Free The Pandervils by Gerald Bullet

A pint of milk.’ He did not offer to take the milk-can from her. He stood quite still, not knowing what to do, and not caring, being empty of thought. He wanted nothing; he was content. But presently, after a perceptible hiatus, it came upon him, piercing his armour of bliss, that something had to be done. Already he had realized the propriety of not staring too boldly into the kingdom of heaven, and had glanced, with guilty abruptness, at his boots. And now there was this other matter—a pint of milk. ‘You did say a pint, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, a pint. We’ve had our usual quart, but Auntie sent me to get a pint more. Ought I to callat the house for it? I expect I ought. How stupid of me!’
    â€˜Oh, no!’ He took the milk-can from her hand. ‘I’ll … I’ll fetch it for you. Won’t you … ’ He nearly said: ‘Won’t you sit down?’ And he blushed for the absurdity, as though she had read the words in his mind. Seeing his confusion she could not but smile faintly and lower her eyes. The universe burst into song.
    In the dairy, which was cool and dim after the brightness outside, he found his sister Flisher. He handed the milk-can to her, for it was understood that, in the dairy, men were definitely subordinate not merely to their mother but even to their sister, if it were Sarah or Flisher. ‘Someone from the Vicarage wants a pint of milk.’
    â€˜Who is it?’ asked Flisher, as she filled the can.
    â€˜Someone from the Vicarage,’ said Egg.
    â€˜Yes, I know, silly. But
who?’
    â€˜How should I know? A girl. Vicar’s niece or something.’
    â€˜That’ll be the Monica Wrenn they were telling of,’ said Flisher. ‘I’ll take it to her. Where is she?’
    Egg was already at the dairy door, with a pint of milk for which he would if necessary have paid with an equal quantity of his life’s-blood. ‘She’s waiting outside. I’ve got to go that way.’
    He stepped quickly out of the dairy, in terror lest the apparition called Monica Wrenn should have vanished, leaving the earth desolated. Butno, she was still there, incredibly actual. She stood gazing intently at distance, her chin resting on a long white forefinger; but at Egg’s approach her attitude stiffened with a hint of delicious awkwardness.
    â€˜Thank you very much. And Auntie says will you please put it to the account.’
    Egg, with great difficulty, blurted out the speech his mind had been busy preparing for him. It was neither a long nor a bold speech; yet he stammered in its delivery and went very red in the face, and almost forgot his words. ‘Did you … I mean, did you come through the orchard… the orchard way?’
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ she said. And, marvellously, her voice rose on the second word, instead of falling as that of a Mershire girl would have done. It rose in a heavenly flight; rested for an instant; and then vanished—a melody in two notes, delicately and excitingly inconclusive, so that Egg, filled with longing to find some way of making her say ‘Oh, yes’ again, had hardly wit enough to understand her when she added: ‘It’s the only way, isn’t it, except by the road? … Good morning!’
    And not until she was gone, leaving tumult behind her, did he interpret her remark as an ironical comment on his question. Since she had approached the farmhouse through the yard she could have come only by way of the orchard. He stood convicted of making idle conversation; and perhaps, he thought, she already guessed what secret compulsion it was that had put him to that trouble.This alarming and delicious possibility inspired him with the notion of leaving his bucket where it stood and boldly following her …
    He overtook her in the orchard, where indeed she lingered, as she could not but do; for in that entranced and softly breathing world, that momentary