Part 82 (1/2)
”It's the way you walk--and the white. And that little black hat for a beak.”
”Well, swan or not,” she said, and laughed, ”you think I look nice, don't you?”
”I should think I do!” He stepped back to gaze at her. ”You must always have clothes like that. There's no need for you to make your own.”
”But I like my funny little dresses! Don't I generally please you? Have you been thinking me ugly all this time?”
He did not answer that. ”I wish I was coming with you.”
”You mustn't. There are hay-seeds on you everywhere. Is the field nearly finished? George, you are not answering questions!”
”I'm thinking about you. Helen, you needn't go just yet. Sit down under this tree. You're lovely. And I love you. Helen, you love me! You're different now. Will you wear that ring?”
Her mind could not refuse it; she was willing to wear the badge of her submission and so make it complete, and she gave a shuddering sigh. ”Oh, George--”
”Yes, yes, you will. Look, here it is. I always have it with me. Give me your little hand. Isn't it bright and heavy? Do you like it?” He held her closely. ”And my working clothes against your pretty frock! D'you mind?”
”No.” She was looking at the gold band on her finger. ”It's heavy, George.”
”I chose a heavy one.”
”Have you had it in your pocket all the time?”
”All the time.”
He and she had been alike in cheris.h.i.+ng a ring, but when she reached home she would take Zebedee's from its place and hide it safely. She could not give it back to him: she could not wear it now.
”I must go,” she said, and freed herself.
He kissed the banded finger. ”Be quick and come back and let me see you wearing it again.”
It weighted her, and she went more slowly down the road, feeling that the new weight was a symbol, and when she looked back and saw George standing where she had left him, she uttered a small cry he could not hear and ran to him.
”George, you must always love me now. You--I--”
”What is it, love?”
”Nothing. Let me go. Good-bye,” she said, and walked on at her slow pace. Light winds brought summer smells to her, clouds made lakes of shadow on the moor, and here, where few trees grew and little traffic pa.s.sed, there were no dusty leaves to tell of summer's age; yet, in the air, there was a smell of flowers changing to fruit.
She pa.s.sed the gorse bushes in their second blossoming, and the moor, stretched before her, was as her life promised to be: it was monotonous in its bright colouring, quiet and serene, broad-bosomed for its children. Old sheep looked up at her as she went by, and she saw herself in some relations.h.i.+p to them. They were the sport of men, and so was she, yet perhaps G.o.d had some care of them and her. It was she and the great G.o.d of whose existence she was dimly sure who had to contrive honourable life for her, and the one to whom she had yearly prayed must remain in his own place, veiled by the smoke of the red fires, a survival and a link like the remembrance of her virginity.
So young in years, so wise in experience of the soul, she thought there was little more for her to learn, but acquaintance with birth and death awaited her: they were like beacons to be lighted on her path, and she had no fear of them.
CHAPTER x.x.xVII
She did her shopping in her unhurried, careful way, and went on to the outfitter who made John's corduroy trousers. Clothes that looked as if they were made of cardboard hung outside the shop; unyielding coats, waistcoats and trousers seemed to be glued against the door: stockings, suspended by their gaudy tops, flaunted stiff toes in the breeze, and piles of more manageable garments were ma.s.sed on chairs inside, and Helen was aghast at the presence of so many semblances of man.
It was dark in the shop, and the smell of fustian absorbed the air. The owner, who wore an intricately-patterned tie, stood on the pavement and talked to a friend, while a youth, pale through living in obscurity, lured Helen in.