 CHAPTER VIII. At this time he was beginning to question the Orthodox creed. He was twenty-one and she was twenty. She was beginning to dread the spring. He became so wild and hurt her so much. All the way he went cruelly smashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. He was by nature critical and rather dispassionate. But Miriam suffered exquisite pain, as, with an intellect like a knife, the man she loved examined her religion in which she lived and moved and had her being. But he did not spare her. He was cruel. And when they went alone he was even more fierce, as if he would kill her soul. He bled her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness. She exalts. She exalts as she carries him off from me. Mrs. Morrell cried in her heart when Paul had gone. She's not like an ordinary woman who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She wants to draw him out and absorb him till there is nothing left of him, even for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet. She will suck him up. So the mother sat and battled and brooded bitterly. And he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wild with torture. He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists, going at a great rate. Then brought up against a style he stood for some minutes and did not move. There was a great hollow of darkness fronting him and on the black up slopes patches of tiny lights, and in the lowest trough of the night a flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful. Why was he torn so, almost bewildered, and unable to move? Why did his mother sit at home and suffer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And why did he hate Miriam and feel so cruel towards her at the thought of his mother? If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then he hated her. And he easily hated her. Why did she make him feel as if he were uncertain of himself, insecure, and indefinite thing, as if he had not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night and the space breaking into him? How he hated her! And then what a rush of tenderness and humility! Suddenly he plunged on again, running home. His mother saw on him the marks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had to make her talk to him. Then she was angry with him for going so far with Miriam. Why don't you like her, mother? He cried in despair. I don't know, my boy, she replied piteously. I'm sure I've tried to like her. I've tried and tried, but I can't. I can't. And he felt dreary and hopeless between the two. Spring was the worst time. He was changeable and intense and cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then came the hours when he knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother watched him growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He could do nothing. It was as if something were drawing his soul out towards Willy Farm. Then he put on his hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. And as soon as he was on the way, he sighed with relief. And when he was with her, he was cruel again. One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriam sitting beside him. It was a glistening white and blue day. Big clouds, so brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stole along on the water. The clear spaces in the sky were of clean, cold blue. Paul lay on his back in the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. She seemed to want him. And he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted now to give her passion and tenderness. And he could not. He felt that she wanted the soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and energy she drew into herself through some channel which united them. She did not want to meet him, so that there were two of them, man and woman together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an intensity like madness, which fascinated him as drug-taking might. He was discussing Michelangelo. It felt to her as if she were fingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life as she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction, and in the end it frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search, and his voice gradually filled her with fear so level it was, almost inhuman as if in a trance. Don't talk any more. She pleaded softly, laying her hand on his forehead. He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body was somewhere discarded. Why not? Are you tired? Yes, and it wears you out. He laughed shortly, realizing. Yet you always made me like it, he said. I don't wish to, she said very low. Not when you've gone too far and you feel you can't bear it, but your unconscious self always asks said of me, and I suppose I want it. He went on in his dead fashion. If only you could want me and not want what I can reel off for you. I, she cried bitterly, I, why, when would you let me take you? Then it's my fault, he said, and gathering himself together he got up and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague way he hated her for it, and he knew that he was as much to blame himself. This, however, did not prevent his hating her. One evening about this time he had walked along the home road with her. They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood, unable to part. As the stars came out the clouds closed. They had glimpses of their own constellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a moment. His dog ran low, struggling with difficulty through the spume of cloud. Orion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. They had gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling, till they seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This evening Paul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed just an ordinary constellation to him. He had fought against his glamour and fascination. Miriam was watching her lovers mood carefully. But he said nothing that gave him away, till the moment came to part, when he stood frowning gloomily at the gathered clouds, behind which the great constellation must be striding still. There was to be a little party at his house the next day, at which she was to attend. "'I shan't come and meet you,' he said. "'Oh, very well. It's not very nice out,' she replied slowly. "'It's not that. Only they don't like me, too. They say I care more for you than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's only friendship.' Miriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him an effort. She left him wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blew in her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down, and she despised him for being blown about by any wind of authority. And in her heart of hearts, unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to get away from her. This she would never have acknowledged. She pitied him. At this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's warehouse. Mr. Papelworth left to set up a business of his own, and Paul remained with Mr. Jordan as spiral overseer. His wages were to be raised to thirty shillings at the year-end, if things went well. Still on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French lesson. Paul did not go so frequently to Willie Farm, and she grieved at the thought of her educations coming to an end. Moreover, they both loved to be together, in spite of discords. So they read Balzac, and did compositions, and felt highly cultured. Saturday night was reckoning night for the miners. Moral reckoned, shared up the money of the stall, either in the new inn at Bretty or in his own house, according as his fellow buddies wished. Barker had turned a non-drinker, so now the men reckoned at Moral's house. Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still a tomboy, and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design. Moral was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless the week's earnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner, prepared to get washed. It was decorum for the women to absent themselves while the men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spy into such a masculine privacy as the buddy's reckoning, nor were they to know the exact amount of the week's earnings. So, whilst her father was spluttering in the scullery, Annie went out to spend an hour with a neighbor. Mrs. Moral attended to her baking. "'Shot that door!' bawled Moral furiously. Annie banged it behind her and was gone. "'If thou opens it again while I'm washing me, it made my jaw rattle!' he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Paul and the mother frowned to hear him. Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy water dripping from him, dithering with cold. "'Oh, my sirs!' he said. "'Where's my towel?' It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise it would have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before the hot baking fire to dry himself. He went, pretending to shudder, with cold. "'Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!' said Mrs. Moral. "'It's not cold!' "'Tis strip thine self-start naked to wash thy flesh in that scullery!' said the miner as he rubbed his hair. "'Now to put it ice-house!' "'And I shouldn't make that fuss!' replied his wife. "'No! Thou dropped on stiff his dead-as-a-door-knob with thine nesh-sides.' "'Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?' asked Paul, curious. "'Hey, I don't know. That's what they say,' replied his father. "'But there's that much draught in yon scullery as he blows through your ribs, like through a five-barred gate.' "'It would have some difficulty in blowing through yours,' said Mrs. Moral. Moral looked down ruefully at his sides. "'Me!' he exclaimed. "'I'm not but a skin-rabbit. My bones fare jots out on me.' "'I should like to know where!' retorted his wife. "'Everywhere! I'm not but a sack of faggots!' Mrs. Moral laughed. He had still a wonderfully young body, muscular without any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It might have been the body of a man of twenty-eight, except that there was, perhaps, too many blue scars, like tattoo-marks, where the cold dust remained under the skin, and that his chest was too hairy. But he put his hand on his side ruefully. It was his fixed belief that, because he did not get fat, he was as thin as a starved rat. Paul looked at his father's thick, brownish hands all scarred, with broken nails rubbing the fine smoothness of his sides, and the incongruity struck him. It seemed strange they were the same flesh. "'I suppose,' he said to his father, "'you had a good figure once.' "'Eh!' exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid, like a child. "'He had,' exclaimed Mrs. Moral. If he didn't hurtle himself up as he was trying to get in the smallest space he could. "'Me!' exclaimed Moral. "'Me! A good figure! I were never much more neskeleton!' "'Man!' cried his wife. "'Don't be such a pullimiter!' "'His truth!' he said. "'Thus never know'd me, but what I looked as if I were going in a rebeck decline!' She sat and laughed. "'You've had a constitution like iron!' she said, and never a man had a better start if it was body that counted. You should have seen him as a young man!' He cried suddenly to Paul, drawing herself up to imitate her husband's once-handsome bearing. Moral watched her shyly. He saw again the passion she had had for him. It blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy, rather scared, and humble. Yet again he felt his old glow, and then immediately he felt the ruin he had made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away from it. "'Give my back a bit of a wash!' he asked her. His wife brought a well-soaked flannel and clapped it on his shoulders. He gave a jump. "'Hey, that mucky little lassie!' he cried. "'Cold as death!' "'You ought to have been a salamander!' she laughed, washing his back. It was very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The children did those things. But the next world won't be half-hot enough for you!' she added. "'No!' he said. "'Thou'd see as it's draughty for me!' But she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion, and went upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting trousers. When he was dried he struggled into his shirt. Then ruddy and shiny, with hair on end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood warming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled them inside out. He scorched them. "'Goodness, man!' cried Mrs. Morrell. "'Get dressed!' "'Should thee like to clap thyself into britches as cold as a tub of water?' he said. At last he took off his pit-trousers and dawned decent black. He did all this on the hearth-rug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiar friends had been present. Mrs. Morrell turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red earthenware pension of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of paste, worked it into the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As she was doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little man, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hair was cropped short, his head was bony. Like most minors he was pale, but healthy and taut. "'Even, Mrs.' he nodded to Mrs. Morrell, and he seated himself with a sigh. "'Good evening,' she replied cordially. "'Thus made thy heels crack,' said Morrell. "'Ae, don't know as I have,' said Barker. He sat as the men always did in Morrell's kitchen, effacing himself rather. "'House, Mrs.' she asked of him. He had told her some time back. "'We're expecting this third just now, you see.' "'Well?' he answered, rubbing his head. "'She keeps pretty midlin' I think.' "'Let's see. When?' asked Mrs. Morrell. "'Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now.' "'Ah, as she's kept fairly?' "'Yes, tidy.' "'That's a blessing, for she's none too strong.' "'No, and I've done another silly trick.' "'What's that?' "'Mrs. Morrell knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly.' "'I'm come be out the market-bag.' "'You can have mine.' "'Ae, you'll be whatin' that yourself.' "'I shan't. I take a string-bag, always.' "'She saw the determined little Collier buying in the week's groceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. "'Barker's little, but he's ten times the man you are,' she said to her husband. "'Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven children. But his wife was a passionate woman. "'I see you've casted me,' he said, smiling rather vapidly. "'Yes,' replied Barker. The newcomer took off his cap and his big woolen muffler. His nose was pointed and red. "'I'm afraid you're cold, Mr. Wesson,' said Mrs. Morrell. "'It's a bit nippy,' he replied. "'Think come to the fire.' "'Nay, I shall do where I am.' Both Colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to the hearth. The hearth is sacred to the family.' "'Go thy ways in the armchair,' cried Morrell cheerily. "'Nay, thank you. I'm very nicely here.' "'Yes, come, of course,' insisted Mrs. Morrell. He rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morrell's armchair awkwardly. It was too great a familiarity, but the fire made him blissfully happy.' "'And how is that chest of yours?' demanded Mrs. Morrell. He smiled again with his blue eyes rather sunny. "'Oh, it's very midland,' he said. "'Were they rattled in it like a kettle-drum?' said Barker shortly. "'T-t-t-t,' said Mrs. Morrell rapidly with her tongue. "'Did you have that flannel singlet made?' "'Not yet,' he smiled. "'Then why didn't you?' she cried. "'It'll come,' he smiled. "'Ah, endooms day,' exclaimed Barker. Barker and Morrell were both impatient of Wesson, but then they were both as hard as nails, physically. When Morrell was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to Paul. "'Cout it, boy,' he asked humbly. Paul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the bag upside down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns, and loose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks, the written papers giving amounts of coal, put the money in order. Then Barker glanced at the checks. Mrs. Morrell went upstairs and the three men came to table. Morrell, as master of the house, sat in his arm-chair, with his back to the hot fire. The two buddies had cooler seats. One of them counted the money. "'What did we say Simpsons was?' asked Morrell, and the buddies cavalled for a minute over the day-man's earnings, then the amount was put aside. "'Hand-bill-nailers!' This money also was taken from the pack. Then because Wesson lived in one of the company's houses and his rent had been deducted, Morrell and Barker took four and six each, and because Morrell's coals had come and the leading was stopped, Wesson and Barker and Wesson took four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morrell gave each of them a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns, each half a crown till there were no more half-crowns, each a shilling till there were no more shillings. If there was anything at the end that wouldn't split, Morrell took it and stood drinks. Then the three men rose and went. Morrell scuttled out of the house before his wife came down. She heard the door close and descended. She looked hastily at the bread and the oven. Then glancing on the table, she saw her money lying. Paul had been working all the time, but now he felt his mother counting the week's money and her wrath rising. Went her tongue. He frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted again. "'A measly twenty-five shillings!' She exclaimed. How much was the check? Ten pounds eleven,' said Paul irritably. He dreaded what was coming. "'And he gives me a screthen twenty-five and his club this week. But I know him. He thinks because you're earning he'd needn't keep the house any longer. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I'll show him.' "'Oh, mother, don't!' cried Paul. "'Don't what I should like to know,' she exclaimed. "'Don't carry on again. I can't work.' She went very quiet. "'Yes, it's all very well,' she said. But how do you think I'm going to manage?' "'Well, it won't make it any better to whittle about it. I should like to know what you'd do if you had it to put up with.' "'It won't be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell.' He went back to his work, and she tied her bonnet-strings grimly. When she was fretted he could not bear it, but now he began to insist on her recognizing him. "'The two loaves at the top,' she said, "'will be done in twenty minutes. Don't forget them.' "'All right,' he answered, and she went to market. He remained alone working, but as usual intense concentration became unsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past seven came a load-knock, and Miriam entered. "'All alone?' She said. "'Yes.' As if at home she took off her tamo-shanter and her long coat hanging them up. It gave him a thrill. This might be their own house, his and hers, that she came back and peered over his work. "'What is it?' she asked. "'Still design, for decorating stuffs and for embroidery.' She bent short-sightedly over the drawings. It irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his, searching him out. He went into the parlor and returned with a bundle of brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it he spread it on the floor. It proved to be a curtain, or a portier, beautifully stenciled with a design on roses. "'Ah! how beautiful!' she cried. The spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green stems, all so simple and somehow so wicked looking, lay at her feet. She went on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched falluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she looked up at him. "'Why does it seem cruel?' she asked. "'What?' "'There seems to be a feeling of cruelty about it,' she said. "'It's jolly good whether or not,' he replied, folding up his work with the lover's hands. She rose slowly, pondering. "'And what will you do with it?' she asked. "'Send it to Liberties. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd rather have the money.' "'Yes,' said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness and Miriam sympathized. Money would have been nothing to her.' He took the cloth back into the parlor. When he returned he threw to Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion cover with the same design. "'I did that for you,' he said. She fingered the work with trembling hands and did not speak. He became embarrassed. "'By Joe the bread!' he cried. He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wedded his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the puncheon, and dropped it in a baking tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood rubbing the bits of dough from his hands. "'You do like it?' he asked. She looked up at him with her dark eyes, one flame of love. He laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him the most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his imaginations. She did not understand any more than a woman understands when she conceives a child in her womb, but this was life for her and for him. While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the room. She was a friend at the morals. "'Take your things off,' said Paul. "'No, I'm not stopping.' She sat down in the arm-chair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a sand of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth. "'I shouldn't have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Lipers,' said Beatrice wickedly. "'Why not?' murmured Miriam huskily. "'Why, let's look at your shoes.' Miriam remained uncomfortably still. "'If that does not, that does not!' said Beatrice. Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer, irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed how self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was, and they were covered with mud. "'Glory, you're a positive muck heap,' exclaimed Beatrice. "'Who cleans your boots?' "'I clean them myself.' "'Then you want it to job,' said Beatrice. "'It would have taken a lot of men to have brought me down here to-night. "'But love laughs at sludge, doesn't it,' posselled my duck.' "'Enter alia,' he said. "'Oh Lord, are you going to spout foreign languages?' "'What does it mean, Miriam?' "'There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not see it.' "'Among other things, I believe,' she said humbly. Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly. "'Ah, among other things, posselled,' she repeated. "'Do you mean love laughs at mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and men friends and lady friends and even at the beloved himself?' She affected a great innocence. "'In fact, it's one big smile,' he replied. "'Up its sleeve, posselled moral, you believe me,' she said, and she went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter. Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul's friends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the lurch, seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then. "'Are you still at school?' asked Miriam, of Beatrice. "'Yes. You've not had your notice, then. I expected at Easter.' "'Isn't it an awful shame to turn you off merely because you didn't pass the exam?' "'I don't know,' said Beatrice Coley. "'Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me ridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass.' "'It's short of brains, eh, posselled?' said Beatrice briefly. "'Only brains to bite with,' replied Paul, laughing. "'Nuisance!' she cried, and springing from her seat she rushed in boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while she wrestled with him. At last she broke free and seized two handfuls of his thick dark-brown hair which she shook. "'Beat!' he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. I hate you!' she laughed with glee. "'Mind,' she said. "'I want to sit next to you.' "'I'd as leafy neighbors with a vixen,' he said, nevertheless making place for her between him and Miriam. "'Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then?' she cried, and with her hair comb she combed him straight. "'And his nice little mustache,' she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young mustache. "'It's a wicked mustache, posselled,' she said. "'It's a red for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?' He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside it. "'And fancy me having Connie's last sig!' said Beatrice, putting the thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed daintily. "'Thanks so much, darling,' she said mockingly. He gave her a wicked delight. "'Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?' she asked. "'Oh, very,' said Miriam. He took a cigarette for himself. "'Light, old boy,' said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him. He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. He was winking at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, and his full, almost sensual mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she could not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him. She might as well have not existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his full red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on his forehead. "'Sweet boy,' said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a little kiss on the cheek. "'I shall kiss thee backbeat,' he said. "'Thou wouldn't, ah?' she giggled, jumping up and going away. "'Isn't he shameless, Miriam?' "'Quite,' said Miriam. "'By the way, aren't you forgetting the bread?' "'By Joe!' he cried, flinging open the oven door. "'Outpuff the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.' "'Oh, golly!' cried Beatrice, coming to his side. She crouched before the oven. She peered over his shoulder. "'This is what comes of the oblivion of love, my boy!' Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hot side, another was hard as a brick. "'Poor mother,' said Paul. "'You want to grate it?' said Beatrice. "'Fetch me the nutmeg grater.' She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and she grated the bread onto a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing her cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf. "'My word, Miriam, you're in for it this time,' said Beatrice. "'I!' exclaimed Miriam in amazement. "'You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. I know why King Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it. Pasa would fix up a tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash, if that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed the brazen things ears who made the oblivion instead of poor Alfreds.' She giggled as she scraped the loaf, even Miriam laughed in spite of herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully. The guarding gate was heard to bang. "'Quick!' cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. Wrap it up in a damp towel.' Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapings into the fire and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light. "'Smell of burning!' she exclaimed. "'It's the cigarettes,' replied Beatrice demurely. "'Where's Paul?' Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes, very sad. "'I suppose he's left you to settle it between you,' he said. He nodded sympathetically to Miriam and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice. "'No,' said Beatrice, he's gone off with number nine. "'I just met number five inquiring for him,' said Leonard. "'Yes, we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby,' said Beatrice.' Annie laughed. "'Oh, I,' said Leonard, "'and which bit should you have?' "'I don't know,' said Beatrice. "'I'll let all the others pick first.' "'And you'd have the leavings like?' said Leonard, twisting up a comic face.' Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered. "'This spreads a fine sight, our Paul,' said Annie. "'Then you should stop and look after it,' said Paul. "'You mean you should do what you're reckoning to do?' replied Annie. "'He should, shouldn't he?' cried Beatrice. "'I should think he got plenty on hand,' said Leonard. "'You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?' said Annie. "'Yes, but I'd been in all week. And you wanted a bit of a change-like,' insinuated Leonard kindly. "'Well, you can't be stuck in the house forever,' Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat and went out with Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy. "'Don't forget that bread, our Paul!' cried Annie. "'Good night, Miriam. I don't think it will rain.' When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swath loaf, unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly. "'It's a mess,' he said. "'But,' answered Miriam, impatiently, "'what is it, after all? Tuppence, hapenny?' "'Yes, but it's—it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to heart. However, it's no good bothering.' He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some unscrutable reason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbling over his forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands? It looks so firm in every wit living. Then he would let other girls, why not her? Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her. "'Half past eight,' he said. "'We'd better buck up. Where's your French?' Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French. He had found that this was the only way to get her to do compositions, and her diary was mostly a love letter. He would read it now. She felt as if her soul's history were going to be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered. "'Sous-mattin les oiseaux m'ont éveillé,' he read. Il faisait encore en crépuscule, mais la petite fenêtre de ma chambre était blem, et puis jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois éclaterant dans son chanson vif et resonant. Toute l'aube très saillée. J'avais rêve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'éveillant presque tous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des crives. Il est si clair?' Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above her words. "'Look,' he said quietly, the past participle, conjugated with avouard, agrees with the direct object when it proceeds. She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red-hot, shuddering. He saw her peering forward at the page. Her red lips parted piteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And he knew, before he could kiss her, he must drive something out of himself, and a touch of hate for her crept back again into his heart. He returned to her exercise. Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with a real pain. Even the way he crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel in the swift way he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentle in his movements she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was, she was hurt. He returned and finished the exercise. "'You've done well this week,' he said. She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her entirely. "'You really do blossom out sometimes,' he said. "'You ought to write poetry.' She lifted her head with joy. Then she shook it mistrustfully. "'I don't trust myself,' she said. "'You should try!' Again she shook her head. "'Shall we read, or is it too late?' he asked. "'It is late, but we can read just a little,' she pleaded. She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire's Le Baccon. Then he read it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She could not understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole, nor her lane. "'Behold her singing in the field, young solitary Highland Lass!' That nourished her heart. So did Fair Ainz. It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, and breathing holy quiet like a nun.' These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly, "'Tutor repelera la beauté de caresse.'" The poem was finished. He took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remains swathed up in the scullery. "'Modern Eden know till morning,' he said. It won't upset her so much then as at night.' Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had received, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble to lock the door. He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated in the rocking chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took off his coat and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found on the table. Then— "'I forgot that bread-mother,' he said. There was no answer from either woman. "'Well,' he said, "'it's only two peds-hat penny. I can pay you for that.' Being angry he put three pennies on the table and slid them towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly. "'Yes,' said Annie, "'you don't know how badly my mother is.' The girl sat staring gloomily into the fire. "'Why is she badly?' asked Paul in his overbearing way. "'Well,' said Annie, "'she could scarcely get home.' She looked closely at his mother. She looked ill. "'Why could you scarcely get home?' he asked her, still sharply. She would not answer. "'I found her as white as a sheet sitting here,' said Annie, with a suggestion of tears in her voice. "'Well, why?' insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilating passionately. "'It was enough to upset anybody,' said Mrs. Morrell, hugging those parcels, meat and green groceries, and a pair of curtains. "'Well, why did you hug them, you needn't have done?' "'Then who would?' Let Annie fetch the meat. "'Yes, and I would fetch the meat, but how was I to know? You were off with Miriam instead of being in when my mother came.' "'And what was the matter with you?' asked Paul of his mother. "'I suppose it's my heart,' she replied. Certainly she looked bluish round the mouth. "'And have you felt it before?' "'Yes, often enough.' "'Then why haven't you told me? And why haven't you seen a doctor?' Mrs. Morrell shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring. "'You'd never notice anything,' said Annie. "'You're too eager to be off with Miriam.' "'Oh, am I, and any worse than you with Leonard?' "'I was in at a quarter to ten.' There was silence in the room for a time. "'I should have thought,' said Mrs. Morrell bitterly, that she wouldn't have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole oven full of bread. "'Bittress was here as well as she.' "'Very likely, but we know why the bread is spoiled.' "'Why?' he flashed. "'Because you were engrossed with Miriam,' replied Mrs. Morrell hotly. "'Oh, very well. Then it was not,' he replied angrily. He was distressed and wretched, seizing a paper he began to read. Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twisted into a plate, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night. Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wanted to upbraid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he was troubled. So, instead of running away to bed as he would have liked to do, he sat and waited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly. "'You'd better go to bed before your father comes in,' said the mother harshly. "'And if you're going to have anything to eat, you'd better get it.' "'I don't want anything.' It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her. "'If I wanted you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the scene,' said Mrs. Morrell. "'But you're never too tired to go if she will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then.' "'I can't let her go alone.' "'Can't you? And why does she come?' "'Not because I ask her.' "'She doesn't come without you want her.' "'Well, what if I do want her?' He replied. "'Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable, but to go traipsing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go to nodding him in the morning. "'If I hadn't, you'd be just the same.' "'Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?' Mrs. Morrell was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see. "'I do like her,' he said, but—' "'Like her!' said Mrs. Morrell, in the same biting tones. "'It seems to me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor anyone now for you.' "'What nonsense, mother! You know I don't love her. I tell you I don't love her. She doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her to.' "'Then why do you fly to her so often?' "'I do like to talk to her. I never said I didn't, but I don't love her.' "'Is there nobody else to talk to?' "'Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that you're not interested in that—' "'What things?' Mrs. Morrell was so intense that Paul began to pant. "'Why, painting, in books, you don't care about Herbert Spencer?' "'No,' was the sad reply, and you won't at my age.' "'Well, but I do now, and Miriam does. "'And how do you know,' Mrs. Morrell flashed defiantly, "'that I shouldn't? Do you ever try me?' "'But you don't, mother. You know you don't care whether it pictures decorative or not. You don't care what manner it is in.' "'How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to me about these things to try?' "'But it's not that that matters to you, mother. You know it's not.' "'What is it, then? What is it, then, that matters to me?' She flashed. He knitted his brows with pain. "'You're old, mother, and we're young.' He only meant that the interests of her age were not the interests of his, but he realized the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrong thing. "'Yes, I know it well. I am old, and therefore I may stand aside. I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you. The rest is for Miriam.' He could not bear it. Instinctively he realized that he was life to her. And, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only supreme thing. You know it isn't, mother. You know it isn't.' She was moved to pity by his cry. "'It looks a great deal like it,' she said, half putting aside her despair. "'No, mother. I don't—I really don't love her. I talk to her, but I want to come home to you.' He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose bare-throated to go to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round his neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried in a whimpering voice so unlike her own that he writhed in agony. "'I can't bear it. I could let another woman—but not her. She'd leave me no room, not a bit of room.' And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly. "'And I've never—you know, Paul, I've never had a husband, not really.' He stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat. "'And she exalts so in taking you from me. She's not like ordinary girls.' "'Well, I don't love her, mother.' He murmured, bowing his head, and hiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed him a long, fervent kiss. "'My boy,' she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love. Without knowing, he gently stroked her face. "'There,' said his mother. "'Now go to bed. You'll be so tired in the morning.' As she was speaking, she heard her husband coming. "'There's your father. Now go.' Suddenly she looked at him almost as if in fear. "'Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy.' His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling. "'Ah, mother,' he said softly. Moral came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one corner of his eye. He balanced in the doorway. "'Hat you are mischief again?' he said, venomously. Mrs. Moral's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard who had come in thus upon her. "'At any rate, it is sober,' she said. He sneered. He went into the passage, hung up his hat and coat. Then she heard him go down three steps to the pantry. He returned with a piece of pork pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Moral had bought for her son. "'Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than twenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork pie to stuff after you've swilled a bellyful of beer.' "'What? What?' snarled Moral, toppling in his balance. "'What? Not for me?' he looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in a vicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire. Paul started to his feet. "'Waste your own stuff,' he cried. "'What? What?' suddenly shouted Moral, jumping up and clenching his fist. "'I'll show you, you young jockey!' "'All right!' said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. "'Shill me!' He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at something. Moral was half-crouching, fist up, ready to spring. The young man stood, smiling with his lips. "'Hassah!' hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just past his son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really touched the young man, but swerved an inch away. "'Right!' said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, where in another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke, but he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale and dark at the mouth. Moral was dancing up to deliver another blow. "'Father!' said Paul, so that the word rang. Moral started and stood at attention. "'Mother!' moaned the boy. "'Mother!' she began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him, although she could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. He laid her down on the sofa and ran upstairs for a little whisky, which at last she could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he knelt in front of her he did not cry, but the tears ran down his face quickly. Moral, on the opposite side of the room, sat with his elbows on his knees, glaring across. "'What's the matter with her?' he asked. "'Faint,' replied Paul. The elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled off to bed. His last fight was fought in that home. Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother's hand. "'Don't be poorly, Mother. Don't be poorly,' he said time after time. "'It's nothing, my boy,' she murmured. At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal and raked the fire. Then he cleared the room, put everything straight, laid the things for breakfast, and brought his mother's candle. "'Can you go to bed, Mother?' "'Yes, I'll come.' "'Sleep with any, Mother, not with him.' "'No. I'll sleep in my own bed.' "'Don't sleep with him, Mother.' "'I'll sleep in my own bed.' She rose and he turned out the gas, then followed her closely upstairs, carrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close. "'Good night, Mother.' "'Good night,' she said. He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery, and yet, somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he still loved his mother best. It was the bitter peace of resignation. The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a great humiliation to him. Everybody tried to forget the scene. End of chapter. Chapter 9 Part 1 Of Sons and Lovers This sleeper-box recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence Chapter 9 Defeat of Miriam Paul was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest of his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, or wounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and there was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal against her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old feeling that she was to be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had when she prayed, was mingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she ever would have him. She did not believe in herself, primarily. Doubted whether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly she never saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She saw tragedy, sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud. In renunciation she was strong, for she did not trust herself to support everyday life. She was prepared for the big things and the deep things, like tragedy. It was the sufficiency of the small day life she could not trust. The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self, yet she felt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroom window, looking across at the oak trees of the wood, in whose branches a twilight was tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon. Gray-green rosettes of honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, she fancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded. Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense, it was a bright gray day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glittered as he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughed towards the house. Today he walked with shut lips and cold, cruel bearing. That had something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and could tell from that keen-looking, aloof young body of his, what was happening inside him. There was a cold correctness in the way he put his bicycle in its place, that made her heart sink. She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny rough, reminding her of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully a woman and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was still like a soft, rich mask, unchangeable. But her eyes once lifted for wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would notice her new blouse. He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to a description of a service given in the primitive Methodist chapel, conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now taking on one expression and then another, in imitation of various people he was mocking. His mockery always hurt her. It was too near the reality. He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Livers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Livers, just awake from a Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in their shirt sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved to take off more than anything. He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reach the tea-cups from the shelves. When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally. You were late, she said. Was I, he answered. There was silence for a while. Was it rough-riding, she asked? I didn't notice it. She continued quickly to lay the table. When she had finished— Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the daffodils? She said. He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden under the budding damson trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows, which she loved, could look so hurting. Has the wind made you tired? She asked. She detected an underneath feeling of weariness about him. No, I think not, he answered. It must be rough on the road, the wood moans so. You can see by the clouds it's a southwest wind, that helps me here. You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand, she murmured. Is there need to cycle to know that? He said. She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forward in silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house was a thorn-hedge, under the wood moans so. Round the back of the house was a thorn-hedge, under which daffodils were crinning forward from among their sheaves of gray-green blades. The cheeks of the flowers were greenish with cold, but still some had burst, and their gold ruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster, took a wild-looking daffodil between her hands, turned up its face of gold to her, and bowed down, caressing it with her mouth and cheeks in brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets, watching her. One after another she turned up to him the faces of the yellow, burstin' flowers appealingly, fondling them lavishly all the while. Aren't they magnificent? she murmured. Magnificent! It's a bit thick. They're pretty. She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched her crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses. Why must you always be fondling things? he said irritably. But I love to touch them. She replied, hurt. Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit more restraint, or reserve, or something? She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke her lips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was so much kinder than he, it almost made her cry. You weedle the soul out of things, he said. I would never weedle. At any rate, I'd go straight. He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from him mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm and hard against her. You're always begging things to love you, he said, as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them. Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to her nostrils. You don't want to love. Your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage somewhere. She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not the faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted, tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings like sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything, he said. She only sat crouched beneath his cruel, ungrateful, cruelty, and his hatred of her. She never realized in a flash, over everything she brooded and brooded. After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no notice of Miriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday, waited for him. At last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track this mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a mood. Shall we go through the wood a little way? She asked him, knowing he never refused a direct request. They went down to the Warren. On the middle path they passed a trap, a narrow, horseshoe hedge of small fur boughs, baited with the guts of a rabbit. Paul glanced at it, frowning. She caught his eye. Isn't it dreadful? She asked. I don't know. Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth and a rabbit's throat? One weasel or many rabbits, one or the other must go. He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry for him. We will go back to the house, he said. I don't want to walk out. They went past the lilac tree, whose bronze leaf buds were coming unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monument squared in brown like a pillar of stone. There was a little bit of hay from the last cutting. Let us sit here a minute, said Miriam. He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard wall of hay. They faced the amphitheater of round hills that glowed with sunset, tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the woods dark and yet luminous. Tree tops folded over tree tops, distinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the east was tender with a magenta flush under which the land lay still and rich. Isn't it beautiful? she pleaded. But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then. At that moment a big bull terrier came rushing up, open mouth, pranced his two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but it came leaping back. Get out, said the lad, or I'll dot thee one. But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little battle with the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, however, only floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought together, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning all over. Miriam watched them. There was something pathetic about the man. He wanted so badly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was really loving. Bill got up, panting with happiness, his brown eyes rolling in his white face, and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The lad frowned. Bill, I've had enough of thee, he said. But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back. No, he said. No, I've had enough. And in a minute the dog trotted off happily to vary the fun. He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beauty he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar, yet he had not the courage to leave Miriam. Why are you sad? she asked humbly. I'm not sad. Why should I be? he answered. I'm only normal. She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was disagreeable. But what is the matter? she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly. Nothing. Nay, she murmured. He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it. You'd far better not talk, he said. But I wished to know, she replied. He laughed resentfully. You always do, he said. It's not fair to me, she murmured. He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, digging up little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She gently and firmly laid her hand on his wrist. Don't, she said, put it away. He flung the stick into the current bushes and leaned back. Now he was bottled up. What is it? she pleaded softly. He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive and they full of torment. You know, he said at length rather weirdly. You know, we'd better break off. It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before her eyes. Why? she murmured. What has happened? Nothing has happened. We only realize where we are. It's no good. She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatient with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him. We agreed on friendship. He went on in a dull monotonous voice. How often have we agreed for friendship? And yet it neither stops there nor gets anywhere else. He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with him. I can only give friendship. It's all I'm capable of. It's a flaw in my makeup. The thing over balances to one side. I hate a toppling balance. Let us have done. There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he, her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realize nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see. But what has happened? She said. Nothing. It's all in myself. It only comes out just now. We're always like this towards Easter time. He groveled so helplessly she pitied him. At least she never floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chiefly humiliated. What do you want? She asked him. Why, I mustn't come often. That's all. Why should I monopolize you when I'm not? You see, I'm deficient in something with regard to you. He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her a chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy he was. What were other men to her? What were men to her at all? But he, ah, she loved his soul. Was he deficient in something? Perhaps he was. But I don't understand, she said huskily. Yesterday the night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded, and she bowed under her suffering. I know, he cried. You never will. You never believe that I can't—can't physically any more than I can fly up like a skylark. What, she murmured. Now she dreaded. Love you. He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love her. She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not loving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belonged to her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencing him. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreignness of another influence. What have they been saying at home? She asked. It's not that. He answered. And then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness, his people. They did not know what things were really worth. He and she talked very little more that night. After all he left her to cycle with Edgar. He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie in his life. When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unreal feel about her, and nobody else mattered. There was one place in the world that stood solid and did not melt into unreality, the place where his mother was. Everybody else could grow shadowy, almost nonexistent to him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life, from which he could not escape, was his mother. And in the same way she waited for him. In him was established her life now. After all the life beyond offered very little to Mrs. Morrill. She saw that our chance of doing is here, and doing counted with her. Paul was going to prove that she had been right. He was going to make a man whom nothing should shift off his feet, he was going to alter the face of the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt her soul went with him. Whatever he did she felt her soul stand by him, ready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when he was with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul. And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of the satisfaction of self-sacrifice, because he was faithful to her. She loved him first. He loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His new young life, so strong and imperious, was urged towards something else. It made him mad with restlessness. She saw this and wished bitterly that Miriam had been a woman who would take this new life of his and leave her the roots. He fought against his mother almost as he fought against Miriam. It was a week before he went again to Willie Farm. Miriam had suffered a great deal and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endure the ignominy of his abandoning her? That would be only superficial and temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. But meanwhile, how he would torture her with his battle against her! She shrank from it. However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Livers was glad to see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that he found things hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was good to him. She did him that great kindness of treating him almost with reverence. He met her with the young children in the front garden. I'm glad you've come! Said the mother, looking at him with her great appealing brown eyes, it is such a sunny day! I was just going down the fields for the first time this year. He felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went, talking simply. He gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitude that she was deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated. At the bottom of the Mao clothes they found a thrush's nest. Shall I show you the eggs? He said. Do! replied Mrs. Livers. They seemed such a sign of spring and so hopeful. He put aside the thorns and took out the eggs, holding them in the palm of his hand. They are quite hot! I think we frightened her off them. He said. I, poor thing! said Mrs. Livers. Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed to her, cradled them so well. Isn't it a strange warmth? She murmured to get near him. Blood heat, he answered. She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved him. He seemed so simple and sufficient to himself, and she could not get to him. After tea, she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took Tar-Taraan to Tarascan. Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the stack. He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dog came racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzle in the man's chest. Paul fingered his ear for a moment, then he pushed him away. Then he pushed him away. Go away, Bill, he said. I don't want you. Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. There was a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. It was not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared. Turning his face a little to one side so that she could not see him, he began, speaking slowly and painfully. Do you think, if I didn't come up so much, you might get to, like somebody else, another man? So this was what he was still harping on. But I don't know any other men, why do you ask? She replied in a low tone that should have been a reproach to him. Why, he blurted, because they say I've no right to come up like this. Without we mean to marry? Miriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much. Who says, she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with it? They had not. Mother and the others, they say at this rate everybody will consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it's not fair to you. And I've tried to find out, and I don't think I love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it? Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having the struggle. People should leave him and her alone. I don't know, she murmured. Do you think we love each other enough to marry? He asked definitely. It made her tremble. No, she answered truthfully. I don't think so. We're too young. I thought perhaps, he went on miserably, that you, with your intensity in things, might have given me more than I could ever make up to you. And even now, if you think it better, we'll be engaged. Now Miriam wanted to cry, and she was angry too. He was always such a child for people to do as they liked with. No, I don't think so, she said firmly. He pondered a minute. You see, he said, with me I don't think one person would ever monopolize me. Be everything to me, I think never. This she did not consider. No, she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him and her dark eyes flashed. This is your mother, she said. I know she never liked me. No, no, it isn't, he said hastily. It was for your sake she spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on I ought to consider myself engaged. There was a silence. And if I ask you to come down any time, you won't stop away, will you? She did not answer. By this time she was very angry. Well, what shall we do? She said shortly. I suppose I'd better drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it, but I suppose I can go on alone. I don't see that we need. He said, I can give you a French lesson, surely? Well, and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop coming to chapel because I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've no need to come home with me. I can go alone. All right, he answered, rather taken aback. But if I ask Edgar, he'll always come with us and then they can say nothing. There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She wished they would mind their own business. And you won't think about it and let it trouble you, will you? He asked. Oh, no! replied Miriam without looking at him. He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no anchor of righteousness that held him. Because, he continued, a man gets across his bicycle and goes to work and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods. No, I shan't bother, said Miriam, and she meant it. It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors. How white Paul looks, Mrs. Livers exclaimed. Miriam, you shouldn't have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken cold, Paul? Oh, no! he laughed. But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam pitied him now, but quite early, before nine o'clock, he rose to go. You're not going home, are you? asked Mrs. Livers anxiously. Yes, he replied. I said I'd be early. He was very awkward. But this is early, said Mrs. Livers. Miriam sat in the rocking chair and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. Well, good night all! he faltered. She spoke her good night along with all the others, but as he went past the window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain. She rose and went to the doorway to wave goodbye to him as he passed through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine trees, feeling a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck. Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her to read and be busy. At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family so much. He loved the farm so much. It was the dearest place on earth to him. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would have been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willy Farm he loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen where men's boots trapped and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden on, where the lamp hung over the table at night and everything was so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlor with its atmosphere of romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the gardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the naked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness, the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of the other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Livers with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism. He loved Mr. Livers so warm and young and lovable. He loved Edgar, who lit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill, even the Sal Cersei and the Indian Gamecock called Tipu. All this besides Miriam. He could not give it up. So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only all the family, including the father, joined in charades and games at evening. And later Miriam drew them together and they read Macbeth out of penny books, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. Livers was glad, and Mr. Livers enjoyed it. Then they all learned songs together from tonic sofa, singing in a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely alone with Miriam. She waited. When she and Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literary society in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox nowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with Paul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Friday nights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone, walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently. One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had stayed to communion. He wondered what it was like with Mrs. Morrill. So Paul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He was more or less under her spell again. As usual they were discussing the sermon. He was setting now full sail towards agnosticism, and such a religious agnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the renault-vi-de-jesus stage. Miriam was the threshing floor on which he threshed out all his beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, the truth came out for him. She alone was his threshing floor. She alone helped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to his argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he gradually realized where he was wrong, and what he realized, she realized. She felt he could not do without her. They came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullery window and they entered. All the time he went on with his discussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes from the pantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore a large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but he liked it. Her face beneath was still impensive, golden brown and ruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him. She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed the live movement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. Miriam liked the way he reached up, so sharp, straight to the mark. He turned the pages quickly and read her a chapter of St. John. As he sat in the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking, she felt as if he were using her unconsciously as a man uses his tools at some work he has bent on. She loved it, and the wistfulness of his voice was like a reaching to something, and it was as if she were what he reached with. She sat back on the sofa, away from him, and yet feeling herself the very instrument his hand grasped. He gave her great pleasure. Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious, and when he came to the verse, a woman when she is in travail hath sorrow because her hour is come. He missed it out. Miriam had felt him growing uncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words did not follow. He went on reading, but she did not hear. A grief and shame made her bend her head. Six months ago he would have read it simply. Now there was a scotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something hostile between them, something of which they were ashamed. She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument, but could not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morrill had gone to her friends. The three set off to Willy Farm. Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something else he wanted. He could not be satisfied. He could give her no peace. There was between them now always a ground for strife. She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in life was herself. If she could prove it, both to herself and to him, the rest might go. She could simply trust to the future. So in May she asked him to come to Willy Farm and meet Mrs. Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him whenever they spoke of Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like her. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to the test. She believed that there were in him desires for higher things and desires for lower, and that the desire for the higher would conquer. At any rate, he should try. She forgot that her higher and lower were arbitrary. He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willy Farm. Mrs. Dawes came for the day. Her heavy, done-colored hair was coiled on top of her head, she wore a white blouse and navy skirt, and somehow, wherever she was, seemed to make things look paltry and insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen seemed too small and mean altogether. Miriam's beautiful, twilight-y parlour looked stiff and stupid. All the livers were eclipsed like candles. They found her rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but indifferent and rather hard. Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swung off his bicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be disappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went out to meet him, bowing her head because of the sunshine. Nestershims were coming out crimson, under the cool green shadow of their leaves. The girl stood, dark-haired, glad to see him. Hasn't Clara come? he asked. Yes, replied Miriam in her musical tone. She's reading. He wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had put on a handsome tie, of which he was rather proud, and socks to match. She came this morning, he asked. Yes, replied Miriam as she walked at his side. You said you'd bring me that letter from the man at Liberties, have you remembered? Oh, dash, no, he said. But nag at me till you get it. I don't like to nag at you. Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable? he continued. You know I always think she is quite agreeable. He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early today had been the newcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together towards the house. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush the dust from his shoes in spite of the socks and tie. Clara sat in the cool parlor reading. He saw the nape of her white neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at him indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arms straight, in a manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to fling something to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin Muslim at the top of her arm. You have chosen a fine day, he said. It happened so, she said. Yes, he said. I'm glad. She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness. What have you been doing all morning? asked Paul of Miriam. Well, you see, said Miriam, coughing huskily. Clara only came with father, and so she's not been here very long. Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands were large, but well kept, and the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque and white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm legged negligently on the table. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted. You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening, he said to her. Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him. Yes, she said. Why? asked Miriam. How do you know? I went in for a few minutes before the train came, he answered. Clara turned away again rather disdainfully. I think she's a lovable little woman, said Paul. Margaret Bonford, exclaimed Clara. She's a great till cleverer than most men. Well, I didn't say she wasn't, he said, deprecating. She's lovable for all that. And, of course, that is all that matters, said Clara, witheringly. He rubbed his head rather perplexed, rather annoyed. I suppose it matters more than her cleverness, he said, which, after all, would never get her to heaven. It's not heaven she wants to get. It's her fair share on earth, retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some deprivation which Miss Bonford suffered. Well, he said, I thought she was warm and awfully nice, only to frail. I wish she was sitting comfortably in peace, darning her husband's stockings, said Clara scathingly. I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings, he said, and I'm sure she'd do them well, just as I wouldn't mind blacking her boots if she wanted me to. But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for a little while. The other woman held aloof. Well, he said, I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land? I believe, said Miriam. He's gone for a load of coal. He should be back directly. Then, he said, I'll go and meet him. Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and left them. On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking lazily beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she dragged the clanking load of coal. The young farmer's face lighted up as he saw his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark warm eyes. His clothes were old and rather disreputable, and he walked with considerable pride. Hello, he said, seeing Paul bare-headed. Where are you going? Came to meet you. Can't stand. Nevermore. Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement. Who is Nevermore? He asked. The lady misses Dawes. It ought to be Mrs. The raven that quothed Nevermore. Edgar laughed with glee. Don't you like her? He asked. Not a fat lot, said Paul. Why, do you? No. The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. No. Edgar pursed up his lips. I can't say she's much in my line. He mused a little. Then. But why do you call her Nevermore? He asked. Well, said Paul, if she looks at a man she says haughtily, Nevermore, and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says disdainfully, Nevermore, and if she thinks back she says it in disgust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically. Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, and said, laughing, You think she's a man-hater? She thinks she is, replied Paul. But you don't think so. No, replied Paul. Wasn't she nice with you, then? Could you imagine her nice with anybody? asked the young man. Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was rather self-conscious because he knew Clara could see if she looked out of the window. She didn't look. On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the pelts of Jimmy and Flower. Do you know a new song to teach me? said Edgar. He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul watched him sometimes. Mary Morrison suggested the younger. Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. However, he sang softly for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a clear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused his horse. Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them, even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed in a triviality. It was tea time when they had finished. What song was that? asked Miriam. Edgar told her the conversation turned to singing. We have such jolly times! Miriam said to Clara. Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were present she grew distant. Do you like singing? Miriam asked her. If it is good, she said. Paul, of course, coloured. You mean if it is high class and trained? he said. I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything, she said. You might as well insist on having people's voices trained before you allowed them to talk, he replied. Really, people sing for their own pleasure as a rule. And it may be for other people's discomfort. Then the other people should have flaps to their ears, he replied. The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply and ate in silence. After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Livers said to Clara. And you find life happier now? Infinitely. And are you satisfied? So long as I can be free and independent. And you don't miss anything in your life? asked Mrs. Livers gently. I've put all that behind me. Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up. You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've put behind you, he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he went down the brick track. Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara and her for a walk. They set off down to Strelly Mill Farm, as they were going beside the brook on the willy water side, looking through the break at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a few sunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree trunks and the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beast seemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift, away there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among the fading blue bells that might have bloomed for Deirdre or Isult. The three stood charmed. What a treat to be a knight, he said, and to have a pavilion here. And to have us shut up safely, replied Clara. Yes, he answered, singing with your maids at your broidery. I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would, if W. S. P. U. emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant. I have no doubt, said Clara, that you would much rather fight for a woman than let her fight for herself. I would, when she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow. And you are the looking-glass, she asked with a curl of the lip. Or the shadow, he replied. I am afraid, she said, that you are too clever. Well, I leave it to you to be good, he retorted, laughing. Be good, sweet maid, and just let me be clever. But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he saw that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom he had neglected till then.