Part 14 (1/2)

”A rotten pair of things to have, to put a man's life in danger,” he said, towards the steps. Then stubbornly, he rigged them up again, and stared again at his interrupted job.

”You won't go on, will you?” she asked.

”It's got to be done, Sunday tomorrow,” he said. ”If you'd hold them steps a minute! There isn't more than a minute's fixing to do. It's all done, but fixing.”

”Hadn't you better leave it,” she said.

”Would you mind holding the steps, so that they don't let me down again,” he said. Then he took the candle, and hobbled stubbornly and angrily up again, with spanner and hammer. For some minutes he worked, tapping and readjusting, whilst she held the ricketty steps and stared at him from below, the shapeless bulk of his trousers.

Strange the difference--she could not help thinking it--between the vulnerable hairy, and somehow childish leg of the real man, and the shapeless form of these workmen's trousers. The kernel, the man himself--seemed so tender--the covering so stiff and insentient.

And was he not going to speak to her--not one human word of recognition? Men are the most curious and unreal creatures. After all he had made use of her. Think how he had pressed her hand gently but firmly down, down over his bruise, how he had taken the virtue out of her, till she felt all weak and dim. And after that was he going to relapse into his tough and ugly workman's hide, and treat her as if _she_ were a pair of steps, which might let him down or hold him up, as might be.

As she stood clinging to the steps she felt weak and a little hysterical. She wanted to summon her strength, to have her own back from him. After all he had taken the virtue from her, he might have the grace to say thank you, and treat her as if she were a human being.

At last he left off tinkering, and looked round.

”Have you finished?” she said.

”Yes,” he answered crossly.

And taking the candle he began to clamber down. When he got to the bottom he crouched over his leg and felt the bandage.

”That gives you what for,” he said, as if it were her fault.

”Is the bandage holding?” she said.

”I think so,” he answered churlishly.

”Aren't you going to make sure?” she said.

”Oh, it's all right,” he said, turning aside and taking up his tools. ”I'll make my way home.”

”So will I,” she answered.

She took the candle and went a little in front. He hurried into his coat and gathered his tools, anxious to get away. She faced him, holding the candle.

”Look at my hand,” she said, holding it out. It was smeared with blood, as was the cuff of her dress--a black-and-white striped cotton dress.

”Is it hurt?” he said.

”No, but look at it. Look here!” She showed the bloodstains on her dress.

”It'll wash out,” he said, frightened of her.

”Yes, so it will. But for the present it's there. Don't you think you ought to thank me?”

He recoiled a little.

”Yes,” he said. ”I'm very much obliged.”

”You ought to be more than that,” she said.