?”

      “I hope so,” she said.

      “Why, I don’t believe you do, I believe you like me like this — so that you can lay me down and smooth me — don’t you, quiet girl?”

      “When you’re good.”

      “Ah, well, in a month I shall be strong, and we’ll be married and go to Switzerland — do you hear, Schnucke — you won’t be able to be naughty any more then. Oh — do you want to go away from me again?”

      “No — only my arm is dead,” she drew it from beneath him, standing up, swinging it, smiling because it hurt her.

      “Oh, my darling — what a shame! Oh, I am a brute, a kiddish brute. I wish I was strong again, Lettie, and didn’t do these things.”

      “You boy — it’s nothing.” She smiled at him again.

      Chapter 6

       The Courting

       Table of Contents

      During Leslie’s illness I strolled down to the mill one Saturday evening. I met George tramping across the yard with a couple of buckets of swill, and eleven young pigs rushing squealing about his legs, shrieking in an agony of suspense. He poured the stuff into a trough with luscious gurgle, and instantly ten noses were dipped in, and ten little mouths began to slobber. Though there was plenty of room for ten, yet they shouldered and shoved and struggled to capture a larger space, and many little trotters dabbled and spilled the stuff, and the ten sucking, clapping snouts twitched fiercely, and twenty little eyes glared askance, like so many points of wrath. They gave uneasy, gasping grunts in their haste. The unhappy eleventh rushed from point to point trying to push in his snout, but for his pains he got rough squeezing, and sharp grabs on the ears. Then he lifted up his face and screamed screams of grief and wrath unto the evening sky.

      But the ten little gluttons only twitched their ears to make sure there was no danger in the noise, and they sucked harder, with much spilling and slobbing. George laughed like a sardonic Jove, but at last he gave ear, and kicked the ten gluttons from the trough, and allowed the residue to the eleventh. This one, poor wretch, almost wept with relief as he sucked and swallowed in sobs, casting his little eyes apprehensively upwards, though he did not lift his nose from the trough, СКАЧАТЬ