“No!”
“But why didn’t you?”
“The back one goes on a bit.”
“But it’s not safe.”
“I can use my toe.”
“I wish you’d had them mended,” she murmured.
“Don’t worry come to tea to-morrow, with Edgar.”
“Shall we?”
“Do—about four. I’ll come to meet you.”
“Very well.”
She was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. Looking across, he saw through the uncurtained window of the kitchen the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow. It looked very cosy. The road, with pine-trees, was quite black in front.
“Till to-morrow,” he said, jumping on his bicycle.
“You’ll take care, won’t you?” she pleaded.
“Yes.”
His voice already came out of the darkness. She stood a moment watching the light from his lamp race into obscurity along the ground. She turned very slowly indoors. Orion was wheeling up over the wood, his dog twinkling after him, half smothered. For the rest, the world was full of darkness, and silent, save for the breathing of cattle in their stalls. She prayed earnestly for his safety that night. When he left her, she often lay in anxiety, wondering if he had got home safely.
He dropped down the hills on his bicycle. The roads were greasy, so he had to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plunged over the second, steeper drop in the hill. “Here goes!” he said. It was risky, because of the curve in the darkness at the bottom, and because of the brewers’ waggons with drunken waggoners asleep. His bicycle seemed to fall beneath him, and he loved it. Recklessness is almost a man’s revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.
The stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers, silver upon the blackness, as he spun past. Then there was the long climb home.
“See, mother!” he said, as he threw her the berries and leaves on to the table.
“H’m!” she said, glancing at them, then away again. She sat reading, alone, as she always did.
