Day's End and Other Stories by H. E. Bates Page A

dark bunches. Now and then anumbrella would spring up like a mushroom in that brief, gloomy night and then vanish abruptly. Colour and movement began to vanish, too, until nothing seemed to exist but grey and a deep thunderous brown, and there was no movement but that of the rain. A clock above me boomed half-past three, like a thing mourning its isolation – then the square was silent.
    It was as if all this had happened in preparation for an event – as for the entrance of a principal in a play. I became conscious of colour and movement entering the scene as if by magic. Across the deserted square there advanced slowly a white horse drawing a green trap.
    I watched its approach. As it came nearer I saw that the animal’s body was already drenched with rain and was steaming and in places yellow. The reins sagged listlessly up to the head, which drooped a fraction, the tail lay plastered wetly against the quarters, and in spite of its colour it looked no less oppressive than the rest of the square into which it had suddenly come. A yard or two away from me it shuddered stormily and became still. At the sight of that drenched wreck, my interest suddenly became of the most apathetic kind.
    Then, from that fit of silent gloom I remember being wrenched with an abruptness against which I wanted to protest with a cry. And in the sudden emotion of surprise at finding myself confronted with that girl in the trap itself, staring out with solemnityfrom the great umbrella arching over her, I believe I could have done so without a qualm. As it was I only watched her. In her stillness she was like a little pale image in some dark sanctuary. Only her eyes once or twice travelled quickly over the rainy road, the sky and the clusters of people about the shops and then returned to a dreamy contemplation of the horse’s head. I began a contemplation also – only half-conscious of what I did – against the intensity of which her face remained as immobile as if modelled in alabaster.
    Gradually I began to wonder all sorts of things about her—her christian name, why she was alone, how old she was, and as to her secret of the naive fascination in her still form. Every moment a new army of impressions besieged me. I remember wanting to say something arresting and fine in order to make her look at me. Yet I believe the slightest suggestion of a glance would have aroused me to a point of demonstrative exultation. The foolish part of it was that I couldn’t explain even my slightest emotion; my brain seemed capable of nothing but one silent, ridiculous demand: ‘Why doesn’t she look at me? Why doesn’t she look at me?’
    I must have cut the most ludicrous figure. Had she by any chance become aware of me she must have burst into uncontrollable laughter. Now I am glad she never once looked at me. I don’t believe I could have endured the disturbance of that serene beauty in silence.
    Four o’clock struck. I seemed to wake with a shudder and see people crossing the road with upturned faces and palms. I knew the rain must be stopping – but my mind still went on, like the thunder now afar off:
    â€˜Why doesn’t she look at me? Why doesn’t she look at me?’
    Above me I saw a yellow slit appear in the sky. I watched it break into great blue wounds among the clouds. Around me the shelterers were beginning to pass off and the thought of being alone on the edge of that shining pavement made me tremble as if I had been on the brink of a precipice. Suddenly the girl in the trap shut up her umbrella and shook her slightly wet hair and smiled at the sky. The sight made me pace up and down before the trap in an ecstasy of despair.
    By doing so I caught sight of the name in white letters on the side and I began to repeat its monosyllable like a child at a task: ‘Dean, Dean, Dean.’ I broke into a sweat again. It seemed as if my fingers were burning scars in the covers of my books.