Interlude: A Silent Wooing amc-2

by Джон Голсуорси

  “I don’t expect you’ll ever forgive me for this,” said Jon, with gloom.

  “Why! I’m just loving it.”

  “Very sweet of you to say so; but you must be awfully cold. Look here—have my coat!”

  He had begun to take it off when she said: “If you do that I’ll run out into the woods and get really lost.”

  Jon resumed his coat.

  “It might have been one of those Blair girls,” he said.

  “Would you rather?”

  “For your sake, of course. Not for my own—no, indeed!”

  They were looking round at each other so that the tips of their cigarettes were almost touching. Just able to see her eyes, he had a very distinct impulse to put his arm round her. It seemed the natural and proper thing to do, but of course it was not “done”!

  “Have some chocolate,” she said.

  Jon ate a very little. The chocolate should be reserved for her!

  “This is a real adventure. It IS black. I’d have been scared alone—seems kind of spooky here.”

  “Spirits of the old Indians,” muttered Jon. “Only I don’t believe in spirits.”

  “You would if you’d had a coloured nanny.”

  “Did you have one?”

  “Surely, with a voice as soft as mush melon. We have one old darkie still, who was a slave as a boy. He’s the best of all the negroes round—nearly eighty, with quite white hair.”

  “Your father couldn’t have been in the Civil War, could he?”

  “No; my two grandfathers and my great-grandfather.”

  “And how old are you, Anne?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “Tell me about your home in England.”

  “I haven’t one now.” He began an expurgated edition of his youth, and it seemed to him that she listened beautifully. He asked for her story in return; and, while she was telling it, wondered whether he liked her voice or not. It dwelled and slurred, but was soft and had great flavour. When she had finished her simple tale, for she had hardly been away from home, there was silence, till Jon said:

  “I’ll go and see that the horses are all right; then perhaps you could get a snooze.”

  He moved round the foot of the mound till he came to the horses, and stayed a little talking to them and stroking their noses. A feeling, warm and protective, stirred within him. This was a nice child, and a brave one. A face to remember, with lots behind it. Suddenly he heard her voice, low and as if pretending not to call: “Jon, oh, Jon!” He felt his way back through the darkness. Her hands were stretched out.

  “It IS so spooky! That funny rustling! I’ve got creeps down my back!”

  “The wind’s got up a bit. Let’s sit back to back—it’ll keep you warm. Or, look here, I’ll sit against the bank; if you lean up against me you could go to sleep. It’s only an hour or two now before we can ride on by moonlight.”

  They took up the suggested postures, her back against his side, and her head in the hollow of his arm and shoulder.

  “Comfy?”

  “Surely. It stops the creeps.”

  They smoked and talked a little more. The stars were brighter now, and their eyes more accustomed to the darkness. And they were grateful for each other’s warmth. Jon enjoyed the scent, as of hay, that rose from her hair not far below his nose. Then came a long silence, while the warm protective feeling grew and grew within him. He would have liked to slip his arms round and hold her closer. But of course he did not. It was, however, as much as he could do to remain a piece of warmth impersonal enough for her to recline against. This was the very first time since he left England that he had felt an inclination to put his arms round anyone, so badly burnt had he been in that old affair. The wind rose, talked in the trees, died away again; the stillness was greater than ever. He was very wide awake, and it seemed curious to him that she should sleep, for, surely, she was asleep—so still. The stars twinkled, and he gazed up at them. His limbs began to ache and twitch, and suddenly he realised that she was no more asleep than he. She slowly turned her head till he could see her eyes, grave, enticing.

  “I’m cramping you,” she said, and raised herself; but his arm restored her.

  “Not a bit; so long as you’re warm and comfy.”

  Her head settled in again; and the vigil was resumed. They talked a little now, of nothing important, and he thought: ‘It’s queer—one could live months knowing people and not know them half so well as we shall know each other now.’

  Again a long silence fell; but this time his arm was round her, it was more comfortable so, for both of them. And Jon began to have the feeling that it would be inadvisable for the moon to rise. Had she that feeling too? He wondered. But if she had, the moon in its courses paid no attention. For suddenly he became conscious that it was there, behind the trees somewhere lurking, a curious kind of stilly glimmer creeping about the air, along the ground, in and out of the tree-stems.

  “The moon!” he said. She did not stir, and his heart beat rather fast. So! She did not want the moon to rise any more than he! And slowly the creeping glimmer became light, and, between the tree-stems, stole, invading their bodies till they were visible. And still they sat, unstirring, as if afraid to break a spell. The moon gained power and a cold glory, and rose above the trees; the world was alive once more. Jon thought, ‘Could I kiss her?’ and at once recoiled. As if she would want! But, as though she divined his thought, she turned her head, and her eyes looked into his.

  “I’m in charge of you!” he did not exactly say.

  Her answer was a little sigh, and she got up. They stood, gazing into the whitened mysterious wood.

  “Look!” said Jon; “It IS the mound. There’s the path down to the hollow where we had the picnic. Now we can find the way all right.”

  She made a sound that he could not interpret, and they went towards the horses, untethered them, and mounted. They set forth, riding side by side.

  “This’ll be something to remember,” said Jon.

  “Yes, I shall always remember it.”

  They said no more, except to consult about the way, but this was soon so clear, that they cantered till they came out on the polo ground close to the hotel.

  “Go in and relieve your brother’s mind. I’ll take the horses round, and then come on.”

  When he entered the hotel lounge Francis Wilmot, still in riding clothes, was alone. His expression was peculiar, not exactly hostile, but certainly not friendly.

  “Anne’s gone up,” he said, “I reckon you haven’t much bump of locality. You surely had me scared.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said Jon humbly, “I forgot the horses were new to the country.”

  “Well!” said Francis Wilmot, and shrugged his shoulders. Jon looked at the young man steadily.

  “You don’t think that I got bushed on purpose? Because you look as if you did.”

  Again Francis Wilmot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Forgive me,” said Jon, “but aren’t you forgetting that your sister’s a lady, and that one doesn’t behave like a cad with a lady?”

  Francis Wilmot did not answer; he went to a window and stood looking out. Jon felt very angry. He sat down on the arm of a long chair, suddenly extremely tired. He sat there looking at the ground, and frowning heavily. Damn the fellow! Had he been bullying Anne? If he had—! A voice behind him said: “I reckon I didn’t mean it. I certainly am sorry. It was just the scare. Shake hands!”

  Jon stretched out his own impulsively, and they shook hands, looking straight into each other’s eyes.

  “You must be about through,” said Francis Wilmot. “Come on to my room; I’ve gotten a flask. I’ve given Anne a dram already.”

  They went up. Jon sat in the only chair, Francis Wilmot on the bed.

  “Anne tells me she’s asked you to come home with us tomorrow. I surely hope you will.”

  “I should simply love to.”

  “That’s fine!” />
  They drank, talked a little, smoked.

  “Good night,” said Jon, suddenly, “or I shall go to sleep here.”

  They shook hands again, and Jon staggered to his room. He fell asleep at once.

  They travelled next day, all three, through Columbia and Charleston, to the Wilmot’s place. It stood in the bend of a red river, with cotton fields around, and swampy ground where live oaks grew, melancholy, festooned with Florida moss. The old slave quarters, disused except as kennels, were still standing; the two-storied house had flights of wooden steps running up on each side, on to the wide wisteria-covered porch, and needed a coat of paint; and, within, rooms ran one into the other, hung with old portraits of dead Wilmots and de Frevilles; and darkies wandered around and talked their soft drawled speech.

  Jon was happier than he had been since he landed in the New World three and a half years ago. In the mornings he sauntered with the dogs in the sunlight or tried to write poetry—for the two young Wilmots were busy. After the midday meal he rode with them or with Anne alone. In the evening he learned from her to play the ukulele before a wood fire lighted at sundown, or heard about cotton culture from Francis, with whom, since that moment of animosity, he was on the best of terms.

  Between Anne and himself there was little talk; they had, as it were, resumed the silence which had fallen when they sat in the dark under the old Indian mound. But he watched her; indeed, he was always trying to catch the grave enticing look in her dark eyes. More and more she seemed to him unlike any girl he had ever known; quicker, more silent, and with more “sand.” The days went on, in warm sun, and the nightly scent of wood smoke; and his holiday drew to an end. He could play the ukulele now, and they sang to it—negro spirituals, songs from comic operas, and other immortal works. The last day came, and dismay descended on Jon. To-morrow, early, he was going back to his peaches at Southern Pines! That afternoon, riding with her for the last time, the silence was almost unnatural, and she did not even look at him. Jon went up to change, with panic in his heart. He knew now that he wanted to take her back with him, and he thought he knew that she did not want to come. How he would miss watching for those eyes to be fixed on him. He was thirsty with the wish to kiss her. He went down moodily, and sat in a long chair before the wood fire, pulling a spaniel’s ears and watching the room darken. Perhaps she wouldn’t even come for a last sing-song. Perhaps there would be nothing more but dinner and an evening a trois; not even a chance to say he loved her and be told that she didn’t love him. And he thought, miserably: ‘It’s my fault—I’m a silent fool; I’ve missed my chance.’ The room darkened till there was nothing but firelight, and the spaniel went to sleep. Jon, too, closed his eyes. It was as if he could wait better, thus—for the worst. When he opened them she was standing in front of him with the ukuleles in her hands.

  “Do you want to play, Jon?”

  “Yes,” said Jon, “let’s play. It’s the last time”; and he took his ukulele.

  She sat down on the rug before the fire, and began to tune hers. Jon slipped down beside the spaniel and began to tune his. The spaniel got up and went away.

  “What shall we sing?”

  “I don’t want to sing, Anne. You sing; I’ll just accompany.”

  She didn’t look at him! She would not look at him! It was all up! What a fool he’d been!

  Anne sang. She sang a crooning phrase—some Spanish air. Jon plucked his strings, and the tune plucked his heart. She sang it through. She sang it again, and her eyes slid round. God! She WAS looking at him. She mustn’t see that he knew she was! It was too good—that long dark look over the ukulele. Between him and her were her ukulele and his own. He dropped the beastly thing. And, suddenly shifting along the floor, he put his arm round her. Without a word she drooped her head against his shoulder, as when they sat under the Indian mound. He bent his cheek down to her hair. It smelled, as it had then, of hay. And, just as she had screwed her face round in the moonlight, she turned it to him now. But this time Jon kissed her lips.

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  Document history:

  version 1.1 – File correcting – Tibioka

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