He worked steadily, engrossed, threading backwards and
forwards like a shuttle across the strip of cleared stubble,
weaving the long line of riding shocks, nearer and nearer to the
shadowy trees, threading his sheaves with hers.
And always, she was gone before he came. As he came, she drew
away, as he drew away, she came. Were they never to meet?
Gradually a low, deep-sounding will in him vibrated to her,
tried to set her in accord, tried to bring her gradually to him,
to a meeting, till they should be together, till they should
meet as the sheaves that swished together.
And the work went on. The moon grew brighter, clearer, the
corn glistened. He bent over the prostrate bundles, there was a
hiss as the sheaves left the ground, a trailing of heavy bodies
against him, a dazzle of moonlight on his eyes. And then he was
setting the corn together at the stook. And she was coming
near.
He waited for her, he fumbled at the stook. She came. But she
stood back till he drew away. He saw her in shadow, a dark
column, and spoke to her, and she answered. She saw the
moonlight flash question on his face. But there was a space
between them, and he went away, the work carried them,
rhythmic.
Why was there always a space between them, why were they
apart? Why, as she came up from under the moon, would she halt
and stand off from him? Why was he held away from her? His will
drummed persistently, darkly, it drowned everything else.
Into the rhythm of his work there came a pulse and a steadied
purpose. He stooped, he lifted the weight, he heaved it towards
her, setting it as in her, under the moonlit space. And he went
back for more. Ever with increasing closeness he lifted the
sheaves and swung striding to the centre with them, ever he
drove her more nearly to the meeting, ever he did his share, and
drew towards her, overtaking her. There was only the moving to
and fro in the moonlight, engrossed, the swinging in the
silence, that was marked only by the splash of sheaves, and
silence, and a splash of sheaves. And ever the splash of his
sheaves broke swifter, beating up to hers, and ever the splash
of her sheaves recurred monotonously, unchanging, and ever the
splash of his sheaves beat nearer.
Till at last, they met at the shock, facing each other,
sheaves in hand. And he was silvery with moonlight, with a
moonlit, shadowy face that frightened her. She waited for
him.
"Put yours down," she said.
"No, it's your turn." His voice was twanging and
insistent.
She set her sheaves against the shock. He saw her hands
glisten among the spray of grain. And he dropped his sheaves and
he trembled as he took her in his arms. He had over-taken her,
and it was his privilege to kiss her. She was sweet and fresh
with the night air, and sweet with the scent of grain. And the
whole rhythm of him beat into his kisses, and still he pursued
her, in his kisses, and still she was not quite overcome. He
wondered over the moonlight on her nose! All the moonlight upon
her, all the darkness within her! All the night in his arms,
darkness and shine, he possessed of it all! All the night for
him now, to unfold, to venture within, all the mystery to be
entered, all the discovery to be made.