Part 31 (1/2)
She would not own her knowledge of his real offence, and she muttered angrily, ”Galloping like that--”
”Didn't you like it? He's as steady as a rock.”
”How could I know that?”
”And I thought you had some pluck.”
”I have. I sat quite still.”
Again he laughed. ”I made you.”
”Oh,” she burst out. ”I'll never trust you again.”
”You would if you knew--if you knew--but never mind. I wanted to see you on a horse. You shall have him to yourself next time. I'll get a side saddle.”
”I don't want one,” she said.
”Oh, yes, you do. Let me help you up. Say you forgive me.”
With her hand in his she murmured, ”But you are always doing something.
And my head aches.”
”Does it? I'm sorry. What made it ache?”
”It--I--I b.u.mped myself when I fell.”
”Poor little head! It was silly of you, wasn't it? Let me put you on his back again, and I'll walk you slowly home.”
He was faithful to his word, letting her go without a pressure of the hand, and she crept into the house with the uneasy conviction that Helen was right, that George wanted the chance he had never had, and her own responsibility was black over her bed as she tried to sleep. Turning from side to side and at last sitting up with a jerk, she decided to evade responsibility by evading George, and with that resolution she heaved a deep sigh at the prospect of her young life despoiled by duty.
CHAPTER XVI
Zebedee had the lover's gift of finding time which did not exist for other men, and there were few Sundays when he did not spend some minutes or some hours on the moor. There were blank days when Helen failed him because she thought Mildred Caniper was lonely, others when she ran out for a word and swiftly left him to the memory of her grace and her transforming smile; yet oftenest, she was waiting for him in the little hollow of earth, and those hours were the best he had ever known. It was good to sit and see the sky slowly losing colour and watch the moths flit out, and though neither he nor she was much given to speech, each knew that the other was content.
”Helen,” he said one night in late September when they were left alone, ”I want to tell you something.”
She did not stir, and she answered slowly, softly, in the voice of one who slept, ”Tell it.”
”It's about beauty. I'd never seen it till you showed it to me.”
”Did I? When?”
”I'm not sure. That night--”
”On the moor?”
”Always on the moor! When you had the basket. It was the first time after I came back.”