The Horse Dealer's Daughter

'Well, Mabel,  and  what  are  you going to do with yourself ?' asked Joe, with foolish flippancy. He felt  quite  safe  himself. Without listening  for an answer,  he  turned  aside,  worked a grain of tobacco to the tip of his tongue, and spat  it  out. He did not care about anything, since he felt safe himself.

The three  brothers  and  the  sister  sat  round the desolate breakfast-table, attempting some  sort  of  desultory consultation. The morning's post had given the final  tap to the family fortunes, and all was over. The dreary dining-room itself, with  its  heavy mahogany furniture, looked as if it were waiting to be done away with.

But the consultation amounted to nothing. There was a strange air of ineffectuality about  the  three  men,  as  they sprawled at table, smoking and reflecting vaguely  on their own condition. The girl was alone, a rather short, sullen-looking young  woman of twenty-seven. She did not share the same life as her brothers. She would have been good-looking, save for the impressive fixity of her face, 'bull-dog', as her brothers called it.

There was  a  confused  tramping  of  horses'  feet  outside. The three men all sprawled round  in  their  chairs  to  watch. Beyond the dark holly bushes that separated the  strip  of lawn from the high-road, they could see a cavalcade of shire  horses  swinging  out  of  their own yard, being taken for exercise. This was the  last  time. These were  the  last horses that would go through their hands. The young  men  watched  with  critical,  callous  look. They were all frightened at  the  collapse of their lives, and the sense of disaster in which they were involved left them no inner freedom.

Yet they  were  three fine, well-set fellows enough. Joe, the eldest, was a man of thirty-five,  broad  and handsome in a hot flushed way. His face was red, he twisted his  black  moustache  over  a  thick finger, his eyes were shallow and restless. HE had  a  sensual  way of uncovering his teeth when he laughed, and his bearing  was  stupid. Now he  watched  the  horses  with a glazed look of helplessness in his eyes, a certain stupor of downfall.

The great  drought-horses  swung  past. They were  tied head to tail, four of them,  and  they  heaved  along to where a lane branched off from the high-road, planting their  great  roofs  flouting  in  the  fine black mud, swinging their great rounded  haunches  sumptously,  and  trotting  a few sudden steps as they were led  into  the  lane,  round  the corner. Every movement showed a massive, slumbrous strength,  and  a  stupidity which held them in subjection. The groom at the  head looked back, jerking the leading rope. And the cavalcade moved out of sight  up  the  lane, the tail of the last horse, bobbed up tight and stiff, held out  taut  from  the  swinging  great  haunches  as they rocked behind the hedges in a motion-like sleep.

Joe watched  with  glazed  hopeless  eyes. The horses were almost like his own body to  him. He felt he was done for now. Luckily he was engaged to a woman as old  as himself, and therefore her father, who was steward of a neighbouring estate, would  provide  him with a job. He would marry and go into harness. His life was over, he would be a subject animal now.

He turned  uneasily  aside,  the  retreating steps of the horses echoing in his ears. Then, with foolish restlessness, he reached for the scraps of bacon-rind from the  plates, and making a faint whistling sound, flung them to the terrier that lay  against  the fender. He watched the dog swallow them, and waited till the creature  looked  into his eyes. Then a faint grin came on his face, and in a high, foolish voice he said:

'You won't get much more bacon, shall you, you little b ?'

The dog  faintly  and  dismally  wagged  its  tail,  then lowered its haunches, circled round, and lay down again.

There was  another  hopeless silence at the table. Joe sprawled uneasily in his seat, not  willing  to  go  till the family conclave was dissolved. Fred Henry, the second  brother, was erect, clean-limbed, alert. He had watched the passing of the  horses  with  more sang-froid. If he was an animal, like Joe, he was an animal which  controls,  not  one  which  is  controlled. He was master of any horse, and  he  carried himself with a well-tempered air of mastery. But he was not master  of  the  situation  of  life. He pushed his coarse brown moustache upwards, off  his  lip,  and glanced irritably at his sister, who sat impassive and inscrutable.

'You'll go  and  stop with Lucy for a bit, shan't you ?' he asked. The girl did not answer.

'I don't see what else you can do,' persisted Fred Henry.

'Go as a skivvy,' Joe interpolated laconically.

The girl did not move a muscle.

'If I  was  her,  I  should go in for training for a nurse,' said Malcolm,  the youngest of  them  all. He was  the  baby  of  the  family,  a  young  man of twenty-two, with a fresh, jaunty museau.

But Mabel  did not take any notice of him. They had talked at her and round her for so many years, that she hardly heard them at all.

The marble  clock on the mantel piece softly chimed the half-hour, the dog rose uneasily from  the  hearth-rug  and looked at the party at the breakfast-table. But still they sat on in ineffectual conclave.

'Oh, all  right,'  said  Joe suddenly, apropos of nothing. 'Ill get a move on.'

He pushed  back  his  chair,  straddled  his knees with a downward jerk, to get them free,  in  horsey  fashion, and went to the fire. Still, he did not go out of the  room;  he was curious to know what the others would do or say. He began to charge his pipe, looking down at the dog and saying in a high affected voice:

'Going wi'  me ? Going wi' me are ter ? Tha'rt goin' further than tha counts on just now, dost hear ?'

The dog  faintly  wagged  its  tail,  the man stuck out his jaw and covered his pipe with  his  hands,  and  puffed  intently,  losing  himself in the tobacco, looking down  all the while at the dog with an absent brown eye. The dog looked up at  him  in  mournful  distrust. Joe stood with his knees stuck out, in real horsey fashion.

'Have you   had  a  letter  from  Lucy  ?'  Fred  Henry  asked  of  his sister.

'Last week,' came the neutral reply.

'And what does she say ?'

There was no answer.

'Does she  ask  you  to  go  and  stop  there  ?'  persisted Fred Henry.

'She says I can if I like.'

'Well, then, you'd better. Tell her you'll come on Monday.'

This was received in silence.

'That's what  you'll  do  then, is it ?' said Fred Henry, in some exasperation.

But she  made  no answer. There was a silence of futility and irritation in the room. Malcolm grinned fatuously.

'You'll have  to  make  up  your mind between now and next Wednesday,' said Joe loudly, 'or else find your lodgings on the kerbstone.

The face of the young woman darkened, but she sat on immutable.

'Here's Jack  Fergusson  !' exclaimed Malcolm, who was looking aimlessly out of the window.

'Where ?' exclaimed Joe loudly.

'Just gone past.'

'Coming in ?'

Malcolm craned his neck to see the gate.

'Yes,' he said.

There was  a  silence. Mabel sat  on  like  one condemned, at the head of the table. Then a  whistle  was  heard from the kitchen. The dog got up and barked sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted:

'Come on.'

After a  moment  a  young  man entered. He was muffled in overcoat and a purple woollen scarf,  and  his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was pulled down on his  head. He was of medium height, his face was rather long and pale, his eyes looked tired.

'Hello, Jack  ! Well, Jack  !'  exclaimed  Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely said: 'Jack.'

'What's doing ?' asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry.

'Same. We've got to be out by Wednesday. Got a cold ?'

'I have - got it bad, too.'

'Why don't you stop in ?'

'Me stop  in  ? When I  can't stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a chance.' The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent.

'It's a  knock-out,  isn't it,' said Joe, boisterously, 'if a doctor goes round croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn't it ?'

The young doctor looked at him slowly.

'Anything the matter with you then ?' he asked sarcastically.

'Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why ?'

'I thought  you  were  very concerned about the patients, wondered if you might be one yourself.'

'Damn it,  no, I've never been a patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I never shall be,' returned Joe.

At this  point  Mabel  rose from the table, and they all seemed to become aware of their  existence. She began  putting the dishes together. The young doctor looked at  her,  but  did not address her. He had not greeted her. She went out the room with the tray, her face impassive and unchanged.

'When are you off then, all of you ?' asked the doctor.

'I'm catching  the  eleven-forty,' replied Malcolm. 'Are you goin' down wi' th' trap, Joe ?'

'Yes, I've told you I'm going down wi' th' trap, haven't I ?'

'We'd better  be  getting  in  then. So long, Jack, if I don't see you before I go,' said Malcolm, shaking hands.

He went  out,  followed  by  Joe, who seemed to have his tail between his legs.

'Well, this  is  the devil's own,' exclaimed the doctor, when he was left alone with Fred Henry. 'Going before Wednesday, are you ?'

'That's the orders,' replied the other.

'Where, to Northampton ?'

'That's it.'

'The devil !' exclaimed Fergusson, with quiet chagrin.

And there was silence between the two.

'All settled up, are you ?' asked Fergusson.

'About.'

There was another pause.

'Well, I shall miss yer, Freddy, boy,' said the young doctor.

'And I shall miss thee, Jack,' returned the other.

'Miss you like hell,' mused the doctor.

Fred Henry  turned  aside. There was  nothing to say. Mabel came in again, to finish clearing the table.

'What are  you going to do, then, Miss Pervin ?' asked Fergusson. 'Going to your sister's, are you ?'

Mabel looked  at  him  with  her  steady,  dangerous eyes, that always made him uncomfortable, unsettling his superficial ease.

'No,' she said.

'Well, what  in  the  name of fortune are you going to do ? Say what you mean to do,' cried Fred Henry, with futile intensity.

But she  only  averted  her  head, and continued her work. She folded the white table-cloth, and put on the chenille cloth.

'The sulkiest bitch that ever trod !' muttered her brother.

But she  finished  her  task  with  perfectly  impassive face, the young doctor watching her interestedly all the while. Then she went out.

Fred Henry  stared after her, clenching his lips, his blue eyes fixing in sharp antagonism, as he made a grimace of sour exasperation.

'You could  bray  her into bits, and that's all you'd get out of her,' he said, in a small, narrowed tone.

The doctor smiled faintly.

'What's she going to do, then ?' he asked.

'Strike me if I know !' returned the other.

There was a pause. Then the doctor stirred.

'I'll be seeing you to-night, shall I ?' he said to his friend.

'Ay - where's it to be ? Are we going over to Jessdale ?'

'I don't  know. I've got  such a cold on me. I'll come round to the "Moon and Stars", anyway.'

'Let Lizzie and May miss their night for once, eh ?'

'That's it - if I feel as I do now.'

'All's one -- '

The two  young men went through the passage and down to the back door together. The house  was large, but it was servantless now, and desolate. At the back was a small  bricked  house-yard  and  beyond that a big square, gravelled fine and red, and  having  stables  on  two  sides. Sloping, dank,  winter-dark fields stretched away on the open sides.

But the  stables  were empty. Joseph Pervin, the father of the family, had been a man  of no education, who had become a fairly large horse-dealer. The stables had been  full  of  horses, there was a great turmoil and come-and-go of horses and of  dealers  and grooms. Then the kitchen was full of servants. But of late things has  declined. The old  man had married a second time, to retrieve his fortunes. Now he  was  dead  and  everything  was  gone to the dogs, there was nothing but debt and threatening.

For months,  Mabel  had  been  servantless  in  the big house, keeping the home together in  penury  for  her  ineffectual brothers. She had kept house for ten years. But previously  it  was  with unstinted means. Then, however brutal and coarse everything  was,  the  sense of money had kept her proud, confident. The men might be foul-mouthed, the women in the kitchens might have bad reputations, her  brothers  might  have  illegitimate  children. But so long as there was  money,  the  girl  felt  herself  established,  and  brutally proud, reserved.

No company  came  to  the  house,  save  dealers  and  coarse men. Mabel had no associates of  her  own  sex, after her sister went away. But she did not mind. She went  regularly to church, she attended to her father. And she lived in the memory of  her  mother,  who  had  died when she was fourteen, and whom she had loved. She had  loved her father, too, in a different way, depending upon him, and feeling  secure  in  him,  until at the age of fifty-four he married again. And then  she  had  set  hard  against  him. Now he had died and left them all hopelessly in debt.

She had  suffered  badly  during the period of poverty. Nothing, however, could shake the  curious,  sullen,  animal  pride  that  dominated each member of the family. Now, for  Mabel, the end had come. Still she would not cast about her. She would  follow  her own way just the same. She would always hold the keys of her own  situation. Mindless and persistent, she endured from day to day. Why should she  think ? Why should she answer anybody ? It was enough that this was the end,  and there was no way out. She need not pass any more darkly along the main street  of  the small town, avoiding every eye. She need not pass any more darkly along  the  main  street of the small town, avoiding every eye. She need not demean  herself  any  more,  going  into  the shops and buying the cheapest food. This was  at  an  end. She thought of nobody, not even herself. Mindless and persistent,  she  seemed  in  a  sort of ecstasy to be coming nearer to her fulfilment, her  own  glorification,  approaching  her  dead  mother,  who  was glorified.

In the  afternoon  she  took  a  little bag, with shears and sponge and a small scrubbing-brush, and  went  out. It was a grey, wintry day, with saddened, dark green fields  and  an  atmosphere  blackened  by the smoke of foundries not far off. She went  quickly, darkly along the causeway, heeding nobody, through the town to the churchyard.

There she  always felt secure, as if no one could see her, although as a matter of fact  she  was  exposed  to  the  stare  of  everyone  who  passed along the churchyard wall. Nevertheless, once  under  the  shadow  of the great looming church, among  the  graves, she felt immune from the world, reserved within the thick churchyard wall as in another country.

Carefully she  clipped  the grass from the grave, and arranged the pinky white, small chrysanthemums  in  the  tin cross. When this was done, she took an empty jar from  a neighbouring grave, brought water, and carefully, most scrupulously sponged the marble headstone and the coping-stone.

It gave  her  sincere  satisfaction  to  do this. She felt in immediate contact with the  world  of her mother. She took minute pains, went through the park in a state  bordering  on  pure  happiness, as if in performing this task she came into a  subtle,  intimate connection with her mother. For the life she followed here in  the world was far less real than the world of death she inherited from her mother.

The doctor's  house  was  just  by  the  church. Fergusson, being a mere hired assistant, was  slave  to  the country-side. As he hurried now to attend to the out-patients in  the surgery, glancing across the graveyard with his quick eye, he saw  the  girl at task at the grave. She seemed so intent and remote, it was looking into  another  world. Some mystical  element  was  touched in him. He slowed down as he walked, watching her as if spellbound.

She lifted  her  eyes,  feeling  him  looking. Their eyes met. And each looked again at  once,  each  feeling,  in some way, found out by the other. He lifted his cap  and passed on down the road. There remained distinct in consciousness, like a  vision,  the  memory  of  her  face,  lifted  from the tombstone in the churchyard, and looking at him with slow, large, portentous eyes. It was portentous,  her face. It seemed to mesmerise him. There was a heavy power in  her  eyes which laid hold of his whole being, as if he had drunk some powerful drug. He had  been  feeling  weak and done before. Now the life came back into him, he felt delivered from his own fretted, daily self.

He finished  his  duties at the surgery as quickly as might be, hastily filling up the  bottles  of  the  waiting  people  with cheap drugs. Then, in perpetual haste, he  set  off  again to visit several cases in another part of his round, before tea-time. At all times he preferred to walk if he could, but particularly, when  he  was  not  well. He fancied  the  motion restored him.

The afternoon  was  falling. It was  grey, deadened, and wintry, with a slow, moist, heavy  coldness  sinking  in  and  deadening  all the faculties. But why should he  think  or notice ? He hastily climbed the hill and turned across the dark green  fields, following the black cinder-track. In the distance, across a shallow dip  in the country, the small town was clustered like smouldering ash, a tower,  a  spire,  a  heap  of  low,  raw, extinct houses. And on the nearest fringe of  the  town,  sloping into the dip, was Oldmeadow, the Pervins' house. He could  see  the stables and the outbuildings distinctly, as they lay towards him on  the  slope. Well, he  would  not  go  there many more times ! Another resource would  be  lost  to him, another place gone: the only company he cared for in  the  alien, ugly little town he was losing. Nothing but work, drudgery, constant hastening  from  dwelling  to  dwelling  among  the  colliers  and the iron-workers. It wore  him  out, but at the same time he had a craving for it. It was  a stimulant to him to be in the bones of the working people, moving, as it  were,  through the innermost body of their life. His nerves were excited and gratified. He could come so near, into the very lives of the rough, inarticulate, powerfully  emotional  men  and  women. He grumbled, he said he hated  the  hellish  hole. But as a matter of fact it excited him, the contact with the  rough,  strongly-feeling people was a stimulant applied direct to his nerves.

Below Oldmeadow,  in  the  green,  shallow,  soddened  hollow  of fields, lay a square,  deep  pond. Roving across  the  landscape,  the  doctor's  quick  eye detected a  figure in black passing through the gate of the field, down towards the pond. He looked again. It would be Mabel Pervin. His mind suddenly became alive and attentive.

Why was  she  going  down there ? He pulled up on the path on the slope above, and stood  staring. He could just make sure of the small black figure moving in the hollow  of  the  failing  day. He seemed  to see her in the midst of such obscurity, that  he  was  like a clairvoyant, seeing rather with the mind's eye that with  ordinary  sight. Yet he could see her positively enough, whilst he kept  his  eye  attentive. He felt,  if he looked away from her, in the thick, ugly falling dusk, he would lose her altogether.

He followed  her  minutely  as  she  moved,  direct  and intent, like something transmitted rather  than  stirring  in  voluntary  activity,  straight down the field towards  the  pond. There she stood on the bank for a moment. She never raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the water.

He stood  motionless  as  the small black figure walked slowly and deliberately towards the  centre  of the pond, very slowly, gradually moving deeper into the motionless water,  and  still moving forward as the water got up to her breast. Then he could see her no more in the dusk of the dead afternoon.

'There !' he exclaimed. 'Would you believe it ?'

And he  hastened  straight down, running over the wet, soddened fields, pushing through the  hedges,  down  into the depression of callous wintry obscurity. It took him  several  minutes to come to the pond. He stood on the bank, breathing heavily. He could  see  nothing. His eyes seemed to penetrate the dead water. Yes, perhaps  that  was  the  dark  shadow  of  her  black clothing beneath the surface of water.

He slowly  ventured  into the pond. The bottom was deep, soft clay, he sank in, and the  water  clasped  dead cold round his legs. As he stirred he could smell the cold,  rotten  clay  that fouled up into the water. It was objectionable in his lungs. Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he moved deeper into the pond. The cold  water  rose  over  his  thighs,  over his loins, upon his abdomen The lower part  of  body  was  all sunk in the hideous cold element. And the bottom was so  deeply  soft  and  uncertain,  he was afraid of pitching with his mouth underneath. He could not swim, and was afraid.

He crouched  a  little,  spreading  his  hands  under the water and moving them round, trying  to  feel  for  her. The dead cold pond swayed upon his chest. He moved again,  a  little  deeper,  and again, with his hands underneath, he felt all around  under  the  water. And he touched her clothing. But it evaded his fingers. He made a desperate effort to grasp it.

And so  doing her lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating in the foul earthy  water,  struggling  madly  for  a few moments. At last, after what seemed an  eternity,  he  got  his  footing, rose again into the air and looked around. He gasped,  and knew he was in the world. Then he looked at the water. She had  risen  near  him. He grasped  her  clothing, and drawing her nearer, turned to take his way to land again.

He went  very  slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow process. He rose higher, climbing out  of  the  pond. The water  was  now  only about his legs; he was thankful, full  of  relief to be out of the clutches of the pond. He lifted her and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of wet, grey clay.

He laid  her  down  on  the  bank. She was quite unconscious and running with water. He made the water come from her mouth, he worked to restore her. He did not have  to  work  very long before he could feel the breathing begin again in her;  she  was  breathing heavily naturally. He worked a little longer. He could feel her  live  beneath  his  hands;  she  was  coming back. He wiped her face, wrapped her  in  his overcoat, looked round into the dim, dark grey world, then lifted her and staggered down the bank and across the fields.

It seemed  an  unthinkably  long  way, and his burden so heavy he felt he would never get  to the house. But at last he was in the stable-yard, and then in the house-yard. He opened the door and went into the house. In the kitchen he laid her down  on  the  hearth-rug and called. The house was empty. But the fire was burning in the grate.

Then again  he  kneeled to attend to her. She was breathing regularly, her eyes wide open  and as if conscious, but there seemed something missing in her look. She was conscious in herself, but unconscious of her surroundings.

He ran  upstairs,  took  blankets  from  a  bed and put them before the fire to warm. Then he  removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbed her dry with a  towel,  and  wrapped  her  naked in the blankets. Then he went into the dining-room, to  look  for  spirits. There was a little whisky. He drank a gulp himself, and put some into her mouth.

The effect  was  instantaneous. She looked  full into his face, as if she had been seeing  him  for some time, and yet had only just become conscious of him.

'Dr. Fergusson ?' she said.

'What ?' he answered.

He was  divesting  himself  of  his  coat,  intending to find some dry clothing upstairs. He could  not  bear  the smell of the dead, clayey water, and he was mortally afraid for his own health.

'What did I do ?' she asked.

'Walked into  the pond,' he replied. He had begun to shudder like one sick, and could hardly  attend  to  her. Her eyes remained full on him, he seemed to be going  dark  in  his mind, looking back at her helplessly. The shuddering became quieter in him, his life came back to him, dark and unknowing, but strong again.

'Was I  out  of  my mind ?' she asked, while her eyes were fixed on him all the time.

'Maybe, for  the  moment,'  he replied. He felt quiet, because his strength had come back. The strange fretful strain had left him.

'Am I out of my mind now ?' she asked.

'Are you  ?'  he reflected a moment. 'No,' he answered truthfully, 'I don't see that you  are.'  He  turned  his face aside. He was afraid now, because he felt dazed, and  felt dimly that her power was stronger that his, in this issue. And she continued  to  look  at  him fixedly all the time. 'Can you tell me where I shall find some dry things to put on ?' he asked.

'Did you dive into the pond for me ?' she asked.

'No,' he answered. 'I walked in. But I went in overhead as well.'

There was  silence  for  a  moment. He hesitated. He very much wanted to go upstairs  to  get  into  dry  clothing. But there was another desire in him. And she seemed  to  hold  him. His will seemed to have gone to sleep, and left him, standing there  slack  before  her. But he felt warm inside himself. He did not shudder at all, though his clothes were sodden on him.

'Why did you ?' she asked.

'Because I didn't want you to do such a foolish thing,' he said.

'It wasn't  foolish,'  she  said,  still gazing at him as she lay on the floor, with a  sofa  cushion  under  her head. 'It was the right thing to do. I knew best, then.'

'I'll go  and  shift these wet things,' he said. But still he had not the power to move  out of her presence, until she sent him. It was as if she had the life of his  body  in  her  hands, and he could not extricate himself. Or perhaps he did not want to.

Suddenly she  sat up. Then she became aware of her own immediate condition. She felt the  blankets about her, she knew her own limbs. For a moment it seemed as if her  reason  were  going. She looked  round,  with wild eye, as if seeking something. He stood  still  with  fear. She saw her clothing lying scattered.

'Who undressed  me  ?'  she  asked, her eyes resting full and inevitable on his face.

'I did,' he replied, 'to bring you round.'

For some moments she sat and gazed at him awfully, her lips parted.

'Do you love me, then ?' she asked.

He only  stood  and  stared  at  her,  fascinated. His soul  seemed  to melt.

She shuffled  forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round his legs, as he  stood  there,  pressing  her  breasts  against  his  knees  and  thighs, clutching him  with  strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his thighs against her, drawing  him  to  her  face,  her  throat,  as  she  looked up at him with flaring, humble  eyes  and  transfiguration,  triumphant  in  first possession.

'You love  me,' she murmured, in strange transport, yearning and triumphant and confident. 'You love me. I know you love me, I know.'

And she was passionately kissing his knees, through the wet clothing, passionately and  indiscriminately  kissing  his knees, his legs, as if unaware of everything.

He looked  down  at  the tangled wet hair, the wild, bare, animal shoulders. He was amazed,  bewildered  and afraid. He had never thought of loving her. He had never wanted  to  love  her. When he  rescued  her and restored her, he was a doctor,  and  she  was  a patient. He had had no single personal thought of her. Nay, this  introduction  of the personal element was very distasteful to him, a violation  of  his  professional  honour. It was  horrible  to  have her there embracing his  knees. It was horrible. He revolted from it, violently. And yet - and yet - he had not the power to break away.

She looked  at him again, with the same supplication of powerful love, and that same transcendent,  frightening light of triumph. In view of the delicate flame which seemed  to  come from her face like a light, he was powerless. And yet he had never  intended  to love her. He had never intended. And something stubborn in him could not give way.

'You love  me,'  she  repeated,  in a murmur of deep, rhapsodic assurance. 'You love me.'

Her hands  were  drawing  him,  drawing  him down to her. He was afraid, even a little horrified. For he  had,  really,  no  intention of loving her. Yet her hands were  drawing  him  towards  her. He put out his hand quickly to steady himself, and  grasped her bare shoulder. He had no intention of loving her: his whole will  was  against  his  yielding. It was horrible. And yet wonderful was the touch  of her shoulders, beautiful the shining of her face. Was she perhaps mad ? He had  a  horror  of yielding to her. Yet something in him ached also.

He had  been  staring away at the door, away from her. But his hand remained on her shoulder. She had  gone  suddenly  very still. He looked down at her. Her eyes were  now wide with fear, with doubt, the light was dying from her face, a shadow  of  terrible  greyness was returning. He could not bear the touch of her eyes' question upon him, and the look of death behind the question.

With an  inward  groan  he  gave  way,  and  let his heart yield towards her. A sudden gentle  smile came on his face. And her eyes, which never left his face, slowly, slowly  filled  with  tears. He watched the strange water rise in her eyes, like  some slow fountain coming up. And his heart seemed to burn and melt away in his breast.

He could  not  bear to look at her any more. He dropped on his knees and caught her head. with his arms and pressed her face against his throat. She was very still. His heart,  which  seemed  to  have  broken, was burning with a kind of agony  in  his  breast. And he felt her slow, hot tears wetting his throat. But he could not move.

He felt  the  hot  tears  wet  his  neck  and  the  hollows of his neck, and he remained  motionless,  suspended  through  one  of man's eternities. Only now it had become  indispensable  to  him  to  have  her face pressed close to him; he could  never  let  her  go  again. He could never let her head go away from the close crutch  of  his  arm. He wanted  to remain like that for ever, with his heart hurting  him in a pain that was also life to him. Without knowing, he was looking down on her damp, soft brown hair.

Then, as  it  were  suddenly, he smelt the horrid stagnant smell of that water. And at  the same moment she drew away from him and looked at him. Her eyes were wistful and  unfathomable. He was afraid of them, and he fell to kissing her, not knowing  what  he  was doing. He wanted her eyes not to have that terrible, wistful, unfathomable look.

When she  turned her face to him again, a faint delicate flush was glowing, and there was  again dawning that terrible shining of joy in her eyes, which really terrified him,  and  yet which he now wanted to see, because he feared the look of doubt still more.

'You love me ?' she said, rather faltering.

'Yes.' The  word  cost  him  a  painful effort. Not because it wasn't true. But because it  was too newly true, the saying seemed to tear open again his newly-torn heart. And he hardly wanted it to be true, even now.

She lifted  her  face  to him, and he bent forward and kissed her on the mouth, gently, with  the  one kiss that is an eternal pledge. And as he kissed her his heart strained  again  in his breast. He never intended to love her. But now it was over. He had crossed over the gulf to her, and all that he had left behind had shrivelled and become void.

After the  kiss,  her  eyes again slowly filled with tears. She sat still, away from him,  with  her  face  drooped aside, and her hands folded in her lap. The tears fell very slowly. There was complete silence. HE too sat there motionless and  silent  on  the  hearth-rug. The strange pain of his heart that was broken  seemed to consume him. That he should love her ? That this was love ! That  he  should  be ripped open in this way ! Him, a doctor ! How they would all jeer  if  they  knew  ! It was  agony  to  him  to think they might know.

In the  curious  naked  pain  of  the  thought  he looked again to her. She was sitting there  drooped  into  a  muse. He saw a tear fall, and his heart flared hot. He saw  for the first time that one of her shoulders was quite uncovered, one arm  bare,  he  could  see  one of her small breasts; dimly, because it had become almost dark in the room.

'Why are you crying ?' he asked, in an altered voice.

She looked  up  at him, and behind her tears the consciousness of her situation for the first time brought a dark look of shame to her eyes.

'I'm not crying, really,' she said, watching him, half-frightened.

He reached his hand, and softly closed it on her bare arm.

'I love  you  ! I love  you !' he said in a soft, low vibrating voice, unlike himself.

She shrank,  and  dropped  her  head. The soft, penetrating grip of his hand on her arm distressed her. She looked up at him.

'I want  to  go,'  she  said. 'I want  to  go  and  get you some dry things.'

'Why ?' he said. 'I'm all right.'

'But I  want  to  go,'  she  said. 'And I  want  you  to change your things.'

He released  her  arm,  and  she wrapped herself in the blanket, looking at him rather frightened. And still she did not rise.

'Kiss me,' she said wistfully.

He kissed her, but briefly, half in anger.

Then, after  a  second,  she  rose  nervously,  all mixed up in the blanket. He watched her  in  her  confusion  as  she  tried  to  extricate herself and wrap herself up  so  that  she could walk. He watched her relentlessly, as she knew. And as  she  went,  the  blanket trailing, and he saw a glimpse of her feet and her white  leg,  he tried to remember her as she was when he had wrapped her up in  the  blanket. But then  he  didn't  want to remember, because she had been nothing to  him  then,  and his nature revolted from remembering her as she was when she was nothing to him.

A tumbling,  muffled  noise  from  within  the dark house startled him. Then he heard her  voice:  'There  are  clothes.'  He  rose and went to the foot of the stairs, and  gathered up the garments she had thrown down. Then he came back to the fire,  to rub himself down and dress. He grinned at his own appearance when he had finished.

The fire  was  sinking,  so  he put on coal. The house was now quite dark, save for the  light  of  a  street-lamp  that shone in faintly from beyond the holly trees. He lit  the  gas  with  matches  he  found  on the mantelpiece. Then he emptied the  pockets of his own clothes, and threw all his wet things in a heap into the  scullery. After which he gathered up her sodden clothes, gently, and put them in a separate heap on the copper-top in the scullery.

It was  six  o'clock  on  the  clock. His own watch had stopped. He ought to go back to  the surgery. He waited, and still she did not come down. So he went to the foot of the stairs and called:

'I shall have to go.'

Almost immediately  he  heard  her  coming  down. She had on her best dress of black voile,  and her hair was tidy, but still damp. She looked at him - and in spite of herself, smiled.

'I don't like you in those clothes,' she said.

'Do I look a sight ?' he answered.

They were shy of one another.

'I'll make you some tea,' she said.

'No, I must go.'

'Must you  ?'  And  she  looked  at him again with the wide, strained, doubtful eyes. And again,  from  the  pain  of his breast, he knew how he loved her. He went and bent to kiss her, gently, passionately, with his heart's painful kiss.

'And my  hair  smells  so  horrible,'  she murmured in distraction. 'And I'm so awful, I'm  so  awful  ! Oh no,  I'm  too  awful.' And she broke into bitter, heart-broken sobbing. 'You can't want to love me, I'm horrible.'

'Don't be  silly, don't be silly,' he said, trying to comfort her, kissing her, holding her  in  his  arms. 'I want you, I want to marry you, we're going to be married, quickly, quickly - to-morrow if I can.'

But she only sobbed terribly, and cried:

'I feel awful. I feel awful. I feel I'm horrible to you.'

'No, I  want you, I want you,' was all he answered, blindly, with that terrible intonation which  frightened  her  almost  more  than her horror lest he should not want her.