There was still no one at the clearing.The chicks had nearly all gone under the mother-hens,only one or two last adventurous ones still dibbed about in the dryness under the straw roof shelter.And they were doubtful of themselves.
So!He still had not been.He was staying away on purpose.Or perhaps something was wrong.Perhaps she should go to the cottage and see.
But she was born to wait.She opened the hut with her key.It was all tidy,the corn put in the bin,the blankets folded on the shelf,the straw neat in a corner;a new bundle of straw.The hurricane lamp hung on a nail.
The table and chair had been put back where she had lain.
She sat down on a stool in the doorway.How still everything was!The fine rain blew very softly,filmily,but the wind made no noise.Nothing made any sound.The trees stood like powerful beings,dim,twilit,silent and alive.How alive everything was!
Night was drawing near again;she would have to go.He was avoiding her.
But suddenly he came striding into the clearing,in his black oilskin jacket like a chauffeur,shining with wet.He glanced quickly at the hut,half-saluted,then veered aside and went on to the coops.There he crouched in silence,looking carefully at everything,then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe against the night.
At last he came slowly towards her.She still sat on her stool.He stood before her under the porch.
'You come then,'he said,using the intonation of the dialect.
'Yes,'she said,looking up at him.'You're late!'
'Ay!'he replied,looking away into the wood.
She rose slowly,drawing aside her stool.
'Did you want to come in?'she asked.
He looked down at her shrewdly.
'Won't folks be thinkin'somethink,you comin'here every night?'he said.
'Why?'She looked up at him,at a loss.'I said I'd come.Nobody knows.'
'They soon will,though,'he replied.'An'what then?'
She was at a loss for an answer.
'Why should they know?'she said.
'Folks always does,'he said fatally.
Her lip quivered a little.
'Well I can't help it,'she faltered.
'Nay,'he said.'You can help it by not comin'--if yer want to,'he added,in a lower tone.
'But I don't want to,'she murmured.
He looked away into the wood,and was silent.
'But what when folks finds out?'he asked at last.'Think about it!
Think how lowered you'll feel,one of your husband's servants.'
She looked up at his averted face.
'Is it,'she stammered,'is it that you don't want me?'
'Think!'he said.'Think what if folks find out Sir Clifford an'a'--an'everybody talkin'--'
'Well,I can go away.'
'Where to?'
'Anywhere!I've got money of my own.My mother left me twenty thousand pounds in trust,and I know Clifford can't touch it.I can go away.'
'But 'appen you don't want to go away.'
'Yes,yes!I don't care what happens to me.'
'Ay,you think that!But you'll care!You'll have to care,everybody has.You've got to remember your Ladyship is carrying on with a game-keeper.
It's not as if I was a gentleman.Yes,you'd care.You'd care.'
'I shouldn't.What do I care about my ladyship!I hate it really.Ifeel people are jeering every time they say it.And they are,they are!
Even you jeer when you say it.'
'Me!'
For the first time he looked straight at her,and into her eyes.'Idon't jeer at you,'he said.
As he looked into her eyes she saw his own eyes go dark,quite dark,the pupils dilating.
'Don't you care about a'the risk?'he asked in a husky voice.'You should care.Don't care when it's too late!'
There was a curious warning pleading in his voice.
'But I've nothing to lose,'she said fretfully.'If you knew what it is,you'd think I'd be glad to lose it.But are you afraid for yourself?'
'Ay!'he said briefly.'I am.I'm afraid.I'm afraid.I'm afraid O'things.'
'What things?'she asked.
He gave a curious backward jerk of his head,indicating the outer world.
'Things!Everybody!The lot of 'em.'
Then he bent down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face.
'Nay,I don't care,'he said.'Let's have it,an'damn the rest.But if you was to feel sorry you'd ever done it--!'
'Don't put me off,'she pleaded.
He put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again suddenly.
'Let me come in then,'he said softly.'An'take off your mackintosh.'
He hung up his gun,slipped out of his wet leather jacket,and reached for the blankets.
'I brought another blanket,'he said,'so we can put one over us if you like.'
'I can't stay long,'she said.'Dinner is half-past seven.'
He looked at her swiftly,then at his watch.
'All right,'he said.
He shut the door,and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane lamp.
'One time we'll have a long time,'he said.
He put the blankets down carefully,one folded for her head.Then he sat down a moment on the stool,and drew her to him,holding her close with one arm,feeling for her body with his free hand.She heard the catch of his intaken breath as he found her.Under her frail petticoat she was naked.
'Eh!what it is to touch thee!'he said,as his finger caressed the delicate,warm,secret skin of her waist and hips.He put his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly and against her thighs again and again.And again she wondered a little over the sort of rapture it was to him.She did not understand the beauty he found in her,through touch upon her living secret body,almost the ecstasy of beauty.For passion alone is awake to it.And when passion is dead,or absent,then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable;warm,live beauty of contact,so much deeper than the beauty of vision.She felt the glide of his cheek on her thighs and belly and buttocks,and the close brushing of his moustache and his soft thick hair,and her knees began to quiver.Far down in her she felt a new stirring,a new nakedness emerging.
And she was half afraid.Half she wished he would not caress her so.He was encompassing her somehow.Yet she was waiting,waiting.
