“Think so, Jack? then I give thee leave to try.”
I think there is always a brutality lurking in a man to leap out unawares. Yet why do I seek excuses, that have never yet found one? To be plain, I sprang fiercely up and after Joan, who had already started, and was racing along the slope.
Twice around the tor she led me: and though I strain’d my best, not a yard could I gain upon her, for her bare feet carried her light and free. Indeed, I was losing ground, when coming to the Jew’s Kitchen a second time, she tried to slip inside and shut the stone in my face.
Then should I have been prettily bemock’d, had I not, with a great effort, contrived to thrust my boot against the door just as it was closing. Wrenching it open, I laid hand on her shoulder; and in a moment she had gripp’d me, and was wrestling like a wild-cat.
Now being Cumberland-bred I knew only the wrestling of my own county, and nothing of the Cornish style. For in the north they stand well apart, and try to wear down one another’s strength: whereas the Cornish is a brisker lighter play—and (as I must confess) prettier to watch. So when Joan rush’d in and closed with me, I was within an ace of being thrown, pat.
But recovering, I got her at arm’s length, and held her so, while my heart ach’d to see my fingers gripping her shoulders and sinking into the flesh. I begg’d off; but she only fought and panted, and struggled to lock me by the ankles again. I could not have dream’d to find such fierce strength in a girl. Once or twice she nearly overmastered me: but at length my stubborn play wore her out. Her breath came short and fast, then fainter: and in the end, still holding her off, I turned her by the shoulders, and let her drop quietly on the turf. No thought had I any longer of kissing her; but stood back, heartily sick and ashamed of myself.
For awhile she lay, turn’d over on her side, with hands guarding her head, as if expecting me to strike her. Then gathering herself up, she came and put her hand in mine, very meekly.
“Had lik’d it better had’st thou stamped the life out o’ me, a’most. But there, lad—am thine forever!”
’Twas like a buffet in the face to me. “What!” I cried.
She look’d up in my face—dear Heaven, that I should have to write it!—with eyes brimful, sick with love; tried to speak, but could only nod: and broke into a wild fit of tears.