Part 63 (1/2)
”I must have exercise. I'm going to run.”
”Give me your hand again.”
”There is no need.”
”You'll stumble.” He did not wait for her a.s.sent, and for that and for the strength of his hold she liked him, and, as she ran, and her blood quickened, she liked him better. She did not understand herself, for she had imagined horror at his nearness, but not horror pierced through with a delight that shrank. She thought there must be something vile in her, and while she ran she felt, in her desperate youth, that she was altogether worthless since she could not control her pleasure to this swift movement supported by his hand. She ran, leaping over stones and heather and, for a short time that seemed endless, her senses had their way. She was a woman, young and full of life, and the moor was wide and dark, great-bosomed, and beside her there ran a man who held her firmly and tightened, ever and again, his grasp of her slipping fingers. Soon it was no effort not to think and to feel recklessly was to escape.
Their going made a wind to fan their faces; there was a smell of damp earth and dusty heather, of Halkett's tweeds and his tobacco; the wind had a faint smell of frost; there was one star in a greenish sky.
She stopped when she could go no further, and she heard his hurried breathing and her own.
”How you can run!” he said. ”Like a hare! And jump!”
”No! Don't!” She could not bear his personalities: she wished she were still running, free and careless, running from the shame that now came creeping on her. ”No, no!” she cried again, but this time it was to her own thoughts.
”What have I done?” he asked.
”Nothing. I was speaking to myself.”
He never could be sure of her, and he searched for words while he watched the face she had turned skywards.
”Helen, you're different now.”
”And you like me less.”
”I always love you.”
She looked at him and smiled, and very slowly shook her head.
”Oh, no,” she said pleasantly. ”Oh, no, George.”
”What do you mean by that?”
”Perhaps it's a riddle. You can think about it.”
”Ah--you--you make me want to shake you!” He gripped her shoulders and saw her firm lips loosened, a pale colour in her cheeks, but something in her look forced him to let her go.
”I can't hurt you,” he said.
She smiled again, in a queer way, he thought, but she was always queer: she looked as if she knew a joke she would not tell him, and, in revenge, he had a quick impulse to remind her of his rights.
”Next week,” he said, and saw the pretty colour fading.
No one could save the captive princess now. Sunday came and Rupert went; Monday came and Mildred Caniper spoke to Helen; Tuesday was Helen's birthday: she was twenty-one. No one could save her now. On Wednesday she was to meet George in the town.
She had asked Lily to stay with Mildred Caniper.
”I have some shopping to do,” she said, and though her words were true, she frowned at them.
Lily came, and her skirts were blown about as she ran up the track.