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her now, we should be jawing about the 'Christian Mystery', or some such tack. Thank God, I'm not!”
They walked on in silence for some time.
“But you can't really give her up,” said Clara.
“I don't give her up, because there's nothing to give,” he said.
“There is for her.”
“I don't know why she and I shouldn't be friends as long as we live,” he said. “But it'll only be friends.”
Clara drew away from him, leaning away from contact with him.
“What are you drawing away for?” he asked.
She did not answer, but drew farther from him.
“Why do you want to walk alone?” he asked.
Still there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head.
“Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!” he exclaimed.
She would not answer him anything.
“I tell you it's only words that go between us,” he persisted, trying to take her again.
She resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring her way.
“Damn it!” he said. “What do you want now?”
“You'd better run after Miriam,” mocked Clara.
The blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She drooped sulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her in his arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss of rage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard and relentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall of his chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, and kissed her.
He heard people coming down the hill.
“Stand up! stand up!” he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. If he had let go, she would have sunk to the ground.
She sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence.
“We will go over the fields,” he said; and then she woke up.
But she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in silence with him over the first dark field. It was the way to Nottingham and to the station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. They came out on a bare hilltop where stood the dark figure of the ruined windmill. There he halted. They stood together high up in the darkness, looking at the lights scattered on the night before them, handfuls of glittering points, villages lying high and low on the dark, here and there.
“Like treading among the stars,” he said, with a quaky laugh.
Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved aside her mouth to ask, dogged and low:
“What time is it?”
“It doesn't matter,” he pleaded thickly.
“Yes it does—yes! I must go!”
“It's early yet,” he said.
“What time is it?” she insisted.
All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights.
“I don't know.”
She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the joints fuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he stood panting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face of the watch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till he could take her in his arms again.
“I can't see,” she said.
“Then don't bother.”
“Yes; I'm going!” she said, turning away.
“Wait! I'll look!” But he could not see. “I'll strike a match.”
He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face lit up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All was black before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Where was he?
“What is it?” she asked, afraid.
“You can't do it,” his voice answered out of the darkness.
There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in his voice. It frightened her.
“What time is it?” she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless.
“Two minutes to nine,” he replied, telling the truth with a struggle.
“And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?”
“No. At any rate—”
She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted to escape.
“But can't I do it?” she pleaded.
“If you hurry,” he said brusquely. “But you could easily walk it, Clara; it's only seven miles to the tram. I'll come with you.”
“No; I want to catch the train.”
“But why?”
“I do—I want to catch the train.”
Suddenly his voice altered.
“Very well,” he said, dry and hard. “Come along, then.”
And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting to cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, dark fields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row of lights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly:
“There she is!” he cried, breaking into a run.
There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, like a luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling ceased.
“She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it.”
Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The whistle blew. He was gone. Gone!—and she was in a carriage full of people. She felt the cruelty of it.
He turned round and plunged home. Before he knew where he was he was in the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark and dangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him.
“Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!” she said.
He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother wondered if he were drunk.
“She caught the train then?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I hope HER feet weren't so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her I don't know!”
He was silent and motionless for some time.
“Did you like her?” he asked grudgingly at last.
“Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you know you will.”
He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing.
“Have you been running?” she asked.
“We had to run for the train.”
“You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk.”
It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went to bed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rage and pain. There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost to feel.
“This is how she serves me, is it?” he said in his heart, over and over, pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over the scene, and again he hated her.
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