A great exultance leaped like fire over his limbs. He felt he had won.
“I want to marry you, you see. Why shouldn’t I?” he proceeded, soft and rapid. He waited for her to answer. In the dusk he saw her almost phosphorescent. Her eyelids were dropped, her face half-averted and unconscious. She seemed to be in his power. But he waited, watchful. He dared not yet touch her.
“Say then,” he said, “say then you’ll marry me. Say—say!” He was softly insistent.
“What?” she asked, faint, from a distance, like one in pain. His voice was now unthinkably near and soft. He drew very near to her.
“Say yes.”
“Oh, I can’t,” she wailed helplessly, half-articulate, as if semiconscious, and as if in pain, like one who dies. “How can I?”
“You can,” he said softly, laying his hand gently on her shoulder as she stood with her head averted and dropped, dazed. “You can. Yes, you can. What makes you say you can’t? You can. You can.” And with awful softness he bent forward and just touched her neck with his mouth and his chin.
Beneath his lips her pulse hammered, forcing blood through her lean, strong body. He felt weakness in her though, the weakness he knew he would use against her to bend her will to his. He moved his lips across her neck, letting the wetness from his mouth mark her as his. Although the mark would be gone, the effect of his mouth on her skin would remain and she would remember this sensation and her submission. She would never belong to another. Not as long as he lived and this wild fire consumed him. She panted and the gentle puffs of her breath caressed his cheek. The sweet vulnerability of her reaction stirred the master in him and the flames of his strength burned. His body became hot and ready, his groin was hard and unyielding as was his spirit. He pressed his hardness against her, letting her know her future with him.
“Don’t!” she cried, with a faint mad cry like hysteria, starting away and facing round on him. “What do you mean?” But she had no breath to speak with. It was as if she was killed.
“I mean what I say,” he persisted gently but cruelly, coming behind her to again hold his strong body against her weaker one. This time, he felt the softness of her hips. “I want you to marry me. I want you to marry me. You know that now, don’t you? You know that now? Don’t you? Don’t you?”
“What?” she said. But her body was already responding to his, even against her will. Her heart thumped heavily, preparing herself for him and his intentions.
“Know,” he replied, his voice a low growl in her ear.
“Yes,” she said. She wanted to step away but if she turned around he would see the indecision in her eyes. “I know you say so.”
He bit her lightly on the neck then lifted his head. “And you know I mean it, don’t you?”
“I know you say so.”
“You believe me?” he said, pushing against her and using his height to remind her of her weakness.
She was silent for some time. Then she pursed her lips in an effort to fight against the softness in her centre, but it was a waste of effort. The stirring deep inside her was as undeniable as her desire for his physical dominance.
But she couldn’t trust her own thoughts, each notion in her mind was half-formed and wild. “I don’t know what I believe,” she said.
“Are you out there?” came Banford’s voice, calling from the house.
“Yes, we’re bringing in the logs,” he answered.
March noticed how easily he could change his voice, speaking as though they had in fact been only attending to the logs and that everything was as it should be.
“I thought you’d gone lost,” said Banford disconsolately. “Hurry up, do, and come and let’s have tea. The kettle’s boiling.”
Finally, he released March and moved away from her. Instantly she felt his absence and a new emptiness settled inside her, making the soft heat of a moment before nearly unbearable. Even though she did not want to feel that hot longing, it had found her and had now become part of her life, a new craving that threatened to burn everything in its path. It would now be that desire, and not her own will, that dictated her actions.
She bent over to take some logs and the youth came up behind her and again pressed himself firmly against her backside. She felt his commanding hardness.
“I will have you, Nellie.”
“Henry, I—” She tried to stand upright, but he held her down with one hand while gently stroking her hip with his other. His hand moved slowly, his fingertips seeking out the curves of her body and exploring the tender spot where hip turned into thigh. Although she tried to hide her body’s reaction to his manly touch, her quick, uneven breathing caused her stomach to quiver. The youth growled. His slow seduction turned quick, and he shoved his hand under the hem of her tunic, moved it upwards and sought her bare skin.
His palm was rough and it rasped against the soft flesh of her lower back, leaving a trail of heat behind. He pressed his thumb to her spine and moved downward, as low as the band of her breeches would allow.
“I want you for my wife. You want me for your husband,” he said, caressing the highest curve of her hips with the very tips of his fingers. She arched her back, aching for more of his light touch.
“I will give you what you need,” he said. “You only have to say yes. Then you will have everything.”
“I—I—” Her knees buckled, and he swung his arm around her waist to hold her upright then tugged her tightly to him. She tried to speak again but no words came.
“I’ve only just begun with this,” he said and jerked his hips forward, demanding she acknowledge the hard press of his desire. “Understand?”
Still unable to speak, she simply nodded.
He released her slowly, giving her time to find her footing, then took an armful of little logs and carried them into the kitchen, where they were piled in a corner. March, after a moment to regain some of her composure, also helped, filling her arms and carrying the logs on her breast as if they were some heavy child. The night had fallen cold, and she felt the chill everywhere.
When the logs were all in, the two cleaned their boots noisily on the scraper outside, then rubbed them on the mat. March shut the door and took off her old felt hat—her farm-girl hat. Her thick, crisp, black hair was loose, her face was pale and strained. She pushed back her hair vaguely and washed her hands. Banford came hurrying into the dimly-lighted kitchen, to take from the oven the scones she was keeping hot.
“Whatever have you been doing all this time?” she asked fretfully. “I thought you were never coming in. And it’s ages since you stopped sawing. What were you doing out there?”
“Well,” said Henry, “we had to stop that hole in the barn to keeps the rats out.”
“Why, I could see you standing there in the shed. I could see your shirt-sleeves,” challenged Banford.
“Yes, I was just putting the saw away.”
They went in to tea. March was quite mute. Her face was pale and strained and vague. The youth, who always had the same ruddy, self-contained look on his face, as though he were keeping himself to himself, had come to tea in his shirt-sleeves as if he were at home. March knew he ought not to eat that way, but she couldn’t stop herself from watching the muscles of his forearms or the powerful ways his hands mastered everything they touched. He bent over his plate as he ate his food and she thought about his mouth moving over the soft neck of her skin.
“Aren’t you cold?” said Banford spitefully. “In your shirt-sleeves.”
He looked up at her, with his chin near his plate, and his eyes very clear, pellucid and unwavering as he watched her.
“No, I’m not cold,” he said with his usual soft courtesy. “It’s much warmer in here than it is outside, you see.”
“I hope it is,” said Banford, feeling nettled by him. He had a strange, suave assurance and a wide-eyed bright look that got on her nerves this evening.
“But perhaps,” he said softly and courteously, “you don’t like me coming to tea wit
hout my coat. I forgot that.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Banford, although she did.
“I’ll go and get it, shall I?” he said.
March’s dark eyes turned slowly down to look over his body, wondering if Banford could see the hardness of him. If he got up to fetch the coat, surely she would notice it then if she hadn’t already.
“No, don’t you bother,” she said in her queer, twanging tone. “If you feel all right as you are, stop as you are.” She spoke with a crude authority.
“Yes,” said he, “I feel all right, if I’m not rude.”
“It’s usually considered rude,” said Banford. “But we don’t mind.”
“Go along, ‘considered rude’,” ejaculated March, eager for an opportunity to fight against something, even a convention she typically paid no attention to. “Who considers it rude?” Once she had asked the question, she wondered at the young man’s hardness. If she angered him enough to go after the coat, what then?
But Henry appeared unaffected by March’s outburst. It was Banford who was most roused.
“Why, you do, Nellie, in anybody else,” she said, bridling a little behind her spectacles, and feeling her food stick in her throat.
But March had again gone vague and unheeding, chewing her food as if she did not know she was eating at all. And the youth looked from one to another, with bright, watching eyes. He had moved forward, got closer to taking what he wanted.
Banford was offended. For all his suave courtesy and soft voice, the youth seemed to her impudent. She did not like to look at him. She did not like to meet his clear, watchful eyes, she did not like to see the strange glow in his face, his cheeks with their delicate fine hair, and his ruddy skin that was quite dull and yet which seemed to burn with a curious heat of life. It made her feel a little ill to look at him. The quality of his physical presence was too penetrating, too hot.
After tea the evening was very quiet. The youth rarely went into the village. As a rule, he read—he was a great reader, in his own hours. That is, when he did begin, he read absorbedly. But he was not very eager to begin. Often he walked about the fields and along the hedges alone in the dark at night, prowling with a queer instinct for the night, and listening to the wild sounds. He stalked through the woods, becoming even better at something he was already quite skilled at—hunting.
Tonight, however, he took a Captain Mayne Reid book from Banford’s shelf and sat down with knees wide apart and immersed himself in his story. His brownish fair hair was long, and lay on his head like a thick cap, combed sideways. He was still in his shirt-sleeves, and bending forward under the lamplight, with his knees stuck wide apart and the book in his hand and his whole figure absorbed in the rather strenuous business of reading, he gave Banford’s sitting room the look of a lumber camp.
She resented this. For on her sitting room floor she had a red Turkey rug and dark stain round, the fire-place had fashionable green tiles, the piano stood open with the latest dance music—she played quite well—and on the walls were March’s hand-painted swans and water-lilies. Moreover, with the logs nicely, tremulously burning in the grate, the thick curtains drawn, the doors all shut, and the pine trees hissing and shuddering in the wind outside, it was cosy, it was refined and nice. She resented the big, raw, long-legged youth sticking his khaki knees out and sitting there with his soldier’s shirt-cuffs buttoned on his thick red wrists. From time to time he turned a page, and from time to time he gave a sharp look at the fire, settling the logs. Then he immersed himself again in the intense and isolated business of reading.
March, on the far side of the table, was spasmodically crocheting. Her mouth was pursed in an odd way, as when she had dreamt the fox’s brush burned it, her beautiful, crisp black hair strayed in wisps. But her whole figure was absorbed in its bearing, as if she herself was miles away. In a sort of semi-dream she seemed to be hearing the fox singing round the house in the wind, singing wildly and sweetly and like a madness. With red but well-shaped hands she slowly crocheted the white cotton, very slowly, awkwardly.
Banford was also trying to read, sitting in her low chair. But between those two she felt fidgety. She kept moving and looking round and listening to the wind, and glancing secretly from one to the other of her companions. March, seated on a straight chair, with her knees in their close breeches crossed, and slowly, laboriously crocheting, was also a trial.
“Oh dear!” said Banford, “My eyes are bad tonight.” And she pressed her fingers on her eyes.
The youth looked up at her with his clear, bright look, but did not speak.
“Are they, Jill?” said March absently.
Then the youth began to read again, and Banford perforce returned to her book. But she could not keep still. After a while she looked up at March, and a queer, almost malignant little smile was on her thin face.
“A penny for them, Nell,” she said suddenly.
March looked round with big, startled black eyes, and went pale as if with terror. She had been listening to the fox singing so tenderly, so tenderly, as he wandered round the house.
“What?” she said vaguely.
“A penny for them,” said Banford sarcastically. “Or twopence, if they’re as deep as all that.”
The youth was watching with bright, clear eyes from beneath the lamp, his body on alert as though he might lose some ground and need to reclaim it.
“Why,” came March’s vague voice, “what do you want to waste your money for?”
“I thought it would be well spent,” said Banford.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything except the way the wind was blowing,” said March.
“Oh dear,” replied Banford, “I could have had as original thought as that myself. I’m afraid I have wasted my money this time.”
“Well, you needn’t pay,” said March.
The youth suddenly laughed. Both women looked at him, March rather surprised-looking, as if she had hardly known he was there.
“Why, do you ever pay up on these occasions?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Banford. “We always do. I’ve sometimes had to pass a shilling a week to Nellie, in the winter-time. It costs much less in summer.”
“What, paying for each other’s thoughts?” he laughed.
“Yes, when we’ve absolutely come to the end of everything else.”
He laughed quickly, wrinkling his nose sharply like a puppy and laughing with quick pleasure, his eyes shining.
“It’s the first time I ever heard of that,” he said.
“I guess you’d hear of it often enough if you stayed a winter on Bailey Farm,” said Banford lamentably.
“Do you get so tired, then?” he asked.
“So bored,” said Banford.
“Oh!” he said gravely. “But why should you be bored?”
“Who wouldn’t be bored?” said Banford.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said gravely.
“You must be, if you were hoping to have a lively time here,” said Banford.
He looked at her long and gravely.
“Well,” he said, with his odd, young seriousness, “it’s quite lively enough for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Banford.
And she returned to her book. In her thin, frail hair were already many threads of grey, though she was not yet thirty. The boy did not look down, but turned his eyes to March, who was sitting with pursed mouth laboriously crocheting, her eyes wide and absent. She had a warm, pale, fine skin and a delicate nose. Her pursed mouth looked shrewish. But the shrewish look was contradicted by the curious lifted arch of her dark brows, and the wideness of her eyes, a look of startled wonder and vagueness. She was listening again for the fox, who seemed to have wandered farther off into the night, and he was listening for the sound of her breath. Of course he would not be able to hear it from that far away, but that did not stop him from listening.
From under the edge of the lamp-light the boy sat with his face looking up, wat
ching her silently, his eyes round and very clear and intent. Banford, biting her fingers irritably, was glancing at him under her hair. He sat there perfectly still, his ruddy face tilted up from the low level under the light, on the edge of the dimness, and watching with perfect abstract intentness. March suddenly lifted her great, dark eyes from her crocheting and saw him. She started, giving a little exclamation.
“There he is!” she cried involuntarily, as if terribly startled.
Banford looked round in amazement, sitting up straight.
“Whatever has got you, Nellie?” she cried.
But March, her face flushed a delicate rose colour, was looking away to the door.
“Nothing! Nothing!” she said crossly. “Can’t one speak?”
“Yes, if you speak sensibly,” said Banford. “Whatever did you mean?”
“I don’t know what I meant,” cried March testily.
“Oh, Nellie, I hope you aren’t going jumpy and nervy. I feel I can’t stand another thing! Whoever did you mean? Did you mean Henry?” cried poor, frightened Banford.
“Yes. I suppose so,” said March laconically. She would never confess to the fox. Or to the idea that they were one and the same.
“Oh dear, my nerves are all gone for tonight,” wailed Banford, setting the book in her lap with a sigh.
At nine o’clock March brought in a tray with bread and cheese and tea—Henry had confessed that he liked a cup of tea. Banford drank a glass of milk and ate a little bread. And soon she said, “I’m going to bed, Nellie, I’m all nerves tonight. Are you coming?”
“Yes, I’m coming the minute I’ve taken the tray away,” said March.
“Don’t be long then,” said Banford fretfully. “Good-night, Henry. You’ll see the fire is safe, if you come up last, won’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Banford, I’ll see it’s safe,” he replied in his reassuring way.
March was lighting the candle to go to the kitchen. Banford took her candle and went upstairs. When March came back to the fire, she said to him, “I suppose we can trust you to put out the fire and everything?” She stood there with her hand on her hip, and one knee loose, her head averted shyly, as if she could not look at him. He had his face lifted, watching her.
The Fox Page 4
