Of Human Bondage (113 page)

  "I'm going to earn my dinner," he said.

  "Quite right, my boy," answered Athelny, with a wave
of the hand, as he strolled away. "No work, no dinner."

  Philip had not a basket of his own, but sat with
Sally. Jane thought it monstrous that he should help her elder
sister rather than herself, and he had to promise to pick for her
when Sally's basket was full. Sally was almost as quick as her
mother.

  "Won't it hurt your hands for sewing?" asked
Philip.

  "Oh, no, it wants soft hands. That's why women pick
better than men. If your hands are hard and your fingers all stiff
with a lot of rough work you can't pick near so well."

  He liked to see her deft movements, and she watched
him too now and then with that maternal spirit of hers which was so
amusing and yet so charming. He was clumsy at first, and she
laughed at him. When she bent over and showed him how best to deal
with a whole line their hands met. He was surprised to see her
blush. He could not persuade himself that she was a woman; because
he had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking upon her
as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she
was a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few
days one of Sally's cousins was already so attentive that she had
to endure a lot of chaffing. His name was Peter Gann, and he was
the son of Mrs. Athelny's sister, who had married a farmer near
Ferne. Everyone knew why he found it necessary to walk through the
hop-field every day.

  A call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for
breakfast at eight, and though Mrs. Athelny told them they had not
deserved it, they ate it very heartily. They set to work again and
worked till twelve, when the horn sounded once more for dinner. At
intervals the measurer went his round from bin to bin, accompanied
by the booker, who entered first in his own book and then in the
hopper's the number of bushels picked. As each bin was filled it
was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a poke;
and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them
and put on the waggon. Athelny came back now and then with stories
of how much Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had picked, and he conjured
his family to beat her: he was always wanting to make records, and
sometimes in his enthusiasm picked steadily for an hour. His chief
amusement in it, however, was that it showed the beauty of his
graceful hands, of which he was excessively proud. He spent much
time manicuring them. He told Philip, as he stretched out his
tapering fingers, that the Spanish grandees had always slept in
oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness. The hand that wrung the
throat of Europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and
exquisite as a woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately
picked the hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. When he grew
tired of this he rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to
Philip of art and literature. In the afternoon it grew very hot.
Work did not proceed so actively and conversation halted. The
incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to desultory remarks.
Tiny beads of sweat stood on Sally's upper lip, and as she worked
her lips were slightly parted. She was like a rosebud bursting into
flower.

  Calling-off time depended on the state of the
oast-house. Sometimes it was filled early, and as many hops had
been picked by three or four as could be dried during the night.
Then work was stopped. But generally the last measuring of the day
began at five. As each company had its bin measured it gathered up
its things and, chatting again now that work was over, sauntered
out of the garden. The women went back to the huts to clean up and
prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the
road to the public-house. A glass of beer was very pleasant after
the day's work.

  The Athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with.
When the measurer came Mrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood
up and stretched her arms: she had been sitting in the same
position for many hours and was stiff.

  "Now, let's go to The Jolly Sailor," said Athelny.
"The rites of the day must be duly performed, and there is none
more sacred than that."

  "Take a jug with you, Athelny," said his wife, "and
bring back a pint and a half for supper."

  She gave him the money, copper by copper. The
bar-parlour was already well filled. It had a sanded floor, benches
round it, and yellow pictures of Victorian prize-fighters on the
walls. The licencee knew all his customers by name, and he leaned
over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who were throwing
rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure was
greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the
company. Room was made for the new arrivals. Philip found himself
sitting between an old labourer in corduroys, with string tied
under his knees, and a shiny-faced lad of seventeen with a
love-lock neatly plastered on his red forehead. Athelny insisted on
trying his hand at the throwing of rings. He backed himself for
half a pint and won it. As he drank the loser's health he said:

  "I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my
boy."

  He was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed
hat and pointed beard, among those country folk, and it was easy to
see that they thought him very queer; but his spirits were so high,
his enthusiasm so contagious, that it was impossible not to like
him. Conversation went easily. A certain number of pleasantries
were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of the Isle of Thanet, and
there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of the local wag. A
pleasant gathering! It would have been a hard-hearted person who
did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows. Philip's eyes
wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still;
there were little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like
those of a cottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums.
In due course one by one the idlers got up and sauntered back to
the meadow where supper was cooking.

  "I expect you'll be ready for your bed," said Mrs.
Athelny to Philip. "You're not used to getting up at five and
staying in the open air all day."

  "You're coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren't
you?" the boys cried.

  "Rather."

  He was tired and happy. After supper, balancing
himself against the wall of the hut on a chair without a back, he
smoked his pipe and looked at the night. Sally was busy. She passed
in and out of the hut, and he lazily watched her methodical
actions. Her walk attracted his notice; it was not particularly
graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs from the
hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision. Athelny
had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently
Philip heard his wife address the world in general.

  "There now, I'm out of tea and I wanted Athelny to
go down to Mrs. Black's and get some." A pause, and then her voice
was raised: "Sally, just run down to Mrs. Black's and get me half a
pound of tea, will you? I've run quite out of it."

  "All right, mother."

  Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the
road, and she combined the office of postmistress with that of
universal provider. Sally came out of the hut, turning down her
sleeves.

  "Shall I come with you, Sally?" asked Philip.

  "Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone."

  "I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my
bedtime, and I was just thinking I'd like to stretch my legs."

  Sally did not answer, and they set out together. The
road was white and silent. There was not a sound in the summer
night. They did not speak much.

  "It's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said
Philip.

  "I think it's wonderful for the time of year."

  But their silence did not seem awkward. They found
it was pleasant to walk side by side and felt no need of words.
Suddenly at a stile in the hedgerow they heard a low murmur of
voices, and in the darkness they saw the outline of two people.
They were sitting very close to one another and did not move as
Philip and Sally passed.

  "I wonder who that was," said Sally.

  "They looked happy enough, didn't they?"

  "I expect they took us for lovers too."

  They saw the light of the cottage in front of them,
and in a minute went into the little shop. The glare dazzled them
for a moment.

  "You are late," said Mrs. Black. "I was just going
to shut up." She looked at the clock. "Getting on for nine."

  Sally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny
could never bring herself to buy more than half a pound at a time),
and they set off up the road again. Now and then some beast of the
night made a short, sharp sound, but it seemed only to make the
silence more marked.

  "I believe if you stood still you could hear the
sea," said Sally.

  They strained their ears, and their fancy presented
them with a faint sound of little waves lapping up against the
shingle. When they passed the stile again the lovers were still
there, but now they were not speaking; they were in one another's
arms, and the man's lips were pressed against the girl's.

  "They seem busy," said Sally.

  They turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat
for a moment against their faces. The earth gave forth its
freshness. There was something strange in the tremulous night, and
something, you knew not what, seemed to be waiting; the silence was
on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philip had a queer feeling in
his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt (the hackneyed
phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felt happy
and anxious and expectant. To his memory came back those lines in
which Jessica and Lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another,
capping each other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear
through the conceits that amuse them. He did not know what there
was in the air that made his senses so strangely alert; it seemed
to him that he was pure soul to enjoy the scents and the sounds and
the savours of the earth. He had never felt such an exquisite
capacity for beauty. He was afraid that Sally by speaking would
break the spell, but she said never a word, and he wanted to hear
the sound of her voice. Its low richness was the voice of the
country night itself.

  They arrived at the field through which she had to
walk to get back to the huts. Philip went in to hold the gate open
for her.

  "Well, here I think I'll say good-night."

  "Thank you for coming all that way with me."

  She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he
said:

  "If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like
the rest of the family."

  "I don't mind," she said.

  Philip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss
her, because he was happy and he liked her and the night was so
lovely.

  "Good-night then," he said, with a little laugh,
drawing her towards him.

  She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and
soft; he lingered a little, they were like a flower; then, he knew
not how, without meaning it, he flung his arms round her. She
yielded quite silently. Her body was firm and strong. He felt her
heart beat against his. Then he lost his head. His senses
overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drew her into
the darker shadow of the hedge.