Winn had a feeling that he ought to keep away from her, but Davos was an inconvenient place for keeping away. People were always turning up when one least expected them, or one turned up oneself. Privacy and publicity flashed together in the sunny air. Even going off up a mountain with a book was hardly the resource it seemed; friends skied or tobogganed down upon you from the top, and carried you off to tea.
Winn had an uneasy feeling that he oughtn’t to go every morning to the rink, though that was naturally the place for a man who was only allowed to skate to find himself. It was also the place where he could not fail to find Claire. There were a good many other skaters on the rink, too; they were all preparing for the International Skating Competition.
The English, as a rule, stuck to their own rink, where they had a style of skating belonging to themselves. Their style was perpendicular and very stiff; it was by no means easy to attain, and when attained, hardly perhaps, to the observer, worth the efforts expended. Winn approved of it highly. He thought it a smart and sensible way to skate, and was by no means a bad exponent; but once he had seen Claire skating on the big rink, he put aside his abortive circling round an orange. It is difficult to concentrate upon being a ramrod when every instinct in you desires to chase a swallow. She wore, when she skated, a short, black velvet skirt, white fox furs, and a white fur cap. One couldn’t very well miss seeing her. It did not seem to Winn as if she skated at all. She skimmed from her seat into the center of her chosen corner, and then looked about her, balanced in the air. When she began to skate he could not tell whether the band was playing or not, because he felt as if she always moved to music.
She would turn at first mysteriously and doubtingly, trying her edges, with little short cuts and dashes, like a leaf blown now here and now there, pushed by a draught of air, and then some purpose seemed to catch her, and her steps grew intricate and measured. He could not take his eyes from her or remember that she was real, she looked so unsubstantial, eddying to and fro, curving and circling and swooping. There was no stiffness in her, and Winn found himself ready to give up stiffness; it was terrible the amount of things he found himself ready to give up as he watched her body move like seaweed on a tide. Motion and joy and music all seemed easy things, and the things that were not easy slipped out of his mind.
After a time Maurice would join her to practise the pair-skating. He was a clever skater, but careless, and it set Winn’s teeth on edge to watch how nearly he sometimes let her down. He would have let any other woman down, but Claire knew him. She counted on his not being exactly where he ought to be, hovered longer on her return strokes, pushed herself more swiftly forward to meet him, or retreated to avoid his too impulsive rushes. Winn was always glad when Maurice, satisfied with his cursory practice, left her circling alone and unfettered like a sea-gull on a cliff.
This was the time when he always made up his mind not to join her, and felt most sure that she didn’t care whether he joined her or not.
He had not talked with her alone since their lunch at the Schatz Alp nearly a week ago. Every one of her hours was full, her eyes danced and laughed as usual, the secretive bloom of youth hid away from him any sign of expectation. He did not dream that every day for a week she had expected and wanted him. She couldn’t herself have explained what she wanted. Only her gaiety had lost its unconsciousness; she was showing that she didn’t mind, she was not, now minding. It seemed so strange that just when she had felt as if they were real friends he had mysteriously kept away from her. Perhaps he hadn’t meant all the nice things he had said or all the nicer things he hadn’t said at all, but just looked whenever her eyes met his? They did not meet his now; he always seemed to be looking at something else. Other men put on her skates and found her quickest on the rink, and the other men seemed to Claire like trees walking; they were no longer full of amusing possibilities. They were in the way. Then one morning Winn, watching her from a distance noticed that Maurice didn’t turn up. Claire actually looked a forlorn and lonely little figure, and he couldn’t make up his mind not to join her.
He skated slowly up to her.
“Well,” he said, “where’s Maurice? He oughtn’t to be missing a good skating morning like this?” It suddenly seemed to Claire as if everything was all right again. Winn was there for her, just as he had been on the Schatz Alp; his eyes looked the same, and the intentional bruskness which he put into his voice was quite insufficient to hide its eagerness.
“Oh,” she said, “Major Staines, I didn’t mean to tell anybody, but I shall tell you of course. It’s rather sickening, isn’t it? Maurice doesn’t want to go in for the competition any more; he says he can’t spare the time.”
“What!” cried Winn; “look here, let’s sit down and talk about it.” They sat down, and the music and the sunshine spread out all round them. Everything swung into a curious harmony, and left them almost nothing to be upset about. “He can’t throw you over like this,” Winn protested. “Why, it’s only a fortnight off the day, and you’re one of the tiptop skaters.”
Claire did not say what she knew to be true, that people had been saying that too much to Maurice, and Maurice only liked praise that came his own way.
“I think it’s Mrs. Bouncing,” she said dejectedly. “He’s teaching her to skate, but she’ll never learn. She’s been up here for years, and she doesn’t know her edges! It looks awfully as if he really liked her, because Maurice skates quite well.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been of very little use to you about Mrs. Bouncing,” Winn said apologetically. “I thought Bouncing might help us, he’s quite a good chap; but I’m afraid he’s too down in the mouth. Still, I think I may be able to do something if things get to look really bad. Don’t worry about that, please. But, by Jove! this skating matter is serious. What are you going to do about it?” Anything that stopped sport seemed to Winn to be really serious; something had got to be done about it. “Isn’t there any one else up here not going in for it that you could lick into shape?”
Claire shook her head doubtfully.
“They’d have to give up every bit of their time,” she explained, “and virtually hardly breathe. You see, pair-skating is really very stiff. Of course, if I got a new man, I’d do most of the figures; but he’d have to be there to catch me at the right times, and awfully steady on his edges, and waltz of course.”
“What about me?” Winn asked quietly.
“I’m steady on my edges, and I can waltz after a fashion, and I’d promise not to breathe for a fortnight.” He looked at her, and then looked away quickly. He was a damned fool to have offered himself! How on earth was he going to stand a fortnight with her when he could barely keep himself in hand for five minutes?
“Oh,” she said, “you!”
Afterward she said a good deal more, but Winn only remembered the way she said “you,” because her voice had sounded different, as if she had found something she had wanted to lay her hands on. Of course what she really wanted was to go in for the pair-skating; it was much the most fun.
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.
He circled slowly over the black ice surrounded by pink flames. It made him laugh, because he might have been a creature in hell. Yes, that was what hell was like, he had always known it — cold. Cold and lonely, when, if you’d only had a bit of luck, you might have been up somewhere in the sunlight, not alone. He didn’t feel somehow this morning as if his marriage was an obstruction; he felt as if it were a shame. It hurt him terribly that what had driven him to Estelle could be called love, when love was this other feeling — the feeling that he’d like to be torn into little bits rather than fail Claire. He’d be ridiculous to please her; he’d face anything, suffer anything, take anything on. And it wasn’t in the least that she was lovely. He didn’t think about her beauty half as much as he thought about her health and the gentle, tender ways she had with sick people. He’d watched her over and over again, when she had no idea he was anywhere near, being nice to people in ways in which Winn had never dreamed before one could be nice. When people had nothing but their self-esteem left them, no attractions, no courage, no health, she’d just sit down beside them and make their self-esteem happy and comfortable.
She needn’t have been anything but young and gay and triumphant, but she never shirked anybody else’s pain. He had puzzled over her a good deal because, as far as he could see, she hadn’t the ordinary rules belonging to good people — about church, and not playing cards for money, and pulling people up. It wasn’t right and wrong she was thinking of most; it was other people’s feelings.
He tried not to love her like that, because it made it worse. It was like loving God and Peter; it mixed him all up.
He couldn’t see straight because everything he saw turned into love of her, and being with her seemed like being good; and it wasn’t, of course, if he concealed things.
The icy blue rink turned slowly into gold before he had quite made up his mind what to do. Making up his mind had a good deal to do with Lionel, so that he felt fairly safe about it. It was going to hurt horribly, but if it only hurt him, it couldn’t be said to matter. You couldn’t have a safe plan that didn’t hurt somebody, and as long as it didn’t hurt the person it was made for, it could be counted a success.
Davos began to descend upon the rink, first the best skaters — Swedes, Russians, and Germans — and then all the world. The speed-skaters stood about in heavy fur coats down to their feet.
Claire came down surrounded by admirers. Winn heard her laugh before he saw her, and after he had seen her he saw nothing else. She looked like one of the fir-trees when the sun had caught it; she seemed aflame with a quite peculiar radiance and joy. She flew toward Winn, imitating the speed-skaters with one long swift stride of her skates.
“Ah,” she cried, “isn’t it a jolly morning? Isn’t everything heavenly? Aren’t you glad you are alive?”
That was the kind of mood she was in. It was quite superfluous to ask if she was nervous. She was just about as nervous as the sun was when it ran over the mountains.
“There doesn’t seem to be much the matter with you this morning,” said Winn, eying her thoughtfully.
The rink cleared at eleven and the band began to play.
The judges sat in different quarters of the rink so as to get the best all-around impression of the skating. The audience, muffled up in furs, crowded half-way up the valley, as if it were a gigantic amphitheater.
A Polish girl, very tall and slender, with a long black pigtail, swung out upon the ice. She caught the music with a faultless steadiness and swing. Her eyes were fixed on the mountains; her flexible hips and waist swung her to and fro as easily as a winter bird hovers balanced on its steady pinions. Out of the crowd her partner, a huge black-bearded Russian, glided toward her, caught her by the waist, lifted her, and flung her from side to side in great swirls and resounding leaps. Her skirts flew about her, her pigtail swung round her in the air, her feet struck the ice firmly together like a pair of ringing castanets. The crowd shouted applause as he caught her by the wrists after a particularly dazzling plunge into the empty air, and brought her round to face them, her fixed eyes changed and shot with triumph. The dance was over.
Then a succession of men skaters came forward, whirling, twisting, capering with flying feet. Winn watched them with more astonishment than pleasure.
“Like a ring of beastly slippery microbes!” he remarked to Claire.
“Yes,” she said; “but wait.” Half a dozen men and women came running out on the rink; with lifted feet, hand in hand, they danced like flying sunbeams.
Then a German pair followed the Polish. Both were strong, first-rate skaters, but the man was rough and selfish; he pulled his girl about, was careless of her, and in the end let her down, and half the audience hissed.
Swedish, Norwegian, French pairs followed swiftly after. Then Claire rose with a quickening of her breath.
“Now,” she said, “you!” It was curious how seldom she said Major Staines.
Winn didn’t much care to do this kind of thing before foreigners. However, it was in a way rather jolly, especially when the music warmed one’s blood. He swept her out easily to the center of the ice. For a time he had only to watch her. He wondered what she looked like to all the black-headed dots sitting in the sun and gazing. In his heart there was nothing left to which he could compare her. She turned her head a little, curving and swooping toward him, and then sprang straight into the air. He had her fast for a moment; her hands were in his, her eyes laughed at his easy strength, and again she shot away from him. Now he had to follow her, in and out, to the sound of the music; at first he thought of the steps, but he soon stopped thinking. Something had happened which made it quite unnecessary to think.
He was reading everything she knew out of his own heart; she had got into him somehow, so that he had no need to watch for his cue.
Wherever she wanted him he was; whenever she needed the touch of his hand or his steadiness it was ready for her. They were like the music and words of a song, or like a leaf and the dancing air it rests upon. They were no longer two beings; they had slipped superbly, intolerably into one; they couldn’t go wrong; they couldn’t make a mistake. Where she led he followed, indissolubly a part of her.
They swung together for the final salute. It seemed to Winn that her heart — her happy, swift-beating, exultant heart — was in his breast, and then suddenly, violently he remembered that she wasn’t his, that he had no right to touch her. He moved away from her, leaving her, a little bewildered, to bow alone to the great cheering mass of people.
She found him afterward far back in the crowd, with a white face and inscrutable eyes.
“You must come and see the speed-skaters,” she urged, with her hand on his arm. “It’s the thing I told you about most. And I believe we’ve won the second prize. The Russian and Pole have got the first, of course; They were absolutely perfect, but we were rather good. Why did you rush off, and what are you looking like that for? Is anything the matter? You’re not — ” her voice faltered suddenly — “you’re not angry, are you?”
“No, I’m not angry,” said Winn, recklessly, “and nothing’s the matter, and I’ll go wherever you want and see what you want and do what you want, and I ran away because I was a damned fool and hate a fuss. And I see you’re going to ask me if I liked it awfully. Yes, I did; I liked it awfully. Now are you satisfied?” He still hadn’t said anything, he thought, that mattered.
“Oh, yes,” she said slowly, “of course I’m satisfied. I’m glad you liked it awfully; I liked it awfully myself.”