But Howat was
restless beyond any possibility of patiently hearing Mrs. Heydrick's
cheerful, trivial talk. He was so clumsy with Ludowika's cloak that she
took it from him, and, with a careless, feminine scorn in common with
Mrs. Heydrick, got into it without assistance. They stood for a while in
the cast house, watching a keeper rolling and preparing the pig bed for
the evening flow. They were pressed close together in a profound gloom
of damp warmth rising from the wet sand and furnace. An obscure figure
moved a heavy and faintly clanging pile of tamping bars. The sound of
rain on the roof grew louder, continuous. A poignant and then strangling
emotion clutched at Howat Penny's throat. Silently they turned from the
murky interior.
A grey rain was plastering the leaves on the soggy ground; puddles
accumulated in the scarred road; the smoke from the smithy hung low on
the roof. At the left a small, stone house had a half opened door.
Ludowika looked within. "For storing," Howat told her. Inside were piled
sledges and cinder hooks, bars and moulds, and bales of tanned hides.
Ludowika explored in the shadows. A sudden eddy of wind slammed to the
door through which they had entered. They drew together irresistibly,
and stood for a long while, crushed in each other's arms; then Ludowika
stepped back with her cloak sliding from her shoulders.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119