VIII
In spite of her contempt for tobogganing she was going warily, slowing up a little at the bends, a gnome in an extinguishing cowl, Mrs. Harcourt, carelessly carrying her long past and the short future that so strangely she regarded as indefinite, looking forward, making plans for next winter with eager schoolgirl eyes; carelessly bringing the life she carried about with her down to the valley this afternoon with brusque cameraderie, her daytime manner.
Her company added something to the joy of flying through the backward-flowing landscape. But it was shortening the run and fitting it within reduced surroundings—making it show as it showed to her within her larger scale of movement.
Here already was the steepest bend of the run, with the patch of black ice across its middle. Mrs. Harcourt had passed it safely and disappeared. It was past and a group of people came into sight midway down the next slope: two figures pushing off and Mrs. Harcourt at the side of the track, dismounted, beating her skirt. She had collided, managed to run into them; a collision and a humiliating smash …
“Fools! Fooling all over v’place. Had to slam into v’side.”
“A blessing the fence is broken just here.”
“Not their fault I’m not smashed up. I was yellin’ for all I was worth.”
“It’s really dangerous when you can’t see what’s ahead. Someone said tobogganing accounts for more accidents than any other sport.”
“Don’t wonder, with so many idjuts about. Where’s Daphne?”
“Held up, poor little soul. A broken cord, just as they were starting; the maid went in for another.”
“Paw kid. She’ll be too late. No good waiting.”
They mounted and sped off one behind the other through a scene that was now the child’s vast desolation. In place of joyous flight, selfish, in which Daphne had been forgotten, came now this absurd urgency to arrive. Mrs. Harcourt felt it. She was sorry, in her kindliness, for Daphne’s disappointment, but saw nothing of the uselessness of arriving without her. Thought of nothing but herself, her determination, her hatred of being beaten. This made a shelter. Under the shelter of Mrs. Harcourt’s determination to be there because she had said she would be there it was possible to be seen rushing uselessly to the last farewell.
Another bend. Beyond it a sleigh coming up and Mrs. Harcourt carefully passing it and the other tobogganers drawn up in the snow. It was safely past. Mrs. Harcourt was getting ahead. Going recklessly. Even for her there was something more in this desperate urgency than the mere determination to arrive.
If she too were to arrive it was now or never. Now, at once, in the midst of this winding ice-patched roadway, she must give herself up to what she had learned on the safe snowfields and never yet dared to try here until the last clear slope was reached. Lifting her feet to the bar, leaning back to swing free and steer by weight she let herself go. The joy of flight returned, singing joy of the inaccessible world to which in flight one was translated, bringing forgetfulness of everything but itself. Bend after bend appeared and of itself her body swayed now right now left in unconscious rhythm. The landscape flew by, sideways-upwards, its features indistinguishable. She was movement, increasing, cleaving the backward rushing air.
At the last slope she was level with Mrs. Harcourt, safely, triumphantly returned to the known world, passing her, flying down so blissfully that arrival would now be nothing but an end to joy. Flying down towards two small figures standing on the level, turned this way, watching up the incline down which speeded, superfluously, absurdly, just these two women.
“Where’s Daphne?” said Eaden in his rich, indolent voice; looking over their heads, staring up the slope.
While Mrs. Harcourt’s deep bass, still staccato with her anger, told the brief tale, she watched the pain and wrath in his face, strong man’s sympathy of pain with this child to whose spirit he gave homage, anger with those who had deserted her. Her useless explanation flickered about him unspoken, silenced by the pain she shared.
“It’s no good, old man,” said Vereker gently, watch in hand: “we must be off.”
Formal handshaking. To Mrs. Harcourt’s padding of sociable remarks he paid no heed, keeping his eyes still above her on the bend at the head of the slope until he turned to tramp off with Vereker, to the sound of Vereker’s kindly, sunny voice.
“Paw kid. Eaden was frightfully wrath. Thought we ought to have brought her.”
“I couldn’t have dared, down those slopes, on a small single,” said Miriam wearily. But the judge within stood firm. She had not thought of trying.
The now distant men were marching swiftly, reaching the point where the road sloped downwards; had reached it and were settling on their toboggans. A face came round. Miriam looked back up the slope still cruelly empty, and round again to see the men seated, gliding off, lessening. Their caps vanished below the level of the ridge. And now the upward slope held a single small toboggan coming headlong. Daphne had made the run alone.
“How dare you let him go?”
Miriam moved forward surprised by her own approach. Her mind was filled with the simple selfish truth. The wrath-blazing eyes saw it, recognised her for what she was and turned away to the wastes of snow:
“Eaden, my Eaden … I shall never see him again.” Tears flowed from the wide eyes and swiftly down the face so little convulsed by grief that bent her, standing there with arms sideways out as if to save her from falling, to keep her upright, facing her loss, fists clenched to fight her woe. Of themselves Miriam’s arms reached forth to stay the torment.
Incredibly Daphne was clinging, sobbing with hidden face: “Do you love me—do you love me?” She held her without
