Читать книгу The Road - Warwick Deeping - Страница 18
2
ОглавлениеThere was silence. Hidden in that deep cleft in the hedge Bonthorn could see and not be seen, but for the moment he could distinguish nothing but the moonlit grass, the beech tree and its shadow, and the outline of the field-gate. Then a figure drifted to the gate, and leaning upon it with arms spread, gave him the impression of breathlessness.
The other figure became visible, something dark attached to the shadow of the tree. Two hands showed, but the face was very dim. For a moment the silence continued.
Then, Bonthorn was out in the moonlight, head up, shoulders rigid. When he spoke his voice had a scathing gentleness, though the words were molten metal.
“Get out—you foul thing.”
There was a kind of little moaning sound from the gate, and from the beech tree something snarled.
“You go to hell. No bloody business of yours. She’s just a little animal.”
Bonthorn said nothing. He went straight towards that other shape, with a purpose that was self-evident and inexorable. They met in the full moonlight, and the girl, turning a head for a moment, watched them from the gate. The shorter, thicker figure crouched and rushed, seemed to meet some impact and to flounder back into the shadow. Then—two crisp blows following each other, heavy breathing, a rustling of dead beech leaves.
She heard Bonthorn’s voice, sharp and fierce.
“Get up! Get up and clear out!”
She turned again to the gate, her face towards the meadows and the woods about Beech Farm. She seemed to hang there, a little dazed by those sudden physical happenings. The bar of the gate threw a sharp shadow on the grass, and Bonthorn’s fierceness had just such a sharp edge. She had been strangely thrilled by it.
Never a word from Shelp. She did not look round and see the slouch of his retreat, or the dabbing handkerchief. She had an idea that Bonthorn followed him down the lane, like a wolf-hound making sure of the exit of some mongrel. The man with cap and bells! And what—exactly—did he think her to be? A little animal! She was angry with both of them and with herself. She was a little animal, but cleanly so, and more than a mere body. It was as though Shelp had torn her dress open, and Bonthorn had seen her naked.
He was coming back. She heard his footsteps, and her whole body stiffened. He stopped somewhere behind her.”
“I’m sorry.
Her rigidity shivered. Why should he be sorry? She clutched the gate, and was mute.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper. One shouldn’t do that.”
He was apologising to her! She wanted to laugh, but this impulse towards laughter was emotion masquerading in motley. Something in her felt humiliated, resentful, mocking.
“O, that’s all right. You heard what he said.”
She felt his silence like a tense thread.
“I suppose you might conclude that if I hadn’t been—rather like what he called me, he wouldn’t have——”
She waited. She put her mouth to one of her wrists, and bit it. His response surprised her.
“Was it true—what you said?”
“What was that?”
“Your coming out to be with—yourself.”
Her head lifted sharply.
“Yes, quite true. I suppose even a little animal can come out to play in the moonlight.”
His voice had a reflective drift.
“Yes, animals and fairies. They are rather alike. And there are some flowers that open at night, the flowers that moths visit. And perhaps the happy ghosts of dead dogs.”
A sudden sound surprised him. She was in tears, and he stood and looked at her with a kind of shocked wonder. Had he made her cry, and how? Had she a fondness for that slimy, sensual cad? Was it possible that her nay——?
He fumbled. He called her by name.
“Miss Buck—I’m most terribly sorry. I’ve hurt you—somehow——”
She twisted from the gate.
“Yes; you have. You think I’m just——”
“I?”
“Yes; you do. You’re just saying nice things to me. You think——”
His grip came back.
“My dear child—that’s not true. I’m sorry this happened, and yet I’m glad. You came out to look for—what? Yes, just what? Sometimes we don’t know, do we? Some little fellow on a toadstool, not a toadstool like that—cad.”
He was very near to her. He touched her shoulder.
“If you can be a bit of a kid, so can I. You’re just a little shocked and angry with things—with me. Yes, I understand that. I’m going to walk down the lane with you. Shall we go?”
She consented, and was mute. She walked down the middle of the lane between the ruts, he—on the grass verge. They did not utter a word, though once or twice she made a little, moist sound. And just beyond the bridge, he stopped and stood still.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Bonthorn.”
He walked back over the bridge, and she sat down on the bench under the chestnut tree. She could not go in until her dishevelled, secret self had tidied itself up.
