He worked steadily, engrossed, threading backwards and

forwards like a shuttle across the strip of cleared stubble,

weaving the long line of riding shocks, nearer and nearer to the

shadowy trees, threading his sheaves with hers.

And always, she was gone before he came. As he came, she drew

away, as he drew away, she came. Were they never to meet?

Gradually a low, deep-sounding will in him vibrated to her,

tried to set her in accord, tried to bring her gradually to him,

to a meeting, till they should be together, till they should

meet as the sheaves that swished together.

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And the work went on. The moon grew brighter, clearer, the

corn glistened. He bent over the prostrate bundles, there was a

hiss as the sheaves left the ground, a trailing of heavy bodies

against him, a dazzle of moonlight on his eyes. And then he was

setting the corn together at the stook. And she was coming

near.

He waited for her, he fumbled at the stook. She came. But she

stood back till he drew away. He saw her in shadow, a dark

column, and spoke to her, and she answered. She saw the

moonlight flash question on his face. But there was a space

between them, and he went away, the work carried them,

rhythmic.

Why was there always a space between them, why were they

apart? Why, as she came up from under the moon, would she halt

and stand off from him? Why was he held away from her? His will

drummed persistently, darkly, it drowned everything else.

Into the rhythm of his work there came a pulse and a steadied

purpose. He stooped, he lifted the weight, he heaved it towards

her, setting it as in her, under the moonlit space. And he went

back for more. Ever with increasing closeness he lifted the

sheaves and swung striding to the centre with them, ever he

drove her more nearly to the meeting, ever he did his share, and

drew towards her, overtaking her. There was only the moving to

and fro in the moonlight, engrossed, the swinging in the

silence, that was marked only by the splash of sheaves, and

silence, and a splash of sheaves. And ever the splash of his

sheaves broke swifter, beating up to hers, and ever the splash

of her sheaves recurred monotonously, unchanging, and ever the

splash of his sheaves beat nearer.

Till at last, they met at the shock, facing each other,

sheaves in hand. And he was silvery with moonlight, with a

moonlit, shadowy face that frightened her. She waited for

him.

"Put yours down," she said.

"No, it's your turn." His voice was twanging and

insistent.

She set her sheaves against the shock. He saw her hands

glisten among the spray of grain. And he dropped his sheaves and

he trembled as he took her in his arms. He had over-taken her,

and it was his privilege to kiss her. She was sweet and fresh

with the night air, and sweet with the scent of grain. And the

whole rhythm of him beat into his kisses, and still he pursued

her, in his kisses, and still she was not quite overcome. He

wondered over the moonlight on her nose! All the moonlight upon

her, all the darkness within her! All the night in his arms,

darkness and shine, he possessed of it all! All the night for

him now, to unfold, to venture within, all the mystery to be

entered, all the discovery to be made.




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