FullReads

It had grown quite dark, the night was thick with cloud. He walked with his arm round Paula’s waist, she with her arm round him. They were near the stacks when Maurice felt a spot of rain.

“It’s going to rain,” he said.

“Rain!” she echoed, as if it were trivial.

“I s’ll have to put the stack-cloth on,” he said gravely. She did not understand.

When they got to the stacks, he went round to the shed, to return staggering in the darkness under the burden of the immense and heavy cloth. It had not been used once during the hay harvest.

“What are you going to do?” asked Paula, coming close to him in the darkness.

“Cover the top of the stack with it,” he replied.”Put it over the stack, to keep the rain out.”

“Ah!” she cried, “up there!” He dropped his burden.”Yes,” he answered.

Fumblingly he reared the long ladder up the side of the stack. He could not see the top.

“I hope it’s solid,” he said, softly.

A few smart drops of rain sounded drumming on the cloth. They seemed like another presence. It was very dark indeed between the great buildings of hay. She looked up the black wall, and shrank to him.

“You carry it up there?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I help you?” she said.

And she did. They opened the cloth. He clambered first up the steep ladder, bearing the upper part, she followed closely, carrying her full share. They mounted the shaky ladder in silence, stealthily.



IV



As they climbed the stacks a light stopped at the gate on the high road. It was Geoffrey, come to help his brother with the cloth. Afraid of his own intrusion, he wheeled his bicycle silently towards the shed. This was a corrugated iron erection, on the opposite side of the hedge from the stacks. Geoffrey let his light go in front of him, but there was no sign from the lovers. He thought he saw a shadow slinking away. The light of the bicycle lamp sheered yellowly across the dark, catching a glint of raindrops, a mist of darkness, shadow of leaves and strokes of long grass. Geoffrey entered the shed–no one was there. He walked slowly and doggedly round to the stacks. He had passed the wagon, when he heard something sheering down upon him. Starting back under the wall of hay, he saw the long ladder slither across the side of the stack, and fall with a bruising ring.

“What wor that?” he heard Maurice, aloft, ask cautiously.

“Someth
ing fall,” came the curious, almost pleased voice of the Fräulein.

“It wor niver th’ ladder,” said Maurice. He peered over the side of the stack. He lay down, looking.

“It is an’ a’!” he exclaimed.”We knocked it down with the cloth, dragging it over.”

“We fast up here?” she exclaimed with a thrill.

“We are that–without I shout and make ’em hear at the Vicarage.”

“Oh no,” she said quickly.

“I don’t want to,” he replied, with a short laugh. There came a swift clatter of raindrops on the cloth. Geoffrey crouched under the wall of the other stack.

“Mind where you tread–here, let me straighten this end,” said Maurice, with a peculiar intimate tone–a command and an embrace.”We s’ll have to sit under it. At any rate, we shan’t get wet.”

“Not get wet!” echoed the girl, pleased, but agitated.

Geoffrey heard the slide and rustle of the cloth over the top of the stack, heard Maurice telling her to “Mind!”

“Mind!” she repeated.”Mind! you say ‘Mind!'”

“Well, what if I do?” he laughed.”I don’t want you to fall over th’ side, do I?” His tone was masterful, but he was not quite sure of himself.

There was silence a moment or two.

“Maurice!” she said, plaintively.

“I’m here,” he answered, tenderly, his voice shaky with excitement that was near to distress.”There, I’ve done. Now should we–we’ll sit under this corner.”

“Maurice!” she was rather pitiful.

“What? You’ll be all right,” he remonstrated, tenderly indignant.

“I be all raïght,” she repeated, “I be all raïght, Maurice?”

“Tha knows tha will–I canna ca’ thee Powla. Should I ca’ thee Minnie?”

It was the name of a dead sister.

“Minnie?” she exclaimed in surprise.

“Aye, should I?”

She answered in full-throated German. He laughed shakily.

“Come on–come on under. But do yer wish you was safe in th’ Vicarage? Should I shout for somebody?” he asked.