Free The Collector by John Fowles

the wall that ran up one side and the lawn. We passed the privet hedge and went into the vegetable garden at the top with the fruit trees. As I said, I never had any nasty desire to take advantage of the situation, I was always perfectly respectful towards her (until she did what she did) but perhaps it was the darkness, us walking there and feeling her arm through her sleeve, I really would have liked to take her in my arms and kiss her, as a matter of fact I was trembling. I had to say something or I’d have lost my head.
    You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I was very happy, would you, I said. Of course she couldn’t answer.
    Because you think I don’t feel anything properly, you don’t know I have deep feelings but I can’t express them like you can, I said.
    Just because you can’t express your feelings it doesn’t mean they’re not deep. All the time we were walking on under the dark branches.
    All I’m asking, I said, is that you understand how much I love you, how much I need you, how deep it is.
    It’s an effort, I said, sometimes. I didn’t like to boast, but I meant her to think for a moment of what other men might have done, if they’d had her in their power.
    We’d come to the lawn on the other side again, and then to the house. A car sounded and grew close and went on down the lane beyond the house. I had a tight hold on her.
    We came to the cellar door. I said, do you want to go round again?
    To my surprise, she shook her head.
    Naturally I took her back down. When I got the gag and cords off she said, “I’d like some tea. Please go and make some. Lock the door. I’ll stay here.”
    I made the tea. As soon as I took it in and poured it, she spoke.
    “I want to say something,” she said. “It’s got to be said.”
    I was listening.
    “You wanted to kiss me out there, didn’t you?”
    I’m sorry, I said. As usual I started to blush.
    “First of all I should like to thank you for not doing so, because I don’t want you to kiss me. I realize I’m at your mercy, I realize I’m very lucky you’re so decent about this particular thing.”
    It won’t happen again, I said.
    “That’s what I wanted to say. If it does happen again—and worse. And you have to give way to it. I want you to promise something.”
    It won’t happen again.
    “Not to do it in a mean way. I mean don’t knock me unconscious or chloroform me again or anything. I shan’t struggle, I’ll let you do what you like.”
    It won’t happen again, I said. I forgot myself. I can’t explain.
    “The only thing is, if you ever do anything like that I shall never never respect you, I shall never, never speak to you again. You understand?”
    I wouldn’t expect anything else, I said. I was red as a beetroot by then.
    She held out her hand. I shook it. I don’t know how I got out of the room. She had me all at sixes and sevens that evening.
     
     
    Well, every day it was the same: I went down between eight and nine, I got her breakfast, emptied the buckets, sometimes we talked a bit, she gave me any shopping she wanted done (sometimes I stayed home but I went out most days on account of the fresh vegetables and milk she liked), most mornings I cleaned up the house after I got back from Lewes, then her lunch, then usually we sat and talked for a bit or she played the records I brought back or I sat and watched her draw; she got her own tea, I don’t know why, we sort of came to an agreement not to be together then. Then there was supper and after supper we often talked a bit more. Sometimes she made me welcome, she usually wanted her walk in the outer cellar. Sometimes she made me go away as soon as supper was over.
    I took photos whenever she would let me. She took some of me. I got her in a lot of poses, all nice ones, of course. I wanted her to wear special clothes, but I didn’t like to ask. I don’t know why you want all these photos, she always said. You can see me every day.
    So nothing happened really. There