She turned indoors so that he should not see her tears. She
sat down to table. Presently he came into the scullery. His
movements jarred on her, as she heard them. How horrible was the
way he pumped, exacerbating, so cruel! How she hated to hear
him! How he hated her! How his hatred was like blows upon her!
The tears were coming again.
He came in, his face wooden and lifeless, fixed, persistent.
He sat down to tea, his head dropped over his cup, uglily. His
hands were red from the cold water, and there were rims of earth
in his nails. He went on with his tea.
It was his negative insensitiveness to her that she could not
bear, something clayey and ugly. His intelligence was
self-absorbed. How unnatural it was to sit with a self-absorbed
creature, like something negative ensconced opposite one.
Nothing could touch him--he could only absorb things into
his own self.
The tears were running down her face. Something startled him,
and he was looking up at her with his hateful, hard, bright
eyes, hard and unchanging as a bird of prey.
"What are you crying for?" came the grating voice.
She winced through her womb. She could not stop crying.
"What are you crying for?" came the question again, in just
the same tone. And still there was silence, with only the sniff
of her tears.
His eyes glittered, and as if with malignant desire. She
shrank and became blind. She was like a bird being beaten down.
A sort of swoon of helplessness came over her. She was of
another order than he, she had no defence against him. Against
such an influence, she was only vulnerable, she was given
up.
He rose and went out of the house, possessed by the evil
spirit. It tortured him and wracked him, and fought in him. And
whilst he worked, in the deepening twilight, it left him.
Suddenly he saw that she was hurt. He had only seen her
triumphant before. Suddenly his heart was torn with compassion
for her. He became alive again, in an anguish of compassion. He
could not bear to think of her tears--he could not bear it.
He wanted to go to her and pour out his heart's blood to her. He
wanted to give everything to her, all his blood, his life, to
the last dregs, pour everything away to her. He yearned with
passionate desire to offer himself to her, utterly.
The evening star came, and the night. She had not lighted the
lamp. His heart burned with pain and with grief. He trembled to
go to her.
And at last he went, hesitating, burdened with a great
offering. The hardness had gone out of him, his body was
sensitive, slightly trembling. His hand was curiously sensitive,
shrinking, as he shut the door. He fixed the latch almost
tenderly.