The Dark Tower

They began from that moment to go in for it. Winn had to speak to Dr. Gurnet about the skating, because four hours wasn’t enough, and Claire insisted upon Dr. Gurnet’s consent.

Dr. Gurnet had consented, though he had raised his eyebrows and said, “Pair-skating?” and then he had asked who Major Staines had chosen for his partner. Naturally Winn had become extremely stiff, and said, “Miss Rivers,” in a tone which should have put an end to the subject.

“Well, well!” said Dr. Gurnet. “And she’s a woman, after all, isn’t she?” Winn ignored this remark.

“By the by,” he said, “my friend’s coming out in about a fortnight — the one I told you about, Captain Drummond.”

“I remember perfectly,” said Dr. Gurnet; “a most estimable person I understand you to say. In about a fortnight? The skating competition will just be over then, won’t it? I am sure I hope you and Miss Rivers will both make a great success of it.”

The fortnight passed in a sunny flash. On the whole Winn had kept himself in hand. His voice had betrayed him, his eyes had betrayed him, all his controlled and concentrated passion had betrayed him; but he hadn’t said anything. He had buried his head deep in the sands and trusted like an ostrich to an infectious oblivion. He reviewed his behavior on the way to the rink the day of the International.

It was an icy cold morning; the valley was wrapped in a thick blue mist. There was no sunlight yet. The tops of the mountains were a sharpened deadly white, colder than purity. As he walked toward the valley the black fir-trees on the distant heights took fire. They seemed to be lighted one by one from some swift, invisible torch, and then quicker than sight itself the sun slipped over the edge and ran in a golden flood across the mountains. The little willows by the lake-side turned apricot; the rink was very cold and only just refrozen. It was a small gray square surrounded by color. Winn was quite alone in the silence and the light and the tingling bitter air. There was something in him that burned like a secret undercurrent of fire. Had he played the game? What about that dumb weight on his lips when he had tried to tell Claire on the Schatz Alp about Estelle? He couldn’t get it out then; but had he tried again later? Had he concealed his marriage? Why should he tell her anything? She wouldn’t care, she was so young. Couldn’t he have his bit of spring, his dance of golden daffodils, and then darkness? He really thought of daffodils when he thought of Claire. She wouldn’t mind, because she was spring itself, and had in front of her a great succession of flowers; but these were the last he was going to have. There wouldn’t be anything at all after Claire, and he wasn’t going to make love to her. Good God! he wasn’t such a beast! There had been times this last fortnight that had tried every ounce of his self-control, and he hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t said a word that damned yellow-necked, hen-headed chaplain’s wife couldn’t have heard and welcome. Would many fellows have had his chances and behaved as if they were frozen barbed-wire fences? And she’d looked at him — by Jove, she’d looked at him! Not that she’d meant anything by it; only it had been hard to have to sit on the only decent feelings he had ever had and not let them rip. And as far as Estelle was concerned, she didn’t care a damn for him, and he might just as well have been a blackguard. But that wasn’t quite the point, was it? Blackguards hurt girls, and he hadn’t set out to hurt Claire.

Well, there was no use making any song or dance about it; he’d have to go. At first he had thought he could tell her he was married — tell her as soon as the competition was over, and stay on; but he hadn’t counted on the way things grew, and he didn’t think now he could tell her and then hold his tongue about what he felt. If he told her, the whole thing would be out; he couldn’t keep it back. There were things you knew you could do, like going away and staying away; there were others you were a fool to try.