She seemed to be touching something with gentle and caressing hands.
“What can a woman do? I have a little money, but all the others will be too busy to help. I shall not be able to hire labour. And even if my hands were the hands of a man I should not know where or how to begin.”
Brent had the stem of his empty pipe gripped between his teeth. He was staring at the house; and suddenly he turned to Manon.
“I am going to speak out. I shall not hurt you.”
“I am not afraid,” she said simply.
“Do you remember my telling you that I had had a dream? It happened at Peronne, only a few days ago. My dead friend who is over there came and spoke to me—we were here in this garden—but I could not understand what he said. When I woke up I had a feeling that I should come to Beaucourt, that it was my business to come to Beaucourt. And last night as I sat in that cellar of yours, I began to wonder whether some wise spirit had not sent me here. I want work, a new chance, something to make me feel a man. That’s how it happened; just like that.”
“I can believe it,” she said.
He went on, not looking at her, but staring at the ground:
“I told you I wanted to make a fresh start. Why should I go any farther? I have a little money, and one will want but little in Beaucourt to begin with—just food and boots and a little tobacco. Why shouldn’t I stay and rebuild your house?”
She was looking at him with her brown eyes wide open, softly, and with a kind of gentle incredulity.