Aaron's Rod - D. H. Lawrence (poetry books to read .TXT) 📗

and his eyes grew a little moist. The room was hot and subdued, everyone was silent.

“I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear—“anybody have a drink? Don’t you find it rather hot?”

“Is there another bottle of beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid.

“Yes—I think there is,” said Robert.

“Thanks—don’t open it yet,” murmured Jim.

“Have a drink, Josephine?” said Robert.

“No thank you,” said Josephine, bowing slightly.

Finding the drinks did not go, Robert went round with the cigarettes. Josephine Ford looked at the white rolls.

“Thank you,” she said, and taking one, suddenly licked her rather full, dry red lips with the rapid tip of her tongue. It was an odd movement, suggesting a snake’s flicker. She put her cigarette between her lips, and waited. Her movements were very quiet and well bred; but perhaps too quiet, they had the dangerous impassivity of the Bohemian, Parisian or American rather than English.

“Cigarette, Julia?” said Robert to his wife.

She seemed to start or twitch, as if dazed. Then she looked up at her husband with a queer smile, puckering the corners of her eyes. He looked at the cigarettes, not at her. His face had the blunt voluptuous gravity of a young lion, a great cat. She kept him standing for some moments impassively. Then suddenly she hung her long, delicate fingers over the box, in doubt, and spasmodically jabbed at the cigarettes, clumsily raking one out at last.

“Thank you, dear—thank you,” she cried, rather high, looking up and smiling once more. He turned calmly aside, offering the cigarettes to Scott, who refused.

“Oh!” said Julia, sucking the end of her cigarette. “Robert is so happy with all the good things—aren’t you dear?” she sang, breaking into a hurried laugh. “We aren’t used to such luxurious living, we aren’t—ARE WE DEAR—No, we’re not such swells as this, we’re not. Oh, ROBBIE, isn’t it all right, isn’t it just all right?” She tailed off into her hurried, wild, repeated laugh. “We’re so happy in a land of plenty, AREN’T WE DEAR?”

“Do you mean I’m greedy, Julia?” said Robert.

“Greedy!—Oh, greedy!—he asks if he’s greedy?—no you’re not greedy, Robbie, you’re not greedy. I want you to be happy.”

“I’m quite happy,” he returned.

“Oh, he’s happy!—Really!—he’s happy! Oh, what an accomplishment! Oh, my word!” Julia puckered her eyes and laughed herself into a nervous twitching silence.

Robert went round with the matches. Julia sucked her cigarette.

“Give us a light, Robbie, if you ARE happy!” she cried.

“It’s coming,” he answered.

Josephine smoked with short, sharp puffs. Julia sucked wildly at her light. Robert returned to his red wine. Jim Bricknell suddenly roused up, looked round on the company, smiling a little vacuously and showing his odd, pointed teeth.

“Where’s the beer?” he asked, in deep tones, smiling full into Josephine’s face, as if she were going to produce it by some sleight of hand. Then he wheeled round to the table, and was soon pouring beer down his throat as down a pipe. Then he dropped supine again. Cyril Scott was silently absorbing gin and water.

“I say,” said Jim, from the remote depths of his sprawling. “Isn’t there something we could do to while the time away?”

Everybody suddenly laughed—it sounded so remote and absurd.

“What, play bridge or poker or something conventional of that sort?” said Josephine in her distinct voice, speaking to him as if he were a child.

“Oh, damn bridge,” said Jim in his sleep-voice. Then he began pulling his powerful length together. He sat on the edge of his chair-seat, leaning forward, peering into all the faces and grinning.

“Don’t look at me like that—so long—” said Josephine, in her self- contained voice. “You make me uncomfortable.” She gave an odd little grunt of a laugh, and the tip of her tongue went over her lips as she glanced sharply, half furtively round the room.

“I like looking at you,” said Jim, his smile becoming more malicious.

“But you shouldn’t, when I tell you not,” she returned.

Jim twisted round to look at the state of the bottles. The father also came awake. He sat up.

“Isn’t it time,” he said, “that you all put away your glasses and cigarettes and thought of bed?”

Jim rolled slowly round towards his father, sprawling in the long chair.

“Ah, Dad,” he said, “tonight’s the night! Tonight’s some night, Dad.— You can sleep any time—” his grin widened—“but there aren’t many nights to sit here—like this—Eh?”

He was looking up all the time into the face of his father, full and nakedly lifting his face to the face of his father, and smiling fixedly. The father, who was perfectly sober, except for the contagion from the young people, felt a wild tremor go through his heart as he gazed on the face of his boy. He rose stiffly.

“You want to stay?” he said. “You want to stay!—Well then—well then, I’ll leave you. But don’t be long.” The old man rose to his full height, rather majestic. The four younger people also rose respectfully—only Jim lay still prostrate in his chair, twisting up his face towards his father.

“You won’t stay long,” said the old man, looking round a little bewildered. He was seeking a responsible eye. Josephine was the only one who had any feeling for him.

“No, we won’t stay long, Mr. Bricknell,” she said gravely.

“Good night, Dad,” said Jim, as his father left the room.

Josephine went to the window. She had rather a stiff, poupee walk.

“How is the night?” she said, as if to change the whole feeling in the room. She pushed back the thick grey-silk curtains. “Why?” she exclaimed. “What is that light burning? A red light?”

“Oh, that’s only the pit-bank on fire,” said Robert, who had followed her.

“How strange!—Why is it burning now?”

“It always burns, unfortunately—it is most consistent at it. It is the refuse from the mines. It has been burning for years, in spite of all efforts to the contrary.”

“How very curious! May we look at it?” Josephine now turned the handle of the French windows, and stepped out.

“Beautiful!” they heard her voice exclaim from outside.

In the room, Julia laid her hand gently, protectively over the hand of Cyril Scott.

“Josephine and Robert are admiring the night together!” she said, smiling with subtle tenderness to him.

“Naturally! Young people always do these romantic things,” replied Cyril Scott. He was twenty-two years old, so he could afford to be cynical.

“Do they?—Don’t you think it’s nice of them?” she said, gently removing her hand from his. His eyes were shining with pleasure.

“I do. I envy them enormously. One only needs to be sufficiently naive,” he said.

“One does, doesn’t one!” cooed Julia.

“I say, do you hear the bells?” said Robert, poking his head into the room.

“No, dear! Do you?” replied Julia.

“Bells! Hear the bells! Bells!” exclaimed the half-tipsy and self- conscious Jim. And he rolled in his chair in an explosion of sudden, silent laughter, showing his mouthful of pointed teeth, like a dog. Then he gradually gathered himself together, found his feet, smiling fixedly.

“Pretty cool night!” he said aloud, when he felt the air on his almost bald head. The darkness smelt of sulphur.

Josephine and Robert had moved out of sight. Julia was abstracted, following them with her eyes. With almost supernatural keenness she seemed to catch their voices from the distance.

“Yes, Josephine, WOULDN’T that be AWFULLY ROMANTIC!”—she suddenly called shrilly.

The pair in the distance started.

“What—!” they heard Josephine’s sharp exclamation.

“What’s that?—What would be romantic?” said Jim as he lurched up and caught hold of Cyril Scott’s arm.

“Josephine wants to make a great illumination of the grounds of the estate,” said Julia, magniloquent.

“No—no—I didn’t say it,” remonstrated Josephine.

“What Josephine said,” explained Robert, “was simply that it would be pretty to put candles on one of the growing trees, instead of having a Christmas-tree indoors.”

“Oh, Josephine, how sweet of you!” cried Julia.

Cyril Scott giggled.

“Good egg! Champion idea, Josey, my lass. Eh? What—!“cried Jim. “Why not carry it out—eh? Why not? Most attractive.” He leaned forward over Josephine, and grinned.

“Oh, no!” expostulated Josephine. “It all sounds so silly now. No. Let us go indoors and go to bed.”

“NO, Josephine dear—No! It’s a LOVELY IDEA!” cried Julia. “Let’s get candles and lanterns and things—”

“Let’s!” grinned Jim. “Let’s, everybody—let’s.”

“Shall we really?” asked Robert. “Shall we illuminate one of the fir- trees by the lawn?”

“Yes! How lovely!” cried Julia. “I’ll fetch the candles.”

“The women must put on warm cloaks,” said Robert.

They trooped indoors for coats and wraps and candles and lanterns. Then, lighted by a bicycle lamp, they trooped off to the shed to twist wire round the candles for holders. They clustered round the bench.

“I say,” said Julia, “doesn’t Cyril look like a pilot on a stormy night! Oh, I say—!” and she went into one of her hurried laughs.

They all looked at Cyril Scott, who was standing sheepishly in the background, in a very large overcoat, smoking a large pipe. The young man was uncomfortable, but assumed a stoic air of philosophic indifference.

Soon they were busy round a prickly fir-tree at the end of the lawn. Jim stood in the background vaguely staring. The bicycle lamp sent a beam of strong white light deep into the uncanny foliage, heads clustered and hands worked. The night above was silent, dim. There was no wind. In the near distance they could hear the panting of some engine at the colliery.

“Shall we light them as we fix them,” asked Robert, “or save them for one grand rocket at the end?”

“Oh, as we do them,” said Cyril Scott, who had lacerated his fingers and wanted to see some reward.

A match spluttered. One naked little flame sprang alight among the dark foliage. The candle burned tremulously, naked. They all were silent.

“We ought to do a ritual dance! We ought to worship the tree,” sang Julia, in her high voice.

“Hold on a minute. We’ll have a little more illumination,” said Robert.

“Why yes. We want more than one candle,” said Josephine.

But Julia had dropped the cloak in which she was huddled, and with arms slung asunder was sliding, waving, crouching in a pas seul before the tree, looking like an animated bough herself.

Jim, who was hugging his pipe in the background, broke into a short, harsh, cackling laugh.

“Aren’t we fools! “he cried. “What? Oh, God’s love, aren’t we fools!”

“No—why?” cried Josephine, amused but resentful.

But Jim vouchsafed nothing further, only stood like a Red Indian gripping his pipe.

The beam of the bicycle-lamp moved and fell upon the hands and faces of the young people, and penetrated the recesses of the secret trees. Several little tongues of flame clipped sensitive and ruddy on the naked air, sending a faint glow over the needle foliage. They gave a strange, perpendicular aspiration in the night. Julia waved slowly in her tree dance. Jim stood apart, with his legs straddled, a motionless figure.

The party round the tree became absorbed and excited as more ruddy tongues of