Helen waked, that night, from a short deep sleep, to hear the falling of
heavy rain and sharp gusts of wind that bowed the poplars. As the storm
strengthened, raindrops were blown on to her pillow, and she could hear
the wind gathering itself up before it swept moaning across the moor and
broke with a miserable cry against the walls. She hoped Mildred Caniper
slept through a wailing that might have a personal note for her, and as
she prepared to leave the room and listen on the landing, she thought
she heard a new sound cutting through the swish of the rainfall and the
shriek of wind. It was a smaller sound, as though a child were alone and
crying in the night, and she leaned from her window to look into the
garden. The rain wetted her hair and hands and neck, while she stared
into varying depths of blackness--the poplars against the sky, the lawn,
like water, the close trees by the wall--and as she told herself that
the wind had many voices, she heard a loud, unwary sob and the impact of
one hard substance on another.
Some one was climbing the garden wall, and a minute later a head rose
above the scullery roof. It was Miriam, crying, with wet clothes
clinging to her, and Helen called out softly.
"Oh, is that you?" she answered, and laughed through a tangled breath.
"I'm drenched."
"Wait! I'll go into Phoebe and help you through."
"There's a chair here. I left it. I'm afraid it's ruined!"
Helen entered the other room as Miriam dropped from the window-ledge to
the floor.
"Don't make a noise. We mustn't wake her. Oh, oh, you look--you look
like rags!"
Miriam sat limply; she shook with cold and sobs and laughter. Water
dripped from every part of her, and when Helen helped her up, all the
streams became one river.
Helen let go of the cold hands and sank to the bed. "There must be
gallons of it! And you--!"
"I'm frozen. Mop it up. Towels--anything. I'll fling my clothes out of
the window. They are quite used to the scullery roof."
"Speak quietly. Whisper. She may hear you!"
"That would be--the devil, wouldn't it? Good thing Rupert isn't here!
Put something at the bottom of the door. Lock it. My fingers are numb.
Oh, dear, oh, dear, I can't undo my things."
"Let me. You ought to have hot water, and there's no fire. I'll rub you
down. And your hair! Wring it out, child. What were you doing on the
moor?"
"Just amusing myself."
"With George Halkett?"
"We-ell, I was with him in the spirit, oh, yes, I was; but in the flesh,
only for a very little while. What made you think I was with him?"
"Something I heard. Are you warmer now?"
"Much warmer. Give me my nightgown, please. Oh, it's comfortable, and
out there I was so cold, so cold. Oh," she cried out, "I should love to
set his farm on fire!"
"Hush!"
"But I would! If I'd had matches, and if it hadn't been raining, and if
I'd thought about it, I would have done it then."
"But what did he do to you?" Helen's eyes were sombre. "He surely didn't
touch you?"
Miriam's arrested laughter marked their differences. She remembered
George Halkett's hand on hers and the wilder, more distant passion of
his arms clasping her among the larches.
"It wasn't that," she said. "He asked me to marry him--and it wasn't
that. I met him to go riding, and I think I must have teased him. Yes, I
did, because he hit my horse, and I couldn't hold him, and I fell off at
last. I lay in the heather for a long time. It was wet, Helen, and I was
all alone. I cried at first. I would have killed him if he had come
near. I would, somehow, but he never came. He didn't care, and I might
have been killed, just because I teased him. Then I cried again. Would
you mind coming into bed with me to keep me warm? I'm glad I'm here. I
lost my way. I thought I should be out there all night. It was dark, and
the wind howled like demons, and the rain, the rain--! Closer, Helen."
"Did he frighten you?"
"Of course he didn't. I was angry. Oh"--the small teeth gritted on each
other--"angry! But I'll pay him out. I swear I will."
"Don't swear it. Don't do it. I wish Rupert were here. I'm glad Zebedee
gave me Jim."
"Pooh! Do you think George will break into the house? Jim would fly at
him. I'd like that. He's got to be paid out."
Helen moved in the bed. "What's the good of doing that?"
"The good! He made me bite the earth. I joggled and joggled, and at last
I went over with a bump, and when I bumped I vowed I'd hurt him."
"You needn't keep that kind of vow."
"Then what was the good of making it? We always keep our promises."
"Promise not to see him any more."
"Don't worry. I've finished with him--very nearly. Will you stay with me
all night? There's not much room, but I want you to keep hold of me. I'm
warm now, and so beautifully sleepy."
Her breathing became even, but once it halted to let her say, "He's a
beast, but I can't help rather liking him."
She slept soon afterwards, but Helen lay awake with her arm growing
stiff under Miriam's body, and her mind wondering if that pain were
symbolic of what wild folly might inflict.
It was noticeable that Miriam did not venture on the moor in the days
that followed, but every day Helen went there with Jim, who needed
exercise and was only restrained from chasing sheep by timely employment
of his energy, and every day Halkett, watching the house, saw these two
sally forth together. They went at an easy pace, the woman with her
skirt outblown, her breast fronting the wind, her head thrown back, her
hands behind her, the dog marching by her side, and in their clearness
of cut, their pale colour, for which the moor was dado and the sky
frieze, he found some memory of sculptures he had seen and hardly
heeded, ancient things with the eternity of youth on them, the captured
splendour of moving limb and passionate brain. Then he was aware of
fresh wind and fruitful earth, but as she passed out of sight, he was
imprisoned again by stifling furies. He had begun to love Miriam with a
sincerity that wished to win and not to force her; he had controlled the
wild heritage of his fathers and tried to forget the sweetness of her
body in the larch-wood; he was determined not to take what she would not
give him gladly; and now, by her own act, she had changed his striving
love into desire--desire to hurt, to feel her struggling in his arms,
hating his kisses, paying a bitter price for her misuse of him. He had a
vicious pleasure in waiting for the hour when he should feel her body
straining away from his, and each night, as he sat drinking, he lived
through that ecstasy; each day, as he went about his work, he kept an
eye on the comings and goings of the Canipers, waiting for his chance.
Miriam did not appear, and that sign of fear inflamed him; but on Sunday
morning she walked on the moor with Rupert, holding him by the arm and
making a parade of happiness, and in the afternoon, Daniel was added to
the train.
Monday came, and no small, black-haired figure darted from the house:
only Helen and the majestic dog walked together like some memory of a
younger world.
His mind held two pictures as he sat alone at night, and, corresponding
to them, two natures had command of him. He saw Helen like dawn and
Miriam like night, and as one irritated him with her calm, the other
roused him with her fire, and he came to watch for Helen that he might
sneer inwardly at her, with almost as much eagerness as he watched for
Miriam that he might mutter foul language, like loathed caresses.
Drink and desire and craving for peace were all at work in him. The
dreams he had been building were broken by a callous hand, and he sat
among the ruins. He could laugh, now, at his fair hopes, but they had
had their part in him, and he could never go back to the days when he
rode and drank and loved promiscuously, with a light heart. She had
robbed, too, when she cast down his house, but there was no end to her
offence, for when, out of coarser things, this timid love had begun to
creep, it had been thrown back at him with a gibe.
He was in a state when the strongest suggestion would have its way with
him. He wanted to make Miriam suffer; he wanted to be dealt with kindly,
and he had a pitiful and unconscious willingness to take another's
mould. So, when he saw Helen on the moor, the sneering born of her
distance from him changed slowly to a desire for nearness, and he
remembered with what friendliness they had sat together in the heather
one autumn night, and how peace had seemed to lie upon them both. A
woman like that might keep a man straight, he thought, and when she
stopped to speak to him one morning, her smile was balm to his hurts.
She looked at him in her frank way. "You don't look well, George."
"Oh--I'm all right," he said, hitting his gaiters with his stick.
"It's a lovely day," she said, "and you have some lambs already. I hope
the snow won't come and kill them."
"Hope not. We're bound to lose some of them, though."
Why, he asked himself angrily, was she not afraid of him who was
planning injury to her sister? She made him feel as though he could
never injure any one.
"You haven't noticed my dog," she said.
"Yes--" he began. He had been noticing him for days, marching beside her
against the sky. "He's a fine beast."
"Isn't he?" Her finger-tips were on Jim's head.
"You want a dog now there's no man in your house."
She laughed a little as she said, "And he feels his responsibility,
don't you, Jim?"
"Come here, lad," Halkett called to him. "Come on. That's right!"
"He seems to like you."
"I never knew the dog that didn't; but don't make him too soft, or he'll
be no good to you."
"Well," she said gaily, "you are not likely to break into our house!"
His flush alarmed her, for it told her that she had happened on the
neighbourhood of his thoughts, and her mind was in a flurry to assert
her innocence and engender his, but no words came to her, and her hand
joined his in fondling the dog's head.
"Well, I must be going on," George said, and after an uncertain instant
he walked away, impoverished and enriched.
Helen sat down heavily, as though one of her own heart-beats had pushed
her there, and putting her arm round Jim's neck, she leaned her head on
him.
"Jim," she said, "don't you wish Zebedee would come back? If I hadn't
promised--" She looked about her. George had disappeared, and near by
grey sheep were eating with a concentration that disdained her and the
dog. It was a peaceful scene, and a few early lambs dotted it with
white. "It's silly to feel like this," she said. "Let's go and find
Miriam."
She was discovered in the garden, digging.
"But why?" Helen asked.
"I must have exercise." Her hair was loosened, her teeth worked on her
under-lip as her foot worked on the spade. "You don't know how I miss my
riding!"
"I've just seen George."
"Have you?"
"I spoke to him."
"How brave! How did he look?"
"Horrid. His eyes were bloodshot."
"Ah! He has been drinking. That's despair. Perhaps it's time I tried to
cheer him up."
"Don't make him angry."
"I'm not going to. I'm not vindictive. I'm rather nice. I've recovered
from my rage, and now I wouldn't set his farm on fire for worlds. Why,
if I saw it blazing, I should run to help! But I'd like to tease him
just a little bit."
"I wish you wouldn't. I think it's rather mean, he looks so miserable.
And I'm sure it isn't safe. Please, Miriam."
"I can take care of myself, my dear."
"I'm not so sure."
"Oh, yes, I can. I'm going to make it up with him. I must, or I shall
never be able to walk about the moor again."
"I wish you didn't live here," Helen said.
"Well, so do I. But it's not for long." She was working vigorously, and,
with her peculiar faculty for fitting her surroundings, she looked as
though she had been begotten of sun and rain and soil. Helen took
delight in her bright colour, strong hands and ready foot.
"I wonder," Helen said thoughtfully, "if Uncle Alfred would take you
now."
"Do you want to save me from George's clutches?"
"Yes, I do."
Miriam threw back her head and laughed. "You funny little thing! You're
rather sweet. George hasn't a clutch strong enough to hold me. You can
be sure of that."
She was herself so certain that she waylaid him on the moor next day,
but to her amazement he did not answer her smile of greeting and passed
on without a word.
"George!" she called after him.
"Well?" He looked beyond her at the place where green moor met blue sky:
he felt he had done with her, and Helen's trust had taken all the
sweetness from revenge.
"Aren't you going to say good-morning? I came on purpose to see you."
"You needn't trouble," he said and, stealing a look at her, he weakened.
"But I need." He was wavering, she knew, and her mouth and eyes promised
laughter, her body seemed to sway towards him.
"I want--I want to forgive you, George."
"Well, I'm--"
"Yes, you are, no doubt, but I don't want to be, so I forgive my
trespassers, and I've come to make friends."
"You've said that before."
"I've always meant it. Must I hold out my arm any longer?"
"No." She was too tempting for his strength. He took her by the
shoulders, looked greedily at her, saw the shrinking he had longed for
and pressed his mouth on hers. She gave a cry that made a bird start
from the heather, but he held her to him and felt her struggling with a
force that could not last, and in a minute she dropped against him as
helplessly as if she had been broken.
He turned her over on his arm. "You little devil!" he said, and kissed
her lips again.
Her face was white and still: she did not move and he could not guess
that behind the brows gathered as if she were in pain, her mind
ransacked her home for a weapon that might kill him, and saw the
carving-knife worn to a slip of steel that would glide into a man's body
without a sound. She meant to use it: she was kept quiet by that
determination, by the intensity of her horror for caresses that, unlike
those first ones in the larch-wood, marked her as a thing to be used and
thrown away.
She knew his thoughts of her, but she had her own amid a delirium of
hate, and when he released her, she was shaking from the effort of her
control.
"Now I've done with you," he said, and she heard him laugh as he went
away.
She longed to scream until the sky cracked with the noise, and she had
no knowledge of her journey home. She found herself sitting at the
dinner-table with Helen, and heard her ask, "Don't you feel well?"
"No. I'm--rather giddy."
She watched the knife as Helen carved, and the beauty of its slimness
gave her joy; but suddenly the blade slipped, and she saw blood on
Helen's hand and, rushing from the table to the garden, she stood there
panting.
"It's nothing," Helen shouted through the window. "Just a scratch."
"Oh, blood! It's awful!" She leaned on the gate and sobbed feebly,
expecting to be sick. She could not make anybody bleed: it was terrible
to see red blood.
Trembling and holding to the banisters, she went upstairs and lay down
on her bed, and presently, through her subsiding sobs, there came a
trickle of laughter born of the elfish humour which would not be
suppressed. She could not kill George, but she must pay him out, and she
was laughing at herself because she had discovered his real offence. It
was not his kisses, not even his disdain of what he took, though that
enraged her: it was his words as he cast her off and left her. She sat
up on the bed, clenching her small hands. How dared he? How dared he?
She could not ignore those words and she would let him know that he had
been her plaything all the time.
"All the time, George, my dear," she muttered, nodding her black head.
"I'll just write you a little letter, telling you!"
Kneeling before the table by her window, she wrote her foolish message
and slipped it inside her dress: then, with a satisfaction which brought
peace, she lay down again and slept.
She waked to find Helen at her bedside, a cup of tea in her hand.
"Oh--I've been to sleep?"
"Yes. It's four o'clock. Are you better?"
"Yes."
"Lily is here. John's gone to town. It's market-day."
"Market-day!" She laughed. "George will get drunk. Perhaps he'll fall
off his horse and be killed. But I'd rather he was killed tomorrow.
Perhaps a wild bull will gore him--right horn, left horn, right
horn--Oh, my head aches!"
"Don't waggle it about."
"I was just showing you what the bull would do to George."
"Leave the poor man alone."
But that was what Miriam could not do, and she waited eagerly for the
dark.
The new green of the larches was absorbed into the blackness of night
when she went through them silently. She had no fear of meeting George,
but she must wait an opportunity of stealing across the courtyard and
throwing the letter through the open door, so she paused cautiously at
the edge of the wood and saw the parlour lights turning the cobbles of
the yard to lumps of gold. There was no sign of Mrs. Biggs, but about
the place there was a vague stir made up of the small movements and
breathings of the horses in the stable, the hens shut up for the night,
the cows in their distant byres. Branches of trees fretted against each
other and the stream sang, out of sight.
The parlour light burned steadily, no figure came into view, and,
lifting her feet from her slippers, Miriam went silently towards the
door. She had thrown in the letter and was turning back, when she heard
nailed boots on the stones, a voice singing, a little thickly, in an
undertone. She caught her breath and ran, but as she fumbled for her
slippers in the dark, she knew she was discovered. He had uttered a
loud, "Ha!" of triumph, his feet were after her, and she squealed like a
hunted rabbit when he pounced on her.
It was very dark within the wood. His face was no more than a blur, and
her unseen beauty was powerless to help her. She was desperate, and she
laughed.
"George, you'll spoil my little joke. I've left a letter for you. It's a
shame to spoil it, Georgie, Porgie."
His grasp was hurting her. "Where is the letter?" he asked in a curious,
restrained voice.
"In the doorway. Let me go, George. I'll see you tomorrow.
George--please!"
"No," he said thoughtfully, carefully, "I don't think I shall let you
go. Come with me--come with me, pretty one, and we'll read your
love-letter together."