lose."
I didn't pretend to misunderstand her. "She had to have men's admiration," I said, "all the time, no matter who got hurt in the process. I—forgive me, but I'd put it behind you, if I were you. Can't you begin to pretend it never happened?"
She laughed a little, hardly. "It's easy to see you don't know much about dealing with men."
I didn't speak for a moment. I wondered irritably why married women so often adopted that tone, almost of superior satisfaction in the things they had to suffer. Then I told myself that she was probably right. I had after all failed utterly to deal with the man I had married, so who was I to give her advice? I thought wryly that nobody ever wanted advice anyway; all that most people sought was a ratification of their own views.
We were passing the Coronation bonfire, and I changed the subject. "I suppose they'll hardly light that bonfire now.
I mean, celebrations won't exactly be in keeping, if anything's happened to these two girls."
She said morosely: "The sticks'll be wet, anyway," and added, with the determined gloom of a mouse returning to its accustomed treadmill: "But how can Hart just expect to go on the way he has? He's been following her round like a lap dog, making a fool of me, ever since she came. Oh, you haven't seen much of it. She switched to that Drury man last night, but really—I mean, everybody must have noticed. It's all very well saying she can't help it, but what about Hart?
Why should Hart be allowed to get away with that sort of thing? I've a damned good mind to—"
I said abruptly: "Do you want to keep your husband or don't you?"
"I—of course I want to keep him! What a silly question!"
"Then leave him alone," I said. "Don't you know yet that there's no room for pride in marriage? You have to choose between the two. If you can't keep quiet, then you must make up your mind to lose him. If you want him, then swallow your pride and shut up. It'll heal over; everything does, given time enough and a bit of peace."
She opened her mouth, probably to ask me what I knew about it anyway.
"We're getting left behind," I said, almost roughly. "Let's hurry."
I broke away from her and forged ahead up the rapidly steepening path.
We had climbed to a good height already, and I was thankful to notice, as we began to thread our way up the deer tracks on the westerly flanks of Blaven itself, that the force of the wind was lessening. The gusts were less frequent and less violent, and, by the time we had reached the base of the first scree slopes, the rain had stopped, shut off as suddenly as if by the turning of a tap.
The party was strung out now in single file, forging at a steeply climbing angle along the mountainside. Most of the men carried packs; several had coils of rope. The going got harder; the deer paths narrowed and steepened. These were foot-wide depressions—no more—in the knee-deep heather, and they were treacherous with the rain.
Occasionally we found ourselves having to skirt great outcrops of rock, clinging precariously to roots and tufts of heather, with our feet slithering, slipping on the narrow ledge of mud which was all that remained of the path.
Above us towered the enormous cliffs * of the south ridge, gleaming-black with rain, rearing steeply out of the precipitous scree like a roach-backed monster from the waves. The scree itself was terrifying enough. It fell away from the foot of the upper cliffs, hundreds of feet of fallen stone, slippery and overgrown and treacherous with hidden holes and loose rocks, which looked as if a false step might bring half the mountainside down in one murderous avalanche.
The place where Dougal Macrae had seen the climbers was about halfway along Blaven's western face. There the crest of the mountain stands up above the scree in an enormous hogback of serrated peaks, two thousand feet and more of grim and naked rock, shouldering up the scudding sky. 1 stopped and looked up. Streams of wind-torn mist raced
I didn't pretend to misunderstand her. "She had to have men's admiration," I said, "all the time, no matter who got hurt in the process. I—forgive me, but I'd put it behind you, if I were you. Can't you begin to pretend it never happened?"
She laughed a little, hardly. "It's easy to see you don't know much about dealing with men."
I didn't speak for a moment. I wondered irritably why married women so often adopted that tone, almost of superior satisfaction in the things they had to suffer. Then I told myself that she was probably right. I had after all failed utterly to deal with the man I had married, so who was I to give her advice? I thought wryly that nobody ever wanted advice anyway; all that most people sought was a ratification of their own views.
We were passing the Coronation bonfire, and I changed the subject. "I suppose they'll hardly light that bonfire now.
I mean, celebrations won't exactly be in keeping, if anything's happened to these two girls."
She said morosely: "The sticks'll be wet, anyway," and added, with the determined gloom of a mouse returning to its accustomed treadmill: "But how can Hart just expect to go on the way he has? He's been following her round like a lap dog, making a fool of me, ever since she came. Oh, you haven't seen much of it. She switched to that Drury man last night, but really—I mean, everybody must have noticed. It's all very well saying she can't help it, but what about Hart?
Why should Hart be allowed to get away with that sort of thing? I've a damned good mind to—"
I said abruptly: "Do you want to keep your husband or don't you?"
"I—of course I want to keep him! What a silly question!"
"Then leave him alone," I said. "Don't you know yet that there's no room for pride in marriage? You have to choose between the two. If you can't keep quiet, then you must make up your mind to lose him. If you want him, then swallow your pride and shut up. It'll heal over; everything does, given time enough and a bit of peace."
She opened her mouth, probably to ask me what I knew about it anyway.
"We're getting left behind," I said, almost roughly. "Let's hurry."
I broke away from her and forged ahead up the rapidly steepening path.
We had climbed to a good height already, and I was thankful to notice, as we began to thread our way up the deer tracks on the westerly flanks of Blaven itself, that the force of the wind was lessening. The gusts were less frequent and less violent, and, by the time we had reached the base of the first scree slopes, the rain had stopped, shut off as suddenly as if by the turning of a tap.
The party was strung out now in single file, forging at a steeply climbing angle along the mountainside. Most of the men carried packs; several had coils of rope. The going got harder; the deer paths narrowed and steepened. These were foot-wide depressions—no more—in the knee-deep heather, and they were treacherous with the rain.
Occasionally we found ourselves having to skirt great outcrops of rock, clinging precariously to roots and tufts of heather, with our feet slithering, slipping on the narrow ledge of mud which was all that remained of the path.
Above us towered the enormous cliffs * of the south ridge, gleaming-black with rain, rearing steeply out of the precipitous scree like a roach-backed monster from the waves. The scree itself was terrifying enough. It fell away from the foot of the upper cliffs, hundreds of feet of fallen stone, slippery and overgrown and treacherous with hidden holes and loose rocks, which looked as if a false step might bring half the mountainside down in one murderous avalanche.
The place where Dougal Macrae had seen the climbers was about halfway along Blaven's western face. There the crest of the mountain stands up above the scree in an enormous hogback of serrated peaks, two thousand feet and more of grim and naked rock, shouldering up the scudding sky. 1 stopped and looked up. Streams of wind-torn mist raced
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