Читать книгу Sussex Gorse - Sheila Kaye-Smith - Страница 21

"The blackbird flew out from the eaves of the Manor,

The Manor of Seth in the Sussex countrie,

And he carried a prayer from the lad of the Manor,

A prayer and a tear to his faithless ladie."

She found herself bending to the rhythm of the music, swaying in Reuben's arms. He held her lightly, and it was wonderful how clever he was in avoiding concussion with the other dancers, most of whom bumped about regardless of anybody else.

"To the lady who lives in the Grange by the water,

The water of Iron in the Sussex countrie,

The lad of Seth's House prays for comfort and pity—

Have pity, my true love, have pity on me!"

A sudden weariness passed over Naomi, and Reuben led her out of the dance and brought her a drink of mild icy ale. He did not offer to take her home, and she did not ask to go. If he had offered she would have gone, but she had no will of her own—all desire, all initiative was drowned in the rhythm of the dance and the sadness of the old tune.

"O why when we loved like the swallows in April,

Should beauty forget now their nests have grown cold?

O why when we kissed 'mid the ewes on the hanger,

Should you turn from me now that they winter in fold?"

He led her back into the crowd, and once more she felt his arms round her, so light, so strong, while her feet spun with his, tricked by magic. She became acutely conscious of his presence—the roughness of his coat-sleeve, the faint scent of the sprigged waistcoat, which had been folded away in lavender. And all the while she had another picture of him in her heart, not in his Sunday best, but in corduroys and the blue shirt which had stood out of the January dusk, the last piece of colour in the day. She remembered the swing of his arm, the crash of the axe on the trunk, the bending of his back as he pulled it out, the muscles swelled under the skin … and then the tingling creep in her own heart, that sudden suffocating thrill which had come to her there beside Harry in the gloam. …

The dusk was falling now, splashed by crude flares over the stalls, and once more that creep—delicious, tingling, suffocating—was in her heart, the intoxication of the weak by the strong. It seemed as if he were holding her closer. She grew warm, and yet she would not stop. There was sweat on her forehead, she felt her woollen gown sticking to her shoulders—but she would not rest. The same old tune jigged on—it was good to dance to, and Harry liked playing it.

"O why, because sickness hath wasted my body,

Should you do me to death with your dark treacherie?

O why, because brothers and friends all have left me,

Should you leave me too, O my faithless ladie?"

The dance was becoming more of a rout. Hats fell back, even Naomi's heather-coloured bonnet became disorderly. Kerchiefs were crumpled and necks bare. Arms grew tighter, there were few merely clasping hands now. Then a lad kissed his partner on the neck while they danced, and soon another couple were spinning round with lips clinging together. The girls' hair grew rough and blew in their boys' eyes—there were sounds of panting—of kissing—Naomi grew giddy, round her was a whirl of colour, hands, faces, the dusk and flaring lights. She clung closer to Reuben, and his arms tightened about her.

"One day when your pride shall have brought you to sorrow,

And years of despair and remorse been your fate,

Perhaps your cold heart will remember Seth's Manor,

And turn to your true love—and find it too late."