the days of that week were marked by little changes for the better in mildred caniper's condition, by little scenes with george. helen never went on to the moor without finding him in wait for her, and always she went as to some unworthy tryst, despising herself for the appeasement she meted out to him, daring to do nothing else. once more, she saw him as some animal that might be soothed with petting, but, thwarted, would turn fierce and do as he would with her. her dignity and friendship kept him off; he did not know how to pass the barrier, and to lock material doors against him would have been to tempt him to force the house. she knew that in this matter cowardice was safety, but as the days crept forward, she wondered how long the weapon would serve her.

rupert came on saturday and brought sanity into a disordered world, and when he entered the house she caught his arm and held to it.

"have you been as lonely as all that?" he asked.

"not a bit lonely, but you're so nice-looking," she explained, "and so alive. and notya is only coming alive slowly. it's like watching something being born. you're whole."

"and you're rather embarrassing."

"i want you to talk to me all the time you're here. tell me things that have nothing to do with us. rupert, i'm sick of us." she dropped on to a chair and whispered, "it's an enchanted house!"

"are you the princess?"

"yes. be careful! i don't want jane to know."

he glanced up the stairs. "the prince is coming soon."

she ignored that and went on: "nurse is an ogress."

"by jove, yes! why couldn't they send some one who looks like a christian?"

"i believe she'll eat me. but i shouldn't see that, and i can't bear to see her eating anything else. d'you know?"

"rather. that kind of thing oughtn't to be allowed."

"she's very kind. she calls me 'dear' all the time, but notya will hate her when she notices the teeth. will you go up to her now? i have to—i want to go out for a little while. then we can have the rest of the day to ourselves."

he lifted his eyebrows oddly. "why not?"

"i mean i needn't go out again."

"where are you going now?"

"just for a walk. i must have a walk."

"good girl. i'll look after the family."

she took her cloak from its peg and slipped through the garden. "i don't tell the truth. i'm deceitful," she said to herself, and when she saw george, she hated him.

"i've been here for hours," he said as she approached.

"there was no need to wait."

"i'm not grudging the time."

"why speak of it then?"

"i was afraid you wouldn't come. i brought a coat for you to sit on. the ground's wet."

"i don't want to sit. i want to walk and walk into something soft—soft and oblivious."

"but sit down, just a minute. i want to show you something." his hand shook as he put something into hers and, clearing his throat, said shyly, "it's a swallow."

"a swallow?"

"a brooch."

"it's pretty."

"let me pin it on for you."

"no, no, i can't—it's much too good for this plain frock, and i might lose it. haven't you a case for it? there. put it in your pocket, please. thank you very much."

"i don't believe you like it."

"yes, i do."

"then let me put it on. i'd like to see you wearing it."

"oh, if you must," she said.

he took it from its place; his fingers were slow and clumsy, his face close to hers, and with the brooch pinned to her, she hated him more than she had done when he held miriam in his mad arms.

"i've the ring in my pocket, too," he said. "next week—did you hear me? sometimes—sometimes you look deaf."

"yes, i did hear."

she shook herself and rose, but he caught a hand. "i want to take you right away. you look so tired."

"i am not tired."

"i shall take care of you."

the limp hand stiffened. "you know, don't you, that i'm not going to leave my stepmother? you are not thinking—?"

"no, no," he said gently, but the mildness in his voice promised himself possession of her, and she snatched away her hand.

"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 assent, 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.

"it's a bitter wind," she said. "we've had a bad winter, and we're going to have a wicked spring."

"i think we are," helen said as she fastened on her hat.

"you'll be fighting the wind all the way into town. need you go today?"

"i'm afraid i must," helen said gravely.

"well, perhaps the change will do you good," lily said, and helen smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "don't hurry back."

the smile stayed on helen's lips, and it was frozen there when, having forced her way against a wind that had no pity and no scorn, she did her shopping methodically and met george halkett at the appointed place.

"you've come!" he said, and seized her hand. "you're late."

"i had to do some shopping," she said, putting back a blown strand of hair.

"you're tired. you should have let me drive you down." in the shadows of the doorway, his eyes were quick on every part of her. "i wish i'd made you. and you're late. shall we—hadn't we better go upstairs?"

"there's nothing to wait for, is there?"

their footsteps made a loud noise on the stairs, and in a few minutes helen found herself on them again. george had her by the arm, but he loosed her when she put the ring into his hand.

"helen—" he checked himself, accepting her decree with a patience that made her sorry for him.

"you're going to drive back with me?" his anxiety to please her controlled his eagerness: his wish to tend her was like a warm but stifling cloak, and she could not refuse him.

"they'll think we've met by chance," he said.

"who will?"

"any one that sees us."

"i'm not concerned with what people think."

"that's all right then. nor am i. will you wait here or come with me to the stable?"

"i'll wait," she said.

people with blue faces and red-rimmed eyes went past her, and there was not one of them she did not envy, for of all the people in that town, she alone was waiting for george halkett. he came too soon, and held out a helping hand which she disdained.

"my word!" he said, "the wind is cold. keep the rug round you."

"no, i don't like it." she pushed it off. "i can't bear the smell of it."

"i'm sorry," he said. "it's clean enough."

"i didn't think it was dirty," she explained, and a few minutes afterwards, she added, "i'm sorry i was rude, george."

"you're tired," he said again.

"drive quickly, won't you?"

he whipped up the horse, and the wind roared behind them; they passed men and women staggering against it.

"will there be snow?" she asked him.

he bent his ear to her, and again she shouted, "will there be snow?"

"feels—rather like it," he boomed back. "i never knew such a year. and they'd begun burning the heather!"

"had they? did you say burning heather? then the fires will be put out. george, they'll be put out!"

he nodded, thinking this a small thing to shout about, in such a wind.

she had forgotten about the fires, but now she looked at the grey sky and hoped the snow would come. she imagined the first flake hissing on the fire, and more flakes, and more and more, until there was no smoke to veil the god, only a thick wet blanket for his burial. she had loved his moor, yet he had forsaken her; she had been afraid to hope, she had gone humbly and she had prayed, but now she need pay him no more homage, for she had nothing more to fear, and she whispered to the snow to hurry and avenge her.

when they were nearly home, george spoke again. "are you very cold?"

"i'm warmer now."

"i'll drive you up the track."

"i'd rather get out here. stop, george, please."

"wait till i help you down," he said, and jumped off on the other side.

"my feet are numb," she said, looking at the arms he held for her.

"i'll catch you."

"i'm not so bad as that." she climbed down stiffly while he watched her, and in some way she felt herself more injured by the quality of his gaze than she would have been by his clasp. without looking at him, she said good-bye and made a step or two.

"but i shall see you again."

"one—one supposes so!"

"i mean tonight."

"i—don't know."

"leave the blind up so that i can see if you're alone."

she made no answer, and when she had run lamely up the track, she turned at the door to see her husband still standing in the road.

lily met her in the hall and said, "mrs. caniper's asleep, and she's better, my dear. she seems happier, somehow. so george halkett brought you home. a good thing, too. come into the kitchen and get warm. i'll make some tea and toast for you. you're frozen. here, let me take off your boots. sit down."

"i can do it, thank you."

"but you're going to let me, just to please me."

helen submitted and lay back. "you look nice with the firelight on you."

"hadn't that man a rug?"

"what? oh, yes, yes." the warmth and peace of the kitchen were almost stupefying. she shut her eyes and felt soft slippers being pushed on to her feet; the singing of the kettle became one sound with the howling of the wind, and lily's voice dragged her from the very brim of sleep.

"here's a slice, and the kettle's boiling. a good thing john isn't here! he says it's the water, not the kettle."

"how fussy of him!"

"but he's right."

"always?"

"not a bit of it."

"i'm glad of that. would it have made much difference to you if you hadn't married him?"

"d'you think i don't care enough for him?"

"of course i don't."

"now look, you've made me burn the toast."

"scrape it. i wanted to know—how much he filled of you."

"i don't know. i never thought about it. i wouldn't have been lovesick, anyway. i had my work to do."

"i expect that's how men feel. i sometimes think nothing's worth struggling for."

"oh, but it is. i'm always fighting. i saved two lambs last week."

"that's different. i meant—for happiness. people struggle and get nothing. it's such a little life. seventy years, perhaps. they pass—somehow."

"but if you've ever had the toothache, you know how long an hour can be. what's the matter with you?"

"i'm just thinking."

"unhappy?"

"no."

"when will zebedee be back?"

"in about ten days."

"are you feeling he'll never come?"

"i'm sure he'll come."

"well then—"

"perhaps it's the wind," helen said. "you're very good to me."

"oh, i'm fond of you," lily said.

"are you fond enough to kiss me?" helen asked. she wanted a touch at which she need not shudder, and surely it was fitting that some one should kiss her on her wedding-day.