He wanted to run across the clearing, lift her in
his arms and charm away the tiredness; swiftly on top of that emotion
came the realization that she was walking wearily partly because she had
been doing his work, partly because her spirit was heavy and sick. He
felt sick with himself for having hurt her; he resented the misery his
conscience was causing him: swiftly he found himself resenting the
ungainliness of her figure which, in his morbid mood, seemed his fault
too. He hated the unconscious reproach she gave him as she came along,
stumbling a little, carrying the pickaxe.
He had finished his last spot of whisky at noon and had not slept since;
he was worn and tired and frayed, even more than she was. He was acutely
uncomfortable for want of soap and water and food.
He dashed across the space between them, his eyes blazing madly, and she
looked up, hearing his steps, seeing the blaze of his eyes, the
tenseness of his clenched hands.
"Damn you--damn you!" he cried, "playing the blasted Christian martyr.
Walking like that, to make people think I've made you tired!"
She stared at him, and her eyes filled with tears. She had got to the
stage of longing to see him so much that she did not care whether he
were drunk or sober. Then the ridiculousness of playing a role in the
Bush at ten o'clock at night, struck her, and she laughed--a rather
cracked laugh.
Pages:
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449