Aaron's Rod. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

The wind was roaring in the great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep in a forgotten land.

      Josephine opened the gate of the square garden with her key, and let it slam to behind him.

      "How wonderful the wind is!" she shrilled. "Shall we listen to it for a minute?"

      She led him across the grass past the shrubs to the big tree in the centre. There she climbed up to a seat. He sat beside her. They sat in silence, looking at the darkness. Rain was blowing in the wind. They huddled against the big tree-trunk, for shelter, and watched the scene.

      Beyond the tall shrubs and the high, heavy railings the wet street gleamed silently. The houses of the Square rose like a cliff on this inner dark sea, dimly lighted at occasional windows. Boughs swayed and sang. A taxi-cab swirled round a corner like a cat, and purred to a standstill. There was a light of an open hall door. But all far away, it seemed, unthinkably far away. Aaron sat still and watched. He was frightened, it all seemed so sinister, this dark, bristling heart of London. Wind boomed and tore like waves ripping a shingle beach. The two white lights of the taxi stared round and departed, leaving the coast at the foot of the cliffs deserted, faintly spilled with light from the high lamp. Beyond there, on the outer rim, a policeman passed solidly.

      Josephine was weeping steadily all the time, but inaudibly. Occasionally she blew her nose and wiped her face. But he ​had not realized. She hardly realized herself. She sat near the strange man. He seemed so still and remote—so fascinating.

      "Give me your hand," she said to him, subduedly.

      He took her cold hand in his warm, living grasp. She wept more bitterly. He noticed at last.

      "Why are you crying?" he said.

      "I don't know," she replied, rather matter-of-fact, through her tears.

      So he let her cry, and said no more, but sat with her cold hand in his warm, easy clasp.

      "You'll think me a fool," she said. "I don't know why I cry."

      "You can cry for nothing, can't you?" he said.

      "Why, yes, but it's not very sensible."

      He laughed shortly.

      "Sensible!" he said.

      "You are a strange man," she said.

      But he took no notice.

      "Did you ever intend to marry Jim Bricknell?" he asked.

      "Yes, of course."

      "I can't imagine it," he said.

      "Why not?"

      Both were watching blankly the roaring night of mid-London, the phantasmagoric old Bloomsbury Square. They were still hand in hand.

      "Such as you shouldn't marry," he said.

      "But why not? I want to."

      "You think you do."

      "Yes indeed I do."

      He did not say any more.

      "Why shouldn't I? she persisted.

      "I don't know—"

      And again he was silent.

      "You've known some life, haven't you?" he asked.

      "Me? Why?"

      "You seem to."

      Do I? I'm sorry. Do I seem vicious?—No, I'm not ​vicious.—I've seen some life, perhaps—in Paris mostly. But not much. Why do you ask?"

      "I wasn't thinking."

      "But what do you mean? What are you thinking?"

      "Nothing. Nothing."

      "Don't be so irritating," said she.

      But he did not answer, and she became silent also. They sat hand in hand.

      "Won't you kiss me?" came her voice out of the darkness.

      He waited some moments, then his voice sounded gently, half mocking, half reproachful.

      "Nay!" he said.

      "Why not?"

      "I don't want to."

      "Why not?" she asked.

      He laughed, but did not reply.

      She sat perfectly still for some time. She had ceased to cry. In the darkness her face was set and sullen. Sometimes a spray of rain blew across it. She drew her hand from his, and rose to her feet.

      "I'll go in now," she said.

      "You're not offended, are you?" he asked.

      "No. Why?"

      They stepped down in the darkness from their perch.

      "I wondered."

      She strode off for some little way. Then she turned and said:

      "Yes, I think it is rather insulting."

      "Nay," he said. "Not it! Not it!"

      And he followed her to the gate.

      She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door.

      "Good-night," she said, turning and giving him her hand.

      "You'll come and have dinner with me—or lunch—will you? When shall we make it?" he asked.

      "Well, I can't say for certain. I'm very busy just now. I'll let you know."

      ​A policeman shed his light on the pair of them as they stood on the step.

      "All right," said Aaron, dropping back, and she hastily opened the big door, and entered.