miriam had the evidence of her own eyes to assure her that helen was not unhappy. the strangely united bride and bridegroom were seen on the moor together, and they looked like lovers. moreover, helen stole out to meet him at odd hours, and, on the day before miriam went away, she surprised them in a heathery dip of ground where helen sewed and george read monotonously from a book.
"i—didn't know you were here," miriam stammered.
"well, we're not conspirators," helen said. "come and sit down. george is reading to me."
"no, i don't think i will, thank you." until now, she had succeeded in avoiding george, but there was no escape from his courteous greeting and outstretched hand. his manners had improved, she thought: he had no trace of awkwardness; he was cool and friendly, and, with the folly of the enamoured, he could no longer find her beautiful. she was at once aware of that, and she knew the meaning of his glance at helen, who bent over her work and did not look at them.
"how are you?" halkett said.
she found it difficult to answer him, and while she told herself she did not want his admiration, she felt that some show of embarrassment was her due.
"i'm very well. no; i won't stay. helen, may i take jim?"
"if he will go with you."
jim refused to stir, and with the burden of that added insult, miriam went on her way. it seemed to her that, in the end, helen had everything.
helen believed that the wisdom of her childhood had returned to her to teach her the true cause of happiness. for her it was born of the act of giving, and her knowledge of george's need was changed into a feeling that, in its turn, transformed existence. her mental confusion cleared itself and, concentrating her powers on him, she tried not to think of zebedee. she would not dwell on the little, familiar things she loved in him, nor would she speculate on his faithfulness or his pain, for his exile was the one means of george's homecoming. and, though she did not know it, zebedee, loving her truly, understood the workings of her mind, and his double misery lessened to a single one when he saw her growing more content.
he went to pinderwell house one fine evening, for there were few days when he could find time to drive up the long road, and though mildred caniper did not need his care, she looked for his coming every week.
it was a placid evening after a day of heat, and he could see the smoke from the kitchen chimney going straight and delicately towards the sky. the moor was one sheet of purple at this season, and it had a look of fulfilment and of peace. it had brought forth life and had yet to see it die, and it seemed to lie with its hands folded on its broad breast and to wait tranquilly for what might come.
zebedee tried to imitate that tranquillity as the old horse jogged up the road, but he had not yet arrived at such perfection of control that his heart did not beat faster as he knocked at helen's door.
tonight there was no answer, and having knocked three times he went into the hall, looked into each room and found all empty. he called her name and had silence for response. he went through the kitchen to seek her in the garden, and there, under the poplars, he saw her sitting and looking at the tree-tops, while george smoked beside her and jim lay at her feet.
it was a scene to stamp itself on the mind of a discarded lover, and while he took the impress he stood stonily in the doorway. he saw halkett say a word to helen, and she sprang up and ran across the lawn.
"i never thought you'd come," she said, breathing quickly.
he moved aside so that her body should not hide him from halkett's careful eyes.
"has something happened?" she asked. "you look so white."
"the day has been very hot."
"yes; up here, even, and in that dreadful little town—are you working hard?"
"i think so."
"and getting rich?"
"not a bit."
"i don't suppose you charge them half enough," she said, and made him laugh. "come and see notya before she goes to sleep."
"mayn't i speak to mr. halkett?" he asked.
she did not look at the two men as they stood together. again she watched the twinkling poplar leaves and listened to their voices rustling between the human ones, and when she seemed to have been listening for hours, she said, "zebedee, you ought to come. it's time notya went to sleep."
she led him through the house, and neither spoke as they went upstairs and down again, but at the door, she said, "i'll see you drive away," and followed him to the gate.
she stood there until he was out of sight, and then she went slowly to the kitchen where george was waiting for her.
"you've been a long time."
"have i? i mean, yes, i have."
"what have you been doing?"
"standing at the gate."
"talking?"
"thinking."
"was he thinking too?"
"i expect so."
"h'm. do you like him to come marching through your house?"
"why not? he's an old friend of ours."
"he seems to be! you were in a hurry to get away from me, i noticed, and then you have to waste time mooning with him in the twilight."
"he wasn't there, george." she laid the back of her hand against her forehead. "i watched him out of sight."
"what for?"
"he looked so lonely, going home to—that. are you always going to be jealous of any one who speaks to me? it's rather tiring."
"are you tired?"
"yes," she said with a jerk, and pressed her lips together. he pulled her to his knee, and she put her face against his strong, tanned neck.
"well," he said, "what's this for?"
"don't tease me."
"i'm not so bad, then, am i?"
"not so bad," she answered. "you have been smoking one of those cigars."
"yes. d'you mind?"
"i love the smell of them," she said, and he laid his cheek heavily on hers.
"george!"
"u-um?" he said, drowsing over her.
"i think the rest of the summer is going to be happy."
"yes, but how long's this to last? i want you in my house."
"i wish it wasn't in a hollow."
"what difference does that make? we're sheltered from the wind. we lie snug on winter nights."
"i don't want to. i like to hear the wind come howling across the moor and beat against the walls as if it had great wings. it does one's crying for one."
"do you want to cry?"
"yes."
"now?"
"no."
"when, then?"
"don't you?"
"of course not. i swear instead." he shook her gently. "tell me when you want to cry."
"oh, just when the wind does it for me," she said sleepily.
"i'll never understand you."
"yes, you will. i'm very simple, and now i'm half asleep."
"shall i carry you upstairs?"
she shook her head.
"helen, come to my house. bring mrs. caniper. i want you. and the whole moor's talking about the way we live."
"oh, let the moor talk! don't you love to hear it? it's the voice i love best. i shan't like living in your house while this one stands."
"but you'll have to."
she put up a finger. "i didn't say i wouldn't. will you never learn to trust me?"
"i am learning," he said.
"and you must be patient. most people are engaged before they marry. you married me at once."
"hush!" he said. "i don't like thinking about that."
after this confession, her mind crept a step forward, and she dared to look towards a time when mildred caniper would be dead and she at halkett's farm. the larch-lined hollow would half suffocate her, she believed, but she would grow accustomed to its closeness as she would grow used to george and george to her. soon he would completely trust her. he would learn to ask her counsel, and, at night, she would sit and sew and listen to his talk of crops and cattle, and the doings and misdoings of his men. he would have no more shyness of her, but sometimes she would startle him into a memory of how he had wooed her in the kitchen and seen her as a star. and she would have children: not those shining ones who were to have lived in the beautiful bare house with her and zebedee, but sturdy creatures with george's mark on them. she would become middle-aged and lose her slenderness, and half forget she had ever been helen caniper; yet george and the children would always be a little strange to her, and only when she was alone and on the moor would she renew her sense of self and be afraid of it.
the prospect did not daunt her, for she had faith in her capacity to bear anything except the love of zebedee for another woman. she ignored her selfishness towards him because the need to keep him was as strong as any other instinct: he was hers, and she had the right to make him suffer, and, though she honestly tried to shut her thoughts against him, when she did think of him it was to own him, to feel a dangerous joy in the memory of his thin face and tightened lips.
on the moor, harvests were always late, and george was gathering hay in august when richer country was ready to deliver up its corn, and one afternoon when he was carting hay from the fields beyond the farm, helen walked into the town, leaving lily brent in charge of mildred caniper.
helen had seldom been into the town since the day when she had married george, and the wind, trying to force her back, had beaten the body that was of no more value to her. things were better now, and she had avenged herself gaily on the god behind the smoke. he had heard few sounds of weeping and he had not driven her from the moor: he had merely lost a suppliant and changed a girl into a woman, and today, in her independence of fate, she would walk down the long road and plant a pleasant thought at every step, and she need not look at the square house which zebedee had bought for her.
she had told george to meet her at the side road if he had any errands for her in the town, and though he had none, he was there before her. watching her approach, he thought he had never seen her lovelier. she wore a dress and hat of miriam's choosing, the one of cream colour and the other black, and the beauty of their simple lines added to the grace that could still awe him.
"you look—like a swan," he said.
"oh, george, a horrid bird!" she came close and looked up, for she liked to see him puzzled and adoring.
"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 cherishing 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 passed, 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 passed 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 relationship to them. they were the sport of men, and so was she, yet perhaps god had some care of them and her. it was she and the great god 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.
