When it was fine he took her out on to the moor under
Karva.
They always went the same way, up the green sheep-track that they
knew; they always turned back at the same place, where the stream he
had seen her jumping ran from the hill; and they always took the same
time to go and turn. They never stopped and never lingered; but went
always at the same sharp pace, and kept the same distance from each
other. It was as if by saying to themselves, "Never any further than
the stream; never any longer than thirty-five minutes; never any
nearer than we are now," they defined the limits of their whole
relation. Sometimes they hardly spoke as they walked. They parted with
casual words and with no touching of their hands and with the same
thought unspoken--"Till the next time."
But these times which were theirs only did not count as time. They
belonged to another scale of feeling and another order of reality.
Their moments had another pulse, another rhythm and vibration. They
burned as they beat. While they lasted Gwenda's life was lived with an
intensity that left time outside its measure. Through this intensity
she drew the strength to go on, to endure the unendurable with joy.
* * * * *
But Rowcliffe could not endure the unendurable at all. He was savage
when he thought of it. That was her life and she would never get away
from it. She, who was born for the wild open air and for youth and
strength and freedom, would be shut up in that house and tied to that
half-paralyzed, half-imbecile old man forever.
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