And instead of killing she follows the fox which immediately reveals her state of mind and her urgency of the need.
She is confused about her sexual feelings and fantasies. Lawrence depicts different shades of the characters of the two women. He portrays Banford as the traditional woman, frail, needing someone to take care of her.
March acts like the man on the farm care taker and protector. The female side of her is exposed only after she meets Henry. Lawrence successfully portrays the differences in their character traits through this three way relationship.
March alternately plays the psychological male in the company of Banford and the desirable female in the company of Henry. This conflicting attitudes and responses are brought out very well by Lawrence to understand gender roles and relationships. In fact, the reader is made to see Henry as a fox because March views him as such.
The narrative, however, deals with not only the physical action of the two women, but also their psychological states of mind.
The imagery is deliberately sexual. Henry proposed March for marriage and Banford is resisting her to accept the proposal and hence it is very much possible that Henry can kill her in order to attain March. Otherwise, if March lives with him then surely Banford will be helpless. He is no doubt disgusted with Banford and he cannot tolerate her. He knew that if the relationship between him and March becomes impossible then it will be only because of Banford.
So there is every possibility that he will think of killing Banford to remove the obstacle from his path. And that is why albeit he knew that the tree is going fall upon the way Banford is standing still he cuts the tree giving a light warning knowing that she would not listen to him so as to avoid the upcoming blame.
So he just warns about the upcoming danger. And the incident occurred likewise the result comes as the death of Banford what he might have wanted. March at the end seemingly accepts the proposal of Henry for marriage but she is not sure whether she would leave to Canada with him. This is because she needed rest from all the complexities she had but the overseas seemed fake to her, the foreign land may not bring her the peach which she is yearning for.
By this open ending Lawrence might have wanted to give some chance to March to decide for her whether she wants to go or not. What makes you say you can't? You can. It was as if she was killed. I want you to marry me. You know that, now, don't you? You know that, now? Don't you? The kettle's boiling. He stooped at once to take an armful of little logs and carry them into the kitchen, where they were piled in a corner.
March also helped, filling her arms and carrying the logs on her breast as if they were some heavy child. The night had fallen cold. When the logs were all in, the two cleaned their boots noisily on the scraper outside, then rubbed them on the mat. March shut the door and took off her old felt hat--her farm-girl hat.
Her thick, crisp, black hair was loose, her face was pale and strained. She pushed back her hair vaguely and washed her hands. Banford came hurrying into the dimly-lighted kitchen, to take from the oven the scones she was keeping hot. And it's ages since you stopped sawing. What were you doing out there? I could see your shirt-sleeves,' challenged Banford.
They went in to tea. March was quite mute. Her face was pale and strained and vague. The youth, who always had the same ruddy, self-contained look on his face, as though he were keeping himself to himself, had come to tea in his shirt-sleeves as if he were at home. He bent over his plate as he ate his food.
He looked up at her, with his chin near his plate, and his eyes very clear, pellucid, and unwavering as he watched her. He had a strange, suave assurance and a wide-eyed bright look that got on her nerves this evening. I forgot that. But March had again gone vague and unheeding, chewing her food as if she did not know she was eating at all. And the youth looked from one to another, with bright, watching eyes.
Banford was offended. For all his suave courtesy and soft voice, the youth seemed to her impudent. She did not like to look at him.
She did not like to meet his clear, watchful eyes, she did not like to see the strange glow in his face, his cheeks with their delicate fine hair, and his ruddy skin that was quite dull and yet which seemed to burn with a curious heat of life. It made her feel a little ill to look at him: the quality of his physical presence was too penetrating, too hot. After tea the evening was very quiet. The youth rarely went into the village.
As a rule, he read: he was a great reader, in his own hours. That is, when he did begin, he read absorbedly. But he was not very eager to begin.
Often he walked about the fields and along the hedges alone in the dark at night, prowling with a queer instinct for the night, and listening to the wild sounds.
Tonight, however, he took a Captain Mayne Reid book from Banford's shelf and sat down with knees wide apart and immersed himself in his story. His brownish fair hair was long, and lay on his head like a thick cap, combed sideways. He was still in his shirt-sleeves, and bending forward under the lamplight, with his knees stuck wide apart and the book in his hand and his whole figure absorbed in the rather strenuous business of reading, he gave Banford's sitting-room the look of a lumber-camp.
She resented this. For on her sitting-room floor she had a red Turkey rug and dark stain round, the fire-place had fashionable green tiles, the piano stood open with the latest dance music: she played quite well: and on the walls were March's hand-painted swans and water-lilies. Moreover, with the logs nicely, tremulously burning in the grate, the thick curtains drawn, the doors all shut, and the pine trees hissing and shuddering in the wind outside, it was cosy, it was refined and nice.
She resented the big, raw, long-legged youth sticking his khaki knees out and sitting there with his soldier's shirt-cuffs buttoned on his thick red wrists. From time to time he turned a page, and from time to time he gave a sharp look at the fire, settling the logs.
Then he immersed himself again in the intense and isolated business of reading. March, on the far side of the table, was spasmodically crocheting. Her mouth was pursed in an odd way, as when she had dreamed the fox's brush burned it, her beautiful, crisp black hair strayed in wisps. But her whole figure was absorbed in its bearing, as if she herself was miles away. In a sort of semi-dream she seemed to be hearing the fox singing round the house in the wind, singing wildly and sweetly and like a madness.
With red but well-shaped hands she slowly crocheted the white cotton, very slowly, awkwardly. Banford was also trying to read, sitting in her low chair. But between those two she felt fidgety. She kept moving and looking round and listening to the wind, and glancing secretly from one to the other of her companions. March, seated on a straight chair, with her knees in their close breeches crossed, and slowly, laboriously crocheting, was also a trial.
Then the youth began to read again, and Banford perforce returned to her book. But she could not keep still. After a while she looked up at March, and a queer, almost malignant little smile was on her thin face. March looked round with big, startled black eyes, and went pale as if with terror. She had been listening to the fox singing so tenderly, so tenderly, as he wandered round the house. I'm afraid I have wasted my money this time.
The youth suddenly laughed. Both women looked at him: March rather surprised-looking, as if she had hardly known he was there. I've sometimes had to pass a shilling a week to Nellie, in the winter-time. It costs much less in summer. He laughed quickly, wrinkling his nose sharply like a puppy and laughing with quick pleasure, his eyes shining.
And she returned to her book. In her thin, frail hair were already many threads of grey, though she was not yet thirty. The boy did not look down, but turned his eyes to March, who was sitting with pursed mouth laboriously crocheting, her eyes wide and absent. She had a warm, pale, fine skin and a delicate nose. Her pursed mouth looked shrewish. But the shrewish look was contradicted by the curious lifted arch of her dark brows, and the wideness of her eyes; a look of startled wonder and vagueness.
She was listening again for the fox, who seemed to have wandered farther off into the night. From under the edge of the lamp-light the boy sat with his face looking up, watching her silently, his eyes round and very clear and intent. Banford, biting her fingers irritably, was glancing at him under her hair. He sat there perfectly still, his ruddy face tilted up from the low level under the light, on the edge of the dimness, and watching with perfect abstract intentness.
March suddenly lifted her great, dark eyes from her crocheting and saw him. She started, giving a little exclamation. Oh, Nellie, I hope you aren't going jumpy and nervy. I feel I can't stand another thing! Whoever did you mean? Did you mean Henry? At nine o'clock March brought in a tray with bread and cheese and tea--Henry had confessed that he liked a cup of tea. Banford drank a glass of milk and ate a little bread. And soon she said:. You'll see the fire is safe, if you come up last, won't you?
March was lighting the candle to go to the kitchen. Banford took her candle and went upstairs. When March came back to the fire, she said to him:. He had his face lifted, watching her. I don't know--I suppose he made an impression on me. Won't you sit down for a minute? Is that why? He put his red hand under the glow of the lamp and suddenly made the light very dim.
March stood there in the dimness quite shadowy, but unmoving. He rose silently to his feet, on his long legs. And now his voice was extraordinarily soft and suggestive, hardly audible. She turned her face from him. She winced and trembled and hung away.
But his strong, young arm held her, and he kissed her softly again, still on the neck, for her face was averted. Won't you now? He was trying to draw her near to kiss her face. And he kissed her cheek softly, near the ear. And as she did so, quick as lightning he kissed her on the mouth, with a quick, brushing kiss. It seemed to burn through her every fibre. She gave a queer little cry.
What ever are you so long for? March, who felt as if the fire had gone through her and scathed her, and as if she could do no more, murmured:. Anything you like!
Only let me go! Jill's calling. In the morning at breakfast, after he had looked round the place and attended to the stock and thought to himself that one could live easily enough here, he said to Banford:. She was a thin, frail little thing, and her hair, which was delicate and thin, was bobbed, so it hung softly by her worn face in its faded brown and grey.
Banford put down her knife out of her thin, delicate fingers, as if she would never take it up to eat any more. She stared with blank, reddened eyes. But again she flushed with an agonized flush. She, too, could swallow no more. Banford looked at her like a bird that has been shot: a poor, little sick bird. She gazed at her with all her wounded soul in her face, at the deep-flushed March. Banford turned aside her face, as if the sight of the food on the table made her sick.
She sat like this for some moments, as if she were sick. Then, with one hand on the edge of the table, she rose to her feet. Why shouldn't you believe it? She can't lose her self-respect to such an extent.
I shouldn't expect you would,' said Banford, with that straying, mild tone of remoteness which made her words even more insulting. He sat stiff in his chair, staring with hot, blue eyes from his scarlet face. An ugly look had come on his brow. Banford let her fingers stray across her brow and along her hair, like one bemused. Then she turned and went away upstairs. Henry sat stiff and sulky in his chair, with his face and his eyes on fire.
March came and went, clearing the table. But Henry sat on, stiff with temper. He took no notice of her. She had regained her composure and her soft, even, creamy complexion. But her mouth was pursed up. She glanced at him each time as she came to take things from the table, glanced from her large, curious eyes, more in curiosity than anything. Such a long, red-faced, sulky boy! That was all he was. He seemed as remote from her as if his red face were a red chimney-pot on a cottage across the fields, and she looked at him just as objectively, as remotely.
At length he got up and stalked out into the fields with the gun. He came in only at dinner-time, with the devil still in his face, but his manners quite polite. Nobody said anything particular; they sat each one at the sharp corner of a triangle, in obstinate remoteness. In the afternoon he went out again at once with the gun. He came in at nightfall with a rabbit and a pigeon. He stayed in all the evening, but hardly opened his mouth. He was in the devil of a temper, feeling he had been insulted.
Banford's eyes were red, she had evidently been crying. But her manner was more remote and supercilious than ever; the way she turned her head if he spoke at all, as if he were some tramp or inferior intruder of that sort, made his blue eyes go almost black with rage. His face looked sulkier.
But he never forgot his polite intonation, if he opened his mouth to speak. March seemed to flourish in this atmosphere. She seemed to sit between the two antagonists with a little wicked smile on her face, enjoying herself. There was even a sort of complacency in the way she laboriously crocheted this evening.
When he was in bed, the youth could hear the two women talking and arguing in their room. He sat up in bed and strained his ears to hear what they said. But he could hear nothing, it was too far off. Yet he could hear the soft, plaintive drip of Banford's voice, and March's deeper note.
The night was quiet, frosty. Big stars were snapping outside, beyond the ridge-tops of the pine trees. He listened and listened. In the distance he heard a fox yelping: and the dogs from the farms barking in answer. But it was not that he wanted to hear. It was what the two women were saying. He got stealthily out of bed and stood by his door.
He could hear no more than before. Very, very carefully he began to lift the door latch. After quite a time he had his door open. Then he stepped stealthily out into the passage. The old oak planks were cold under his feet, and they creaked preposterously. He crept very, very gently up the one step, and along by the wall, till he stood outside their door.
And there he held his breath and listened. Banford's voice:. I should be dead in a month. Which is just what he would be aiming at, of course. That would just be his game, to see me in the churchyard.
No, Nellie, if you were to do such a thing as to marry him, you could never stop here. I couldn't, I couldn't live in the same house with him. I feel quite sick with the smell of his clothes. And his red face simply turns me over. I can't eat my food when he's at the table. What a fool I was ever to let him stop.
One ought never to try to do a kind action. It always flies back in your face like a boomerang. And when he's gone he'll never come in this house again. I feel so bad while he's here. And I know, I know he's only counting what he can get out of you. I know that's all it is. He's just a good-for-nothing, who doesn't want to work, and who thinks he'll live on us. But he won't live on me. If you're such a fool, then it's your own lookout. Mrs Burgess knew him all the time he was here. And the old man could never get him to do any steady work.
He was off with the gun on every occasion, just as he is now. Nothing but the gun! Oh, I do hate it. You don't know what you're doing, Nellie, you don't. If you marry him he'll just make a fool of you. He'll go off and leave you stranded. I know he will, if he can't get Bailey Farm out of us--and he's not going to, while I live.
While I live he's never going to set foot here. I know what it would be. He'd soon think he was master of both of us, as he thinks he's master of you already. And that's what he wants: to come and be master here.
Yes, imagine it! That's what we've got the place together for, is it, to be bossed and bullied by a hateful, red-faced boy, a beastly labourer. Oh, we did make a mistake when we let him stop. We ought never to have lowered ourselves. And I've had such a fight with all the people here, not to be pulled down to their level. No, he's not coming here.
And then you see--if he can't have the place, he'll run off to Canada or somewhere again, as if he'd never known you. And here you'll be, absolutely ruined and made a fool of.
I know I shall never have any peace of mind again. He's not going to have all his own way while I've got the strength left to speak. Oh, Nellie, he'll despise you, he'll despise you, like the awful little beast he is, if you give way to him. I'd no more trust him than I'd trust a cat not to steal.
He's deep, he's deep, and he's bossy, and he's selfish through and through, as cold as ice. All he wants is to make use of you. And when you're no more use to him, then I pity you.
But you'll find out, if you see much of him. Oh, Nellie, I can't bear to think of it. Won't it! I shall never know a moment's peace again while I live, nor a moment's happiness.
No, Nellie--' and Banford began to weep bitterly. The boy outside could hear the stifled sound of the woman's sobbing, and could hear March's soft, deep, tender voice comforting, with wonderful gentleness and tenderness, the weeping woman. His eyes were so round and wide that he seemed to see the whole night, and his ears were almost jumping off his head. He was frozen stiff.
He crept back to bed, but felt as if the top of his head were coming off. He could not sleep. He could not keep still. He rose, quietly dressed himself, and crept out on to the landing once more. The women were silent. He went softly downstairs and out to the kitchen. Then he put on his boots and his overcoat and took the gun.
He did not think to go away from the farm. No, he only took the gun. As softly as possible he unfastened the door and went out into the frosty December night. The air was still, the stars bright, the pine trees seemed to bristle audibly in the sky. He went stealthily away down a fence-side, looking for something to shoot.
At the same time he remembered that he ought not to shoot and frighten the women. So he prowled round the edge of the gorse cover, and through the grove of tall old hollies, to the woodside. There he skirted the fence, peering through the darkness with dilated eyes that seemed to be able to grow black and full of sight in the dark, like a cat's.
An owl was slowly and mournfully whooing round a great oak tree. He stepped stealthily with his gun, listening, listening, watching. As he stood under the oaks of the wood-edge he heard the dogs from the neighbouring cottage up the hill yelling suddenly and startlingly, and the wakened dogs from the farms around barking answer.
And suddenly it seemed to him England was little and tight, he felt the landscape was constricted even in the dark, and that there were too many dogs in the night, making a noise like a fence of sound, like the network of English hedges netting the view. He felt the fox didn't have a chance. For it must be the fox that had started all this hullabaloo. Log in with Facebook Log in with Google. Remember me on this computer. Enter the email address you signed up with and we'll email you a reset link.
Need an account? Click here to sign up. Download Free PDF. Phallic Symbolism in D. H Lawrence's The Fox. Asma Neelam. A short summary of this paper. It generates the feeling of intense conflicts and complexities of ideas, which leads to multiple interpretations. The majority of deep ideas have been portrayed which is the most important characteristic of Victorian novels, that needs to be interpreted with certain different approaches.
The boy smiled to himself and brought the gunto his shoulder. He knew quite well what wouldhappen. He knew the fox would go to wherethe fowl door was boarded up and sniff there. He knew he would lie there for a minute,sniffing the fowls within. And then he wouldstart again prowling under the edge of the oldbarn, waiting to get in.
The fowl door was atthe top of a slight incline. Soft, soft as a shadowthe fox slid up this incline, and crouched withhis nose to the boards. And at the samemoment there was the awful crash of a gun. But the boywatched keenly. He saw even the white bellyof the fox as the beast beat his paws in death. So he went forward. The re was a commotioneverywhere. The fowls were scuffling andcrawking, the ducks were quark-quarking, thepony had stamped wildly to his feet.
But thefox was on his side, struggling in his lasttremors. The boy bent over him and smelt hisfoxy smell. The re was a sound of a windowopening upstairs, then March's voice calling:'Who is it? You nearly frightened usto death. I'm awfully sorry. Wait aminute. Hewas holding it by the brush. March saw, in themiddle of the darkness, just the reddish fleeceand the white belly and the white underneath.
She did not know what to say. And he switched off thelight. What time is it? It was a quarter to one. That night March had another dream. Shedreamed that Banford was dead, and that she,March, was sobbing her heart out. The n shehad to put Banford into her coffin. And thecoffin was the rough wood-box in which thebits of chopped wood were kept in thekitchen, by the fire.
This was the coffin, andthere was no other, and March was in agonyand dazed bewilderment, looking forsomething to line the box with, something tomake it soft with, something to cover up thepoor, dead darling. Because she couldn't layher in there just in her white, thin nightdress,in the horrible wood-box. So she hunted andhunted, and picked up thing after thing, and. And in her dream-despairall she could find that would do was a fox-skin. She knew that it wasn't right, that this was notwhat she should have.
But it was all she couldfind. And so she folded the brush of the fox,and laid her darling Jill's head on this, and shebrought round the skin of the fox and laid it onthe top of the body, so that it seemed to makea whole ruddy, fiery coverlet, and she criedand cried, and woke to find the tearsstreaming down her face.
The first thing thatboth she and Banford did in the morning wasto go out to see the fox. Henry had hung it upby the heels in the shed, with its poor brushfalling backwards.
It was a lovely dog-fox in itsprime, with a handsome, thick, winter coat: alovely golden-red colour, with grey as itpassed to the belly, and belly all white, and agreat full brush with a delicate black and greyand pure white tip. White and soft as snow his belly: whiteand soft as snow. She passed her hand softlydown it.
And his wonderful black-glintedbrush was full and frictional, wonderful. Shepassed her hand down this also, and quivered. Time after time she took the full fur of that thicktail between her fingers, and passed her handslowly downwards. Wonderful, sharp, thick,splendour of a tail. And he was dead! Shepursed her lips, and her eyes went black andvacant.
The n she took the head in her hand. Henry was sauntering up, so Banford walkedrather pointedly away. March stood therebemused, with the head of the fox in her hand. She was wondering, wondering, wonderingover his long, fine muzzle.
For some reason itreminded her of a spoon or a spatula. She feltshe could not understand it. The beast was astrange beast to her, incomprehensible, out ofher range. Wonderful silver whiskers he had,like ice-threads. And pricked ears with hairinside. But that long, long, slender spoon of a. It was to thrust forward and bite with, deep,deep, deep into the living prey, to bite andbite the blood. I wonder how many chickens he's responsiblefor,' she replied. Do you thinkhe's the same one you saw in the summer?
Hewatched her, but he could make nothing ofher. Partly she was so shy and virgin, andpartly she was so grim, matter-of-fact,shrewish.
What she said seemed to him sodifferent from the look of her big, queer, darkeyes. It'll take some washing off one'shands. I don't know why I was so silly as tohandle him. Later in theday she saw the fox's skin nailed flat on aboard, as if crucified. It gave her an uneasyfeeling. The boy was angry. He went aboutwith his mouth shut, as if he had swallowedpart of his chin.
But in behaviour he was politeand affable. He did not say anything about hisintention. And he left March alone. Thatevening they sat in the dining-room. Banfordwouldn't have him in her sitting-room anymore. The re was a very big log on the fire. And everybody was busy. Banford had lettersto write. March was sewing a dress, and hewas mending some little contrivance.
Banfordstopped her letter-writing from time to time tolook round and rest her eyes. The boy had hishead down, his face hidden over his job. In the morning,' he said. But as she waslicking her envelope, she asked: 'And whatplans have you made for the future, if I mayask? When do youexpect the wedding to come off?
We can alwayswrite letters. But Iwanted to know because of this place. If Nellieis going to get married all of a sudden, I shallhave to be looking round for a new partner. He knew quite well whatwas coming. The re's not enough workto keep a man going, for one thing. And there'sno money to be made. It's quite useless your. And what about Nellie, then?
How long is she going to be here with me, inthat case? Unless it's all a hoax. I am going back toCanada. March, who had had her head bent over hersewing, now looked up with a sharp, pinkblush on her face, and a queer, sardonic laughin her eyes and on her twisted mouth.
Andshe went back to her sewing. Are you,Nellie? March looked up. She let her shoulders go slack, and lether hand that held the needle lie loose in herlap. I'm afraid I'm notused to that way. Don't make it any fixed engagement,'said Banford. Anything else is madness, madness. But theboy was watching March.
She let her eyes stray vaguelyinto space. She seemed to have escaped him. She had got into league with Banford againsthim. The re was again the queer, sardonic lookabout her; she would mock stoically ateverything he said or which life offered.
Atbed-time Banford said plaintively to March:'You take my hot bottle up for me, Nellie, willyou? The twowomen went upstairs. After a time Marchcalled from the top of the stairs: 'Good-night,Henry. I shan't be coming down. You'll see tothe lamp and the fire, won't you?
He wascogitating all the time. He had wanted Marchto marry him and go back to Canada with him. And he had been sure she would do it. Why hewanted her he didn't know. But he did want. He had set his mind on her. And he wasconvulsed with a youth's fury at beingthwarted. To be thwarted, to be thwarted!
Itmade him so furious inside that he did notknow what to do with himself. But he kepthimself in hand. Because even now thingsmight turn out differently. She might comeover to him. Of course she might. It was herbusiness to do so. Things drew to a tensionagain towards evening.
He and Banford hadavoided each other all day. In fact, Banfordwent in to the little town by the Itwas market day. She arrived back on the 4. Just as the night was falling Henry saw her littlefigure in a dark-blue coat and a dark-bluetam-o'-shanter hat crossing the first meadowfrom the station.
He stood under one of thewild pear trees, with the old dead leavesround his feet. And he watched the little bluefigure advancing persistently over the roughwinter-ragged meadow. She had her arms fullof parcels, and advanced slowly, frail thing shewas, but with that devilish little certainty whichhe so detested in her.
He stood invisible under. And iflooks could have affected her, she would havefelt a log of iron on each of her ankles as shemade her way forward. I hopeyou'll be paid back for all the harm you'vedone me for nothing. I hope you will--younasty little thing. I hope you'll have to pay forit. You will, if wishes are anything. You nastylittle creature that you are. But if she had beenslipping back at every step towards theBottomless Pit, he would not have gone to helpher with her parcels.
Aha, there went March,striding with her long, land stride in herbreeches and her short tunic! Stridingdownhill at a great pace, and even running afew steps now and then, in her great solicitudeand desire to come to the rescue of the littleBanford. The boy watched her with rage in hisheart. See her leap a ditch, and run, run as if ahouse was on fire, just to get to that creeping,dark little object down there!
So, the Banford. And March strodeup and took all the parcels except a bunch ofyellow chrysanthemums. The se the Banfordstill carried--yellow chrysanthemums! I'd make youeat them for your tea if you hug them so tight. And I'd give them you for breakfast again, Iwould. I'd give you flowers. Nothing butflowers. He could hear their voices: Marchalways outspoken and rather scolding in hertenderness, Banford murmuring rathervaguely. The y were evidently good friends. He could not hear what they said till they cameto the fence of the home meadow, which theymust climb.
The n he saw March manfullyclimbing over the bars with all her packagesin her arms, and on the still air he heardBanford's fretful: 'Why don't you let me helpyou with the parcels? The n came March'srobust and reckless: 'Oh, I can manage. You've all you can do toget yourself over. You always feel injured. Now you're feelinginjured because I won't have that boy to comeand live on the farm. When he'sgone you'll sulk over it.
I know you will. I can't think how you can makeyourself so cheap. I can't imagine how you canlower yourself like it. Letting a boy like that come so cheekyand impudent and make a mug of you. I don'tknow what you think of yourself.
How muchrespect do you think he's going to have for youafterwards? My word, I wouldn't be in yourshoes, if you married him. My boots are a good bit too big foryou, and not half dainty enough,' said March,. A woman'sgot to hold herself high, especially with ayouth like that. Why, he's impudent. Even theway he forced himself on us at the start. And then he's so cockyand self-assured. My word, he puts my backup.
I simply can't imagine how you can let himtreat you so cheaply. And even you aren't, either. I believeyou only do it to spite me. On the otherside of the hedge the boy followed in the dusk,at some little distance. Now and then, throughthe huge ancient hedge of hawthorn, risen intotrees, he saw the two dark figures creeping upthe hill.
As he came to the top of the slope he. He heardthe clink of the latch and saw the kitchen dooropen into light as the two women wentindoors. So they were at home. And so! It was rather inhis nature to be a listener, so he was not at allsurprised whatever he heard.
The thingspeople said about him always missed himpersonally. He was only rather surprised at thewomen's way with one another. And hedisliked the Banford with an acid dislike.
Andhe felt drawn to the March again. He felt againirresistibly drawn to her. He felt there was asecret bond, a secret thread between him andher, something very exclusive, which shut outeverybody else and made him and herpossess each other in secret. He hoped againthat she would have him. He hoped with hisblood suddenly firing up that she would agreeto marry him quite quickly: at Christmas, verylikely. Christmas was not far off. He wanted,.
The n for the future, they could arrange later. But he hoped it would happen as he wanted it. He hoped that tonight she would stay a littlewhile with him, after Banford had goneupstairs. He hoped he could touch her soft,creamy cheek, her strange, frightened face. He hoped he could look into her dilated,frightened dark eyes, quite near. He hoped hemight even put his hand on her bosom and feelher soft breasts under her tunic. His heart beatdeep and powerful as he thought of that.
Hewanted very much to do so. He wanted tomake sure of her soft woman's breasts underher tunic. She always kept the brown linencoat buttoned so close up to her throat. Itseemed to him like some perilous secret, thather soft woman's breasts must be buttoned upin that uniform. It seemed to him, moreover,that they were so much softer, tenderer, morelovely and lovable, shut up in that tunic, thanwere the Banford's breasts, under her softblouses and chiffon dresses.
The Banford. For all her frailty and fretfulness anddelicacy, she would have tiny iron breasts. ButMarch, under her crude, fast, workman's tunic,would have soft, white breasts, white andunseen.
So he told himself, and his bloodburned. When he went in to tea, he had asurprise. He appeared at the inner door, hisface very ruddy and vivid and his blue eyesshining, dropping his head forward as hecame in, in his usual way, and hesitating in thedoorway to watch the inside of the room,keenly and cautiously, before he entered.
Hewas wearing a long-sleeved waistcoat. His faceseemed extraordinarily like a piece of theout-of-doors come indoors: as holly-berriesdo. In his second of pause in the doorway hetook in the two women sitting at table, atopposite ends, saw them sharply.
And to hisamazement March was dressed in a dress ofdull, green silk crape. His mouth came open insurprise. If she had suddenly grown amoustache he could not have been moresurprised.
What else do you expectme to wear but a dress? But she wasblushing all the time as she poured out his tea. He sat down in his chair at table, unable totake his eyes off her. Her dress was a perfectlysimple slip of bluey-green crape, with a line ofgold stitching round the top and round thesleeves, which came to the elbow. It was cutjust plain and round at the top, and showed herwhite, soft throat. Her arms he knew, strongand firm muscled, for he had often seen herwith her sleeves rolled up.
But he looked herup and down, up and down, Banford, at theother end of the table, said not a word, butpiggled with the sardine on her plate. He hadforgotten her existence. He just simply staredat March while he ate his bread and margarinein huge mouthfuls, forgetting even his tea. And as shecrouched on the hearth with her green slipabout her, the boy stared more wide-eyedthan ever. Through the crape her woman'sform seemed soft and womanly. And when shestood up and walked he saw her legs movesoft within her modernly short skirt.
She hadon black silk stockings, and small patent shoeswith little gold buckles. No, she was anotherbeing. She was something quite different. Seeing her always in the hard-cloth breeches,wide on the hips, buttoned on the knee, strongas armour, and in the brown puttees and thickboots, it had never occurred to him that shehad a woman's legs and feet. Now it cameupon him.
She had a woman's soft, skirtedlegs, and she was accessible. He blushed tothe roots of his hair, shoved his nose in histea-cup and drank his tea with a little noise that. Hefelt a man, with all a man's grave weight ofresponsibility. A curious quietness and gravitycame over his soul.
He felt a man, quiet, with alittle of the heaviness of male destiny uponhim. She was soft and accessible in her dress. The thought went home in him like aneverlasting responsibility.
She was shy and rather awkward that evening,in spite of the fact that, wearing a dress, herbearing was much more subdued than in heruniform. She felt unpeeled and ratherexposed. She felt almost improper. The y. But of the matter on their minds,none of them spoke.
The y were rather quietand friendly this evening; Banford hadpractically nothing to say.
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