But Helen said nothing. She did what was expected of her and she spoke when good manners dictated that she speak. But within, she ached with a pain that felt as if it must break out into sheer hysteria at any moment. She would not go to the woods. She would not think about William. But one cannot tell oneself to stop thinking about a topic. In fact, Helen found, the one sure way to ensure that one thought constantly on a subject was to try not to. One week after her last visit to her private hideout, she went back there deliberately, in a determined effort to think through what had happened and come to terms with her misery.
She did not change into the cotton dress. She merely pulled off her riding boots and stockings when she reached the banks of the stream and dangled her feet in the water as she sat down. She had not opened the door of the hut. She had no wish this afternoon to bring out any of her books or paints. She had to think.
There could be only one explanation for his hasty departure. It had to be because of her. There had been no warning that he had been contemplating the move. He had accepted several invitations for dates after his departure. It had to be that final afternoon with her that had decided him. What was it? He had seemed genuinely glad to see her after his week of confinement at home. He had talked to her as if she had been a real friend, and he had held her hand the whole while. There had seemed to be real affection in his manner.
And his lovemaking had been far more tender than it had been on the first occasion. He had not been intent only on the satisfaction of his own desire. She had been well aware that he had used his hands and and lips deliberately to build her own excitement. He had been ready for her many minutes before she was ready for him›, she had known. And even when he had thrust inside her, she had known, somewhere on a more rational level than the one of heightened emotion under which she reacted, that his movements had been controlled. All the time he had been deliberately guiding her to a climax, and only when he knew that she had reached it did he allow his control to break.
Those were not the actions of a man who was considering abandoning her. Unless he was an experienced rake who delighted in his own sexual prowess. Somehow, though, the image did not at all fit William Mainwaring as she knew him.
It was afterward, only afterward, that his manner had been less warm. He had not been cold exactly, or unfriendly, but she had felt a withdrawal. He had been in a hurry to leave. In his earlier mood he would have stayed and held her and listened to the story that she wanted to tell him. He had talked about hearing it the next time, but his failure to make a definite tryst with her had been noticeable. She had felt uneasy even at the time. Now she knew that her instinct had been quite right.
But what had caused the change? Had he suddenly become disgusted with what they were doing? Had she said or done anything to make him feel that she was trying to shackle him? Surely not. She had given herself freely to him on two occasions. He could not have felt himself trapped.
"Oh, William, I do love you so!"
Helen's eyes widened. She had not said that, had she? Oh, surely not. She could not have done so before he gave indication that he felt as she did. Why, then, could she almost hear herself saying the words? When would she have said them? She hid her face against her raised knees and thought her way moment by moment through their lovemaking from the first kiss. No, she had not said a word. And then she remembered curling into the warmth of his naked body after he had withdrawn from her. She remembered him kissing her, warm kisses of relaxed affection, passion gone.
"Oh, William, I do love you so," she had said.
Helen raised a burning face and stared down into the water. For several minutes she could think only of her own shame. Strangely, she felt no shame at all for having given herself to a man who was neither her husband nor her betrothed. But to have told him that she loved him when he had never suggested anything but a physical and perhaps affectionate regard for her was unpardonable. She had been convinced that he did love her, but he had never said so. How could she so demaned herself!
But finally anger took the place of shame. Mr. William Mainwaring had fled from his home, had he, merely because a girl he supposed to be a village wench had tried to lay claim to his affections? He had run like a scared rabbit. It was fine to spend a summer dallying with her in the woods, accepting her free favors, but he was not about to allow himself to be lured into accepting any responsibility for her feelings, He had not even had the courage to say good-bye to her, to tell her face to face that he was going away.
She had loved him and she had thought him worthy of her love. He had seemed a kindly and a sensitive man. She had not suspected him of cowardliness or of moral weakness. But he clearly suffered from both. And cruelty. He was undoubtedly a cruel man. Did he not realize that she would go back to their meeting place and that she would grieve when he did not come?
One thing was now very clear to her. She must not love William Mainwaring any longer. He was not worth the misery that she had suffered for the last week. She was ashamed now to think that she had given herself to a man of his character. For the first time she felt violated and sullied. But there was really no point in brooding on what could not be changed. Only she must be sure that from this moment she looked only ahead. She would not waste another sigh or tear on that man. She would enter wholeheartedly into her mother's plans for the winter. Perhaps in London she would meet a real man, one she could respect as well as love. She doubted it, but she had to have something positive on which to focus her mind for the next several weeks.
Helen pulled her feet from the stream, rubbing them dry on the grass and the hem of her habit, and pulled on her stockings and boots again. She strode across to the hut and wrestled the door open. There was no use in leaving her paints, paper, and books any longer. She would not be coming back. After all, she was trespassing on the land of a man whom she was now pledged to hate. Even the hut belonged to him-she was returning the gift, even though he was not there to know it-and she scorned to use what was not hers.
When she came outside again, she placed her bundle of possessions carefully on the path and closed the door as tightly as the warped wood and crooked hinges would allow. Then she stooped to pick up her belongings again. But she did not do so. She remained bent over them for a while; then she straightened up and wandered with lagging steps and unseeing eyes to the edge of the stream again.
How could she be so self-righteous and so dishonest with herself as to put all the blame on William? She was the one who had led him to believe she was a village girl. She had not told him the truth even when he had asked her to tell him about herself. And what had happened to her was not seduction. She had been a willing partner. William had never treated her with disrespect. And he had never made any promises to her.
What promises had she expected, anyway? Marriage? How absurd! Gentlemen did not marry young girls in shabby dresses who ran around barefoot. Especially when those girls give away their favors freely. She must have been mad to have dreamed that he was falling in love with her.
Perhaps for the first time in her life Helen regretted that she was not like other girls of her class. She had earned correct behavior and attitudes, but she had not practiced them. Instead, she had lived in her incredibly unrealistic and childish dream world, where one could do as one wanted and not have to abide by the consequences.