Part 22 (2/2)
Blanche read the little note through twice, a smile on her face, then pulled Judith down to her and kissed her.
”Blanche, are you ...?” asked Judy breathlessly.
Blanche nodded.
”Oh, Blanche, what is it like? Is it as wonderful as books say? Do you feel thrills?”
”What sort of thrills?”
”Oh, up and down your spine, I suppose! Like I feel when I hear music.”
”Yes, it's just like music. It somehow sets the whole of life to music,”
answered Blanche solemnly.
”How wonderful!... Blanche--has he kissed you?”
”Yes, last night. Judy, a woman doesn't know what life means till the man she loves kisses her.”
Judy sat rapt, saying nothing. Her deep-set hazel eyes took on a look as of one who sees visions, impersonal but entrancing. Blanche rolled herself out of bed and, going over to the gla.s.s, began to examine her skin in the white light shed from the sky in at the window.
”Bother!” she murmured; ”I'm getting a spot! Oh, Judy, isn't that too bad just when I want to look nice?... Of course, he's the kind to love me just as much with a spot, but I feel I can't love myself so much....”
”I'll lend you some of my lotion,” said Judy, jumping up; ”you can cover it over, if you try, with that and powder. It doesn't look anything really. I always think one sees one's own spots long before anyone else can, anyway.”
”Yes, that's true; it will be all right if I can prevent it getting any worse. You never have any spots, you lucky baby. Just hand me the lotion ... and my dressing-gown ... thanks ever so.” Blanche slipped on the wrapper, and going to the top of the little flight of stairs called down them: ”Mrs. Penticost ... my bath-water, please!”
No answer.
”Mrs. Pe-e-e-ntico-s-st,” called Blanche, ”I must have my bath-water! I shall die, dear Mrs. Penticost, if I can't have my bath-water this very moment!”
From subterranean distance came a m.u.f.fled voice which nevertheless enunciated distinctly: ”Die, then, damon, die....”
”Oh, Mrs. Penticost, how unkind you are!” cried Blanche, laughing. ”I don't a bit want to die to-day. I want to live and be happy and for everyone in the world to be happy too.”
These last remarks were addressed to the form of Mrs. Penticost toiling upstairs with the can of water. The good lady clanked the can down and pulled out the flat tin bath from under the bed before replying, which she did over her shoulder as she was leaving the room.
”Aw!” she observed, ”I'd be careful if I was you. Be cryen before night!”
”Cheery old thing!” grimaced Blanche. ”Do go and see she gets breakfast ready quickly, Judy. She'll do anything for you.”
Judy flung herself downstairs and upon the neck of Mrs. Penticost, who called her a lamb, bade her get out of the way and sit down while she got her a cup of tea and some bread and b.u.t.ter to keep her going till that lazy f.a.ggot overstairs should have put enough mucks on her face to be able to breakfast.
The day brightened, though still with a curious pallor that was more glare than sunlight, and both girls put on cool muslin dresses, or as cool as the long full skirts would allow of their being. Va.s.sie was in blue, Phoebe in pink, Judy in primrose, while Blanche was white even to her shady hat. Girls never look as well as when there are several of them together, just as men never look so ill as in a crowd. What brings out all the ungainliness of men's attire emphasises the b.u.t.terfly nature of girls--their look, their voices, the little graces they half-consciously and half-unknowingly display with each other, show each off to better advantage than at any other time. Va.s.sie, Phoebe, Judith, and Blanche made the rough field a flower-garden that day to eye and ear, almost to nostril, for their presence was so quickening that the sweet smell of the oats and the green things cut with it seemed to emanate from the girls and be part of their presence. Laughter and the swish of skirts mingled with the rustle of stalk and grain, the sway and the dip of skirts mingled with the bending of the sheaves. To Ishmael his lover seemed the sweeter thus absorbed as one of others than even alone. All that month he had been seeing her only, to such an extent that her relations.h.i.+p with the rest of the world down at Cloom had not held his attention. Now he realised how vital the state of those relations.h.i.+ps was, and seeing her one of a beautiful scheme that seemed inevitable and lasting as a Greek frieze, he took that purely physical circ.u.mstance to mean mental harmony as well.
It was hard work, though sweet, among the oats, and the physical exertion satisfied everyone, so that no fringe was left beyond it for thought. When they first entered the field the crop lay in broad tawny bands across the greener stubble, just as it had fallen from the scythes. The amateur harvesters had to gather the oats into great bundles and, binding them, stack the sheaves thus made together, against the day, close at hand now, when they would be carried to the thres.h.i.+ng.
Bent-backed, the girls went along the rows, pus.h.i.+ng the oats as they went into bundles bigger than themselves, trying to keep the feathery heads as much as possible at one end. Round each bundle Ishmael pulled a roughly-twisted rope of the oats, tugging it fast; and when it was Blanche's bundle be spanned, then his hands would touch hers through the glossy straws. Every now and again, for change of labour, the girls would stagger under a heavy sheaf to where one or two others lay ready and prop them up against each other, with a careful eye to the wind, lest, if the sheaves were not built solidly enough or fairly balanced, they might be found spilt along the ground in the morning. And all through the work, the sweeping up of the bundles, the twisting of the ropes, the carrying and the stacking, the rustling noise filled the air, while the faint but pervading smell, that subtle, inexpressibly wholesome smell of ripe grain, made it sweet.
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