 11 The Test on Miriam With the spring came again the old man to sin battle. Now he knew he would have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? He told himself it was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and him which neither could break through. He might have married her, but his circumstances at home made it difficult, and moreover he did not want to marry. Marriage was for life, and because they had become close companions, he and she, he did not see that it should inevitably follow they should be man and wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage with Miriam. He wished he did. He would have given his head to have felt a joyous desire to marry her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? There was some obstacle. And what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical bondage. He shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her he felt bound up inside himself. He could not go out to her. Something struggled in him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said she even wanted him. Then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss her? Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did he feel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself to her. He wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking from her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no aversion for her. No, it was the opposite. It was a strong desire, battling with a still stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a positive force, which fought in one in both of them. And with her he felt it so hard to overcome, yet he was nearest to her, and with her alone could he deliberately break through. And he owed himself to her. Then, if they could get things right, they could marry. But he would not marry unless he could feel strong in the joy of it. Never. He could never have faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself in a marriage he did not want would be degrading and would undo all his life, make it a nullity. He would try to do what he could do. And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always she was sad, dreaming her religion. And he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear to fail her. It would come all right if they tried. He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were like himself, bound him by their own virginity, which they could not break out of. They were so sensitive to their women that they would go without them forever, rather than do them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sons of mothers whose husbands had blundered rather brutally through their feminine sanctities, they were themselves too diffident and shy. They could easier deny themselves than incur any reproach from a woman, for a woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense of their mother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy rather than risk the other person. He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, brought the tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang. And he was playing a song on the piano, as Miriam sang her mouth seemed hopeless. She sang like a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so much of the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, so spiritual. Again, hot as steel came up the pain in him. Why must he ask her for the other thing? Why was there his blood battling with her? If only he could have been always gentle, tender with her, breathing with her the atmosphere of reverie and religious dreams, he would give his right hand. It was not fair to hurt her. There seemed an eternal maidenhood about her, and when he thought of her mother, he saw the great brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and shocked out of her virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of her seven children. They had been born almost leaving her out of count, not of her, but upon her. So she could never let them go, because she never had possessed them. Mrs. Morrell saw him going again frequently to Miriam, and was astonished. He said nothing to his mother. He did not explain nor excuse himself. If he came home late, and she reproached him, he frowned and turned on her in an overbearing way. I shall come home when I like, he said. I am old enough. Must she keep you till this time? It is I who stay, he answered. And she lets you, but very well, she said. And she went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for him, but she lay listening until he came, often long after. It was a great bitterness to her that he had gone back to Miriam. She recognized, however, the uselessness of any further interference. He went to Willie Farm as a man now, not as a youth. She had no right over him. There was a coldness between him and her. He hardly told her anything. Discarded she waited on him, cooked for him still, and loved to slave for him, but her face was closed again, like a mask. There was nothing for her to do now but the housework. For all the rest he had gone to Miriam. She could not forgive him. Miriam killed the joy and the warmth in him. He had been such a jolly lad, and full of the warmest affection, now he grew colder, more and more irritable and gloomy. It reminded her of William, but Paul was worse. He did things with more intensity and more realization of what he was about. His mother knew how he was suffering for want of a woman, and she saw him going to Miriam. If he had made up his mind, nothing on earth would alter him. Mrs. Morrill was tired. She began to give up at last. She had finished. She was in the way. He went on determinately. He realized more or less what his mother felt. It only hardened his soul. He made himself callous towards her. But it was like being callous to his own health. It undermined him quickly, yet he persisted. He lay back in the rocking chair at Willie Farm one evening. He had been talking to Miriam for some weeks, but had not come to the point. Now he said suddenly, I am twenty-four almost. She had been brooding. She looked up at him suddenly in surprise. Yes. What makes you say it? There was something in the charged atmosphere that she dreaded. Sir Thomas Moore says one can marry a twenty-four. She laughed quaintly, saying, Does it need Sir Thomas Moore's sanction? No, but one ought to marry about then. I—she answered broodingly, and she waited. I can't marry you. He continued slowly. Not now, because we've no money, and they depend on me at home. She sat half-guessing what was coming. But I want to marry now. You want to marry? she repeated. A woman. You know what I mean. She was silent. Now, at last, I must, he said. I? she answered. Can you love me? She laughed bitterly. Why are you ashamed of it? he answered. You wouldn't be ashamed before your God. Why are you before people? Nay, she answered deeply. I am not ashamed. You are, he replied bitterly, and it's my fault. But you know I can't help being as I am, don't you? I know you can't help it, she replied. I love you an awful lot. Then there is something short. Where? she answered, looking at him. Oh, in me. It is I who ought to be ashamed, like a spiritual cripple, and I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it? I don't know, replied Miriam. And I don't know, he repeated. Don't you think we have been too fierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that to be so much afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness? She looked at him with startled, dark eyes. You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the notion from you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse. There was silence in the room for some time. Yes, she said. It is so. There is between us, he said. All these years of intimacy. I feel naked enough before you. Do you understand? I think so, she answered. And you love me? She laughed. Don't be bitter, he pleaded. She looked at him and was sorry for him. His eyes were dark with torture. She was sorry for him. It was worse for him to have this deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He was restless, forever urging forward in trying to find a way out. He might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her. Nay, she said softly. I am not bitter. She felt she could bear anything for him. She would suffer for him. She put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took it and kissed it. But it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himself aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more like nullity. How could he kiss her hands passionately when it would drive her away and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him and kissed her. They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him she watched his eyes. They were staring across the room where the peculiar dark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. She could feel his heart throbbing heavily in his breast. What are you thinking about? She asked. The blaze in his eyes shuttered, became uncertain. I was thinking all the while. I love you. I have been obstinate. She sank her head upon his breast. Yes, she answered. That's all, he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouth was kissing her throat. Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her full gaze of love. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from her, and then was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment of anguish. Kiss me! she whispered. He shut his eyes and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer and closer. When she walked home with him over the fields, he said, I'm glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you, as if there was nothing to hide. We will be happy? Yes, she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes. Some sort of perversity in our souls, he said, makes us not want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that. Yes, she said, and she felt stunned. As she stood under the drooping thorn tree, in the darkness by the roadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. In the darkness where he could not see her but only feel her, his passion flooded him, he clasped her very close. Sometimes you will have me, he murmured, hiding his face on her shoulder. It was so difficult. Not now, she said. His hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him. No, he said. His clasp of her slackened. I love to feel your arm there. She said, pressing his arm against her back, where it went round her waist. It rest me so. He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back to rest her. We belong to each other, he said. Yes. Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether? But she faltered. I know it's a lot to ask, he said. But there's not much risk for you really, not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there? Oh, I can trust you. The answer came quick and strong. It's not that. It's not that at all. But what? She hid her face in his neck with a little cry of misery. I don't know. She cried. She seemed slightly hysterical, but with a sort of horror. His heart died in him. You don't think it's ugly? He asked. No, not now. You have taught me it isn't. You are afraid? She calmed herself hastily. Yes, I'm only afraid, she said. He kissed her tenderly. Never mind, he said. You should please yourself. Suddenly she gripped his arms round her and clenched her body stiff. You shall have me, she said, through her shut teeth. His heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close and his mouth was on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. He disengaged her. Won't you be late? She asked gently. He sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited, wishing he would go. At last he kissed her quickly and climbed the fence. Looking round he saw the pale blotch of her face down in the darkness under the hanging tree. There was no more of her but this pale blotch. Good-bye! she called softly. She had no body, only a voice and a dim face. He turned away and ran down the road, his fists clenched, and when he came to the wall over the lake he leaned there, almost stunned, looking up the black water. Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid of people, what they might say, but she dreaded the issue with him. Yes, she would let him have her if he insisted, and then, when she thought of it afterwards, her heart went down. He would be disappointed. He would find no satisfaction, and then he would go away. Yet he was so insistent, and over this which did not seem so all-important to her, was their love to break down. After all, he was only like other men, seeking his satisfaction. Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper. She could trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession was a great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there. Perhaps it was so. There was something divine in it. Then she would submit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And at the thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily, hard as if against something. But life forced her through this gait of suffering too, and she would submit. At any rate it would give him what he wanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded and brooded herself towards accepting him. He quartered her now, like a lover. Often when he grew hot, she put his face from her, held it between her hands, and looked in his eyes. He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love, earnest in searching, made him turn away. Not for an instant would she let him forget. Back again he had to torture himself into a sense of his responsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leaving himself to the great hunger and impersonality of passion. He must be brought back to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if from a swoon of passion, she called him back to the littleness, the personal relationship. He could not bear it. Leave me alone! Leave me alone! He wanted to cry, but she wanted him to look at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full of the dark, impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her. There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at the back of the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarlet and crimson drops under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gathering the fruit one evening. It had been a hot day, and now the clouds were rolling in the sky, dark and warm. Paul climbed high on the tree, above the scarlet roofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily, made the whole tree rock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirred the blood. The young man, perched insecurely in the slender branches, rocked till he felt slightly drunk, reached down the boughs, where the scarlet beady cherries hung thick underneath, and tore off handful after handful of the sleek, cool-fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck as he stretched forward, their chill fingertips sending a flash down his blood. All shades of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson, glowed and met his eyes under a darkness of leaves. The sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Immense piles of gold flared out in the southeast, heaped in soft glowing yellow right up the sky. The world, till now dusk and gray, reflected the gold glow, astonished. Everywhere the trees and the grass and the far-off water seemed roused from the twilight and shining. Miriam came out wondering. Oh! Paul heard her mellow voice call. Isn't it wonderful? He looked down. There was a faint gold glimmer on her face that looked very soft, turned up to him. How high you are! she said. Beside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds, thieves that had been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hanging quite bleached, like skeletons picked clear of flesh. He looked down again to Miriam. Clouds are on fire, he said. Beautiful! she cried. She seemed so small, so soft, so tender down there. He threw a handful of cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He laughed with a low chuckling sound and pelted her. She ran for shelter, picking up some cherries. Two fine red pears she hung over her ears. Then she looked up again. Haven't you got enough? she asked. Nearly. It's like being on a ship up here. And how long will you stay? While the sunset lasts. She went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds fall to pieces and go in immense, rose-colored ruin towards the darkness. Gold flamed a scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarlet sank to rose and rose to crimson, and quickly the passion went out of the sky. All the world was dark gray. Paul scrambled quickly down with this basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve as he did so. They are lovely, said Miriam, fingering the cherries. I've torn my sleeve, he answered. She took the three-cornered rips saying, I shall have to mend it. It was near the shoulder. She put her fingers through the tear. How warm! she said. He laughed. There was a new strange note in his voice, one that made her pant. Shall we stay out? He said. Won't it rain? she asked. No, let us walk a little way. They went down the fields and into the thick plantation of fir trees and pines. Shall we go in among the trees? He asked. Do you want to? Do you? Yes. It was very dark among the firs, and the sharp spines pricked her face. She was afraid. Paul was silent and strange. I like the darkness, he said. I wish it were thicker. Good, thick darkness. He seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person. She was only to him then a woman. She was afraid. She stood against a pine tree trunk and took her in his arms. She relinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which she felt something of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man was a stranger to her. Later it began to rain. The pine tree smelled very strong. Paul lay with his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles, listening to the sharp hiss of the rain. A steady, keen noise. His heart was down, very heavy. Now he realized that she had not been with him all the time, that her soul had stood apart in a sort of horror. He was physically at rest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very sad, and very tender. His fingers wandered over her face pitifully. Now again she loved him deeply. He was tender and beautiful. The rain, he said. Yes, is it coming on you? She put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feel if the raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he lay with his face on the dead pine leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. He did not mind if the raindrops came on him. He would have lain and got wet through. He felt as if nothing mattered. As if his living were smeared away into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange gentle reaching out to death was new to him. We must go, said Miriam. Yes, he answered, but did not move. To him now life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow, night and death and stillness and inaction. This seemed like being. To be alive, to be urgent and insistent, that was not to be. The highest of all was to meld out into the darkness and sway there, identified with a great being. The rain is coming in on us, said Miriam. He rose and assisted her. It is a pity, he said. What? To have to go. I feel so still. Still, she repeated. Stiller than I have ever been in my life. He was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers, feeling a slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her. She had a fear lest she should lose him. The fir trees are like presents on the darkness. Each one only a presence. She was afraid and said nothing. A sort of hush, the whole night wandering and asleep. I suppose that's what we do in death. Sleep in wonder. She had been afraid before of the brute in him, now of the mystic. She trod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy hush on the trees. At last they gained the cart shed. Let us stay here a while, he said. There was a sound of rain everywhere, smothering everything. I feel so strange and still, he said, along with everything. I, she answered patiently. He seemed again unaware of her, though he held her hand close. To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our effort. To live effortless, a kind of curious sleep. That is very beautiful, I think. That is our afterlife, our immortality. Yes? Yes, and very beautiful to have. You don't usually say that. No. In a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them curiously. He kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness in his voice. Instinctively they all left him alone. About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottage in Woodlinton, fell ill and the girl was sent to keep house. It was a beautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, with red brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the back another garden was separated from the fields by a tall old hedge. It was very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found time for her beloved reading, and for writing little introspective pieces which interested her. At the holiday time her grandmother, being better, was driven to Derby to stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a crotchety old lady, and might return the second day, or the third. So Miriam stayed alone in the cottage, which also pleased her. Paul used often to cycle over, and they had, as a rule, peaceful and happy times. He did not embarrass her much, but then on the Monday of the holiday he was to spend a whole day with her. It was perfect weather. He left his mother telling her where he was going. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him, but he had three days that were all his own, when he was going to do as he liked. It was sweet to rush through the morning lanes on his bicycle. He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy preparing dinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the little kitchen, ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was small and cozy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort of linen in squares of red and pale blue. Old, much washed, but pretty. There was a stuffed owl in a case over a corner covered. The sunlight came through the leaves of the scented geraniums in the window. She was cooking a chicken in his honor. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man and wife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought she gave a feeling of home almost like his mother, and no one could look more beautiful with her tumbled curls when she was flush from the fire. The dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he carved. They talked all the time with unflagging zest. Then he wiped the dishes she had washed, and they went out down the fields. There was a bright little brook that ran into a bog at the foot of a very steep bank. Here they wandered, picking still a few marsh marigolds and many big blue forget-me-nots. Then she sat on the bank with her hands full of flowers, mostly golden water-blobs. As she put her face down into the marigolds, it was all overcast with a yellow shine. Your face is bright, he said, like a transfiguration. She looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her, laying his hands on hers. Then he kissed her fingers, then her face. The world was all steeped in sunshine and quite still, yet not asleep, but quivering with a kind of expectancy. I have never seen anything more beautiful than this, he said. He held her hand fast all the time. And the water singing to itself as it runs. Do you love it? She looked at him, full of love. His eyes were very dark, very bright. Don't you think it's a great day? He asked. She murmured her assent. She was happy, and he saw it. And our day, just between us, he said. They lingered a little while. Then they stood up upon the sweet time, and he looked down at her simply. Will you come? he asked. They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens came scampering down the path to her. He locked the door. And they had the little house to themselves. He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed when he was unfastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was blind with it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imagined. He stood unable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half smiling with wonder. And then he wanted her. But as he went forward to her, her hands lifted in the little pleading movement, and he looked at her face and stopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him, still and resigned and loving. She lay as if she had given herself up to sacrifice. There was her body for him. But the look at the back of her eyes, like a creature, awaiting emulation, arrested him, and all his blood fell back. You were sure you want me? He asked, as if a cold shadow had come over him. Yes, quite sure. End of Part 1 of Chapter 11. Chapter 11 Part 2 of Sons and Lovers. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 11 Part 2. She was very quiet, very calm. She only realized that she was doing something for him. He could hardly bear it. She lay to be sacrificed for him because she loved him so much, and he had to sacrifice her. For a second he wished he was sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes again to her, and his blood beat back again. And afterwards he loved her, loved her to the last fiber of his being. He loved her. But he wanted somehow to cry. There was something he could not bear for her sake. He stayed with her till quite late at night. As he rode home, he felt that he was finally initiated. He was a youth no longer. But why had he the dull pain in his soul? Why did the thought of death, the afterlife, seem so sweet and consoling? He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passion before it was gone. He had always, almost willfully, to put her out of count, and act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not do it often. And there remained afterwards always the sense of failure and of death. If he were really with her, he had to put aside himself and his desire. If he would have her, he had to put her aside. When I come to you, he asked her, his eyes dark with pain and shame. You don't really want me, do you? Ah, yes! she replied quickly. He looked at her. Nay! he said. She began to tremble. She began to tremble. You see, she said, taking his face and shutting it out against her shoulder. You see, as we are, how can I get used to you? It would come all right if we were married. He lifted her head and looked at her. You mean now it is always too much shock? Yes, and you were always clenched against me. She was trembling with agitation. You see, she said, I'm not used to the thought. You are lately, he said. But all my life, Mother said to me, there is one thing in marriage that is always dreadful, but you have to bear it. And I believed it. And still believe it, he said. No! she cried hastily. I believe, as you do, that loving, even in that way, is the high watermark of living. That doesn't alter the fact that you never want it. No! she said, taking his head and her arms and rocking in despair. Don't say so. You don't understand. She rocked with pain. Don't I want your children? But not me. How can you say so? But we must be married to have children. Shall we be married, then? I want you to have my children. He kissed her hand reverently. She pondered sadly, watching him. We are too young, she said at length. Twenty-four and twenty-three? Not yet. She pleaded as she rocked herself in distress. When you will, he said. She bowed her head gravely, the tone of hopelessness in which he said these things grieved her deeply. It had always been a failure between them. Tassently she acquiesced in what he felt. And after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly one Sunday night, just as they were going to bed. I shan't go so much to Miriam's mother. She was surprised, but she would not ask him anything. You please yourself, she said. So he went to bed. But there was a new quietness about him which she had wondered at. She almost guessed. She would leave him alone, however. Precipitation might spoil things. She watched him in his loneliness, wondering where he would end. He was sick and much too quiet for him. There was a perpetual little knitting of his brows, such as she had seen when he was a small baby, and which had been gone for many years. Now it was the same again. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go on alone, make his own way. He continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved her utterly. But it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. At first it was only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could not go on. He wanted to run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he ceased to ask her to have him. Instead of drawing them together, it put them apart. And then he realized consciously that it was no good. It was useless trying. It would never be a success between them. For some months he had seen very little of Clara. They had occasionally walked out for half an hour at dinner time. But he always reserved himself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his brow cleared, and he was gay again. She treated him indulgently, as if he were a child. He thought he did not mind. But deep below the surface it peaked him. Sometimes Miriam said, What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately. I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday, he replied. And what did she talk about? I don't know. I suppose I did all the drawing. I usually do. I think I was telling her about the strike, and how the women took it. Yes. So he gave the account of himself. But insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he felt for Clara drew him away from Miriam, for whom he felt responsible, and to whom he felt he belonged. He thought he was being quite faithful to her. It was not easy to estimate exactly the strength and warmth of one's feelings for a woman till they have run away with one. He began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessup at the art school. Swain, who was chemistry demonstrator at the university. Newton, who was a teacher, besides Edgar and Miriam's younger brothers. Pleading work, he sketched and studied with Jessup. He called at the university for Swain, and the two went downtown together. Having come home in the train with Newton, he called and had a game of billiards with him in the moon and stars. He gave to Miriam the excuse of his men friends he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved. He always told her where he had been. During the summer, Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cotton stuff with loose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleeves fell back, and her beautiful strong arms shone out. Half a minute, he cried, hold your arms still. He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawings contained some of the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always went scrupulously through his books and papers, saw the drawings. I think Clara has such beautiful arms, he said. Yes, when did you draw them? On Tuesday in the workroom. You know, I've got a corner where I can work. Often I can do every single thing they need in the department before dinner. Then I work for myself in the afternoon, and just see the things at night. Yes, she said, turning the leaves of his sketchbook. Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward and poured over his things. He hated her way of patiently casting him up, as if he were an endless psychological account. When he was with her, he hated her for having got him, and yet not got him, and he tortured her. She took all and gave nothing, he said. At least she gave no living warmth. She was never alive and giving off life. Looking for her was like looking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience, not his mate. He hated her violently, and was more cruel to her. They dragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara. At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at home one evening. There was between him and his mother a peculiar condition of people frankly finding fault with each other. Mrs. Morrell was strong on her feet again. He was not going to stick to Miriam. Very well, then she would stand aloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, this bursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. This evening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense. He worked feverishly and mechanically so that he could escape from himself. It grew late. Through the open door stealthily came the scent of Madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got up and went out of doors. The beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half moon, dusky gold, was sinking behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden, making the sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer a dim white fence of lilies went across the garden, and the air all round seemed to stir with scent as if it were alive. He went across the bed of pinks, whose keen perfume came sharply across the rocking heavy scent of the lilies, and stood alongside the white barrier of flowers. They flagged all loose, as if they were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field to watch the moon sink under. A corn-crake in the hay-clothes called insistently. The moon slid quite quickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind him the great flowers leaned as if they were calling, and then like a shock he caught another perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round he found the purple iris, touched their fleshy throats and their dark grasping hands. At any rate he had found something. They stood stiff in the darkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon the crest of the hill. It was gone. All was dark. The corn-crake called still. Breaking off a pink he suddenly went indoors. Come, my boy, said his mother. I'm sure it's time you went to bed. He stood with a pink against his lips. I shall break off with Miriam, mother. He answered calmly. She looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring back at her, unswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took off her glasses. He was white. The male was up in him, dominant. She did not want to see him too clearly. But I thought, she began. Well, he answered, I don't love her. I don't want to marry her. So I shall have done. But, exclaimed his mother, amazed, I thought lately you had made up your mind to have her. And so I said nothing. I had. I wanted to. But now I don't want. It's no good. I shall break off on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I. You know best. You know I said so long ago. I can't help that now. I shall break off on Sunday. Well, said his mother. I think it will be best. But lately I decided you had made up your mind to have her. So I said nothing. And should have said nothing. But I say, as I have always said, I don't think she is suited to you. On Sunday I break off. He said, smelling the pink. He put the flower in his mouth. Unthinking he bared his teeth, closed them on the blossom slowly, and had a mouthful of petals. These he spat into the fire, kissed his mother, and went to bed. On Sunday he went up to the farm in the early afternoon. He had written Miriam that they would walk over the fields to Hucknall. His mother was very tender with him. He said nothing. But she saw the effort it was costing. The peculiar set look on his face stilled her. Never mind, my son. She said, you will be so much better when it is all over. Paul glanced swiftly at his mother in surprise and resentment. He did not want sympathy. Miriam met him at the lain end. She was wearing a new dress of figured muslin that had short sleeves. Those short sleeves and Miriam's brown-skinned arms beneath them, such pitiful, resigned arms, gave him so much pain that they helped to make him cruel. She had made herself look so beautiful and fresh for him. She seemed to blossom for him alone. Every time he looked at her—a mature young woman now, and beautiful in her new dress—it hurt so much that his heart seemed almost to be bursting with the restraint he put on it. But he had decided, and it was irrevocable. On the hills they sat down, and he lay with his head in her lap, whilst she fingered his hair. She knew that he was not there, as she put it. Often when she had him with her she looked for him and could not find him. But this afternoon she was not prepared. It was nearly five o'clock when he told her. They were sitting on the bank of a stream where the lip of turf hung over a hollow bank of yellow earth, and he was hacking away with a stick, as he did when he was perturbed and cruel. I've been thinking, he said, we ought to break off. Why? she cried in surprise. Because it is no good going on. Why is it no good? It isn't. I don't want to marry. I don't want ever to marry. And if we're not going to marry, it's no good going on. But why do you say this now? Because I've made up my mind. And what about these last months and the things you told me then? I can't help it. I don't want to go on. You don't want any more of me? I want us to break off. You be free of me. I free of you. And what about these last months? I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true. Then why are you different now? I'm not. I'm the same. Only I know it's no good going on. You haven't told me why it's no good. Because I don't want to go on, and I don't want to marry. How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn't? I know, but I want us to break off. There was silence for a moment or two while he dug viciously at the earth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasonable child. He was like an infant, which, when it is drunk its fill, throws away and smashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she could get hold of him and ring some consistency out of him. But she was helpless. Then she cried, I have said you are only fourteen. You are only four. He still dug at the earth viciously. He heard. You are a child of four. She repeated in her anger. He did not answer, but said in his heart, All right, if I'm a child of four, what do you want me for? I don't want another mother. But he said nothing to her, and there was silence. And have you told your people? She asked. I've told my mother. There was another long interval of silence. Then what do you want? She asked. Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all these years. Now let us stop. I will go my way without you, and you will go your way without me. You will have an independent life of your own, then. There was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness, she could not help registering. She knew she felt in a sort of bondage to him, which she hated because she could not control it. She hated her love for him from the moment it grew too strong for her. And, deep down, she had hated him because she loved him and he dominated her. She had resisted his domination. She had fought to keep herself free of him in the last issue. And she was free of him, even more than he of her. And, he continued, We shall always be more or less each other's work. You have done a lot for me. I for you. Now let us start and live by ourselves. What do you want to do? She asked. Nothing. Only to be free? He answered. She, however, knew in her heart that Clara's influence was over him to liberate him. But she said nothing. And what have I to tell my mother? She asked. I told my mother, he answered, that I was breaking off, clean and altogether. I shall not tell them at home, she said. Frowning, you please yourself, he said. He knew he had landed her in a nasty hole and was leaving her in the lurch. It angered him. Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me and have broken off, he said. It's true enough. She bit her finger, moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She had known it would come to this. She had seen it all along. It chimed with her bitter expectation. Always, it has always been so. She cried. It has been one long battle between us, you fighting away from me. It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heart stood still. Was this how she saw it? But we've had some perfect hours, some perfect times, when we were together. He pleaded. Never, she cried. Never! It has always been you fighting me off. Not always, not at first, he pleaded. Always, from the very beginning, always the same. She had finished, but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wanted to say, It has been good, but it is at an end. And she, she whose love he had believed in, when he had despised himself, denied that their love had ever been love. He had always fought away from her. Then it had been monstrous. There had never been anything really between them. All the time he had been imagining something when there was nothing. And she had known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She had known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her. He sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appeared in a cynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with her. She had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, and despised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel. You ought to marry a man who worships you, he said. Then you could do as you liked with him. Plenty of men will worship you, if you get on the private side of their natures. You ought to marry one such. They would never fight you off. Thank you, she said. But don't advise me to marry someone else any more. You've done it before. Very well, he said. I will say no more. He sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow instead of giving one. Their eight years of friendship and love, the eight years of his life, were nullified. When did you think of this? she asked. I thought definitely on Thursday night. I knew it was coming, she said. That pleased him bitterly. Oh, very well. If she knew, then it doesn't come as a surprise to her, he thought. And have you said anything to Clara? she asked. No, but I shall tell her now. There was a silence. Do you remember the things you said this time last year? In my grandmother's house? Nay, last month even. Yes, he said. I do, and I meant them. I can't help that it's failed. It is failed because you want something else. It would have failed whether or not. You never believed in me. She laughed strangely. He sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she had deceived him. She had despised him when he thought she worshipped him. She had let him say wrong things, and had not contradicted him. She had let him fight alone. But it stuck in his throat that she had despised him whilst he thought she worshipped him. She should have told him when she found fault with him. She had not played fair. He hated her. All these years she had treated him as if he were a hero, and thought of him secretly as an infant, a foolish child. Then why had she left the foolish child to his folly? His heart was hard against her. She sat full of bitterness. She had known. Oh, well she had known. All the time he was away from her, she had summed him up, seen his littleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soul against him. She was not overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt. She had known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strange dominance over her. His very movements fascinated her as if she were hypnotized by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean. Why this bondage for her? Why was it the movement of his arm stirred her as nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why, even now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey? She would obey him in his trifling commands. But once he was obeyed, then she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would. She was sure of herself. Only this new influence. Ah, he was not a man. He was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachment of his soul would not keep him. Very well, he would have to go. But he would come back when he had tired of his new sensation. He hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She rose. He sat flinging lumps of earth in the stream. We will go and have tea here, he asked. Yes, she answered. They chatted over irrelevant subjects during tea. He held forth on the love of ornament. The cottage parlor moved him there too. In its connection with aesthetics. She was cold and quiet. As they walked home, she asked, And we shall not see each other? No, or rarely, he answered. Nor right, she asked, almost sarcastically. As you will, he answered. We're not strangers. Never should be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You please yourself. I see, she answered cuttingly. But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made a great cleavage in his life. He had had a great shock when she had told him their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mattered. If it never had been much, there was no need to make a fuss that it was ended. He left her at the lane end. As she went home, solitary, in her new frock, having her people to face at the other end, he stood still with shame and pain in the high road, thinking of the suffering he caused her. In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went into the willow-tree for a drink. There were four girls who had been out for the day, drinking a modest glass of port. They had some chocolates on the table. Paul sat near with his whiskey. He noticed the girls whispering and nudging. Presently one, a bonnie dark hussy leaned to him and said, Have a chocolate? The others laughed loudly at her impudence. All right, said Paul. Give me a hard one, nut, I don't like creams. Here you are, then, said the girl. Here's an almond for you. She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. She popped it in and blushed. You are nice, he said. Well, she answered. We thought you looked overcast and they dared me offer you a chocolate. I don't mind if I have another, another sort, he said. And presently they were all laughing together. It was nine o'clock when he got home, falling dark. He entered the house in silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose anxiously. I told her, he said. I'm glad, replied the mother, with great relief. He hung up his cap wearily. I said we'd have done all together, he said. That's right, my son, said the mother. It's hard for her now, but best in the long run. I know, you weren't suited for her. He laughed shakily as he sat down. I've had such a lark with some girls in the pub, he said. His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He told her about the girls in the willow tree. Mrs. Morrill looked at him. It seemed unreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much horror and misery. Now have some supper, she said very gently. Afterwards, he said wistfully. She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first, and so she's not disappointed. I'm afraid, said his mother, she doesn't give up hopes of you yet. No, he said, perhaps not. You'll find it's better to have done, she said. I don't know, he said desperately. Well, leave her alone, replied his mother. So he left her, and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and she, for very few people. She remained alone with herself. Waiting. End of chapter. CHAPTER XII. PART ONE OF SONS AND LOVERS. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers. By D. H. Lawrence. CHAPTER XII. PASSION. He was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood by his art. Liberties had taken several of his painted designs on various stuffs, and he could sell designs for embroideries, for altar cloths, and similar things in one or two places. It was not very much he made it present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends with the designer for a pottery firm, and was gaining some knowledge of his new acquaintance's art. The applied arts interested him very much. At the same time he labored slowly at his pictures. He loved to paint large figures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and cast shadows, like the Impressionists, rather definite figures that had a certain luminous quality, like some of Michelangelo's people. And these he fitted into a landscape in what he thought true proportion. He worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew. He believed firmly in his work that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits of depression, shrinking everything, he believed in his work. He was twenty-four when he said his first confident thing to his mother. Mother, he said, I shall make a painter that they'll attend to. She sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleased shrug of the shoulders. Very well, my boy, we'll see, she said. You shall see, my pigeon. You see if you're not swanky one of these days. I'm quite content, my boy, she smiled. But you'll have to alter. Look at you with many. Many was the small servant, a girl of fourteen. And what about many? Asked Mrs. Morrell, with dignity. I heard her this morning. Hey, Mrs. Morrell, I was going to do that. When you went out in the rain for some coal, he said. That looks a lot like you're being able to manage serfence. Well, it was only the child's niceness, said Mrs. Morrell. And you apologizing to her. You can't do two things at once, can you? She was busy washing up, replied Mrs. Morrell. And what did she say? It could easy have waited a bit. Now look how your feet paddle. Yes, brazen young baggage, said Mrs. Morrell, smiling. He looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm and rosy again with love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshine were on her for a moment. He continued his work gladly. She seemed so well when she was happy that he forgot her gray hair. And that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight for a holiday. It was too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morrell was full of joy and wonder. But he would have her walk with him more than she was able. She had a bad fainting bout. So gray her face was, so blue her mouth. It was agony to him. He felt as if someone was pushing a knife in his chest. Then she was better again and he forgot. But the anxiety remained inside him like a wound that did not close. After leaving Miriam, he went almost straight to Clara. On the Monday following the day of the rupture he went down to the workroom. She looked up at him and smiled. They had grown very intimate unawares. She saw a new brightness about him. Well, Queen of Sheba! he said, laughing. But why? she asked. I think it suits you. You've got a new frock on. She flushed, asking. And what of it? It suits you awfully. I could design you a dress. How would it be? He stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded. He kept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of her. She half started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse tighter and smoothed it over her breast. More so, he explained. But they were both of them flaming with blushes and immediately he ran away. He had touched her. His whole body was quivering with a sensation. There was already a sort of secret understanding between them. Next evening he went to the cinematograph with her for a few minutes before train time. As they sat, he saw her hand lying near him. For some moments he dared not touch it. The pictures danced and dithered. Then he took her hand in his. It was large and firm. It filled his grasp. He held it fast. She neither moved nor made any sign. When they came out his train was due. He hesitated. Good night, she said. He darted away across the road. The next day he came again, talking to her. She was rather superior with him. Shall we go a walk on Monday? he asked. She turned her face aside. Shall you tell Miriam? she replied sarcastically. I have broken off with her, he said. When? Last Sunday. You quarreled? No. I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely I should consider myself free. Clara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She was so quiet and so superb. On the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink coffee with him in a restaurant, meeting him after work was over. She came, looking very reserved and very distant. He had three quarters of an hour to train time. We will walk a little while, he said. She agreed, and they went past the castle into the park. He was afraid of her. She walked moodily at his side, with a kind of resentful, reluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to take her hand. Which way shall we go? He asked as they walked in darkness. I don't mind. Then we'll go up the steps. He suddenly turned round. They had passed the park's steps. She stood still in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her. She stood aloof. He caught her suddenly in his arms, held her strained for a moment, kissed her. Then he let her go. Come along, he said, penitent. She followed him. He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. They went in silence. When they came to the light he let go her hand. Neither spoke till they reached the station. Then they looked each other in the eyes. Good night, she said. And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically. People talked to him. He heard faint echoes answering them. He was in a delirium. He felt that he would go mad if Monday did not come at once. On Monday he would see her again. All himself was pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened. He could not bear it. He could not see her till Monday. And Sunday intervened, hour after hour of tension. He wanted to beat his head against the door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whiskey on the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must not be upset. That was all. He dissembled and got quickly to bed. There he sat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out of the window at the far hill with its few lights. He neither thought nor slept, but sat perfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold that he came to himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two. It was after three o'clock. He was exhausted, but still there was the torment of knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bed and slept. Then he cycled all day long till he was fagged out. And he scarcely knew where he had been. But the day after was Monday. He slept till four o'clock. Then he lay in thought. He was coming nearer to himself. He could see himself real, somewhere in front. She would go a walk with him in the afternoon. After noon it seemed years ahead. Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up. He heard him pottering about. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavy boots scraping the yard. Cox were still crowing. A cart went down the road. His mother got up. She knocked the fire. Presently she called him softly. He answered as if he were asleep. This shell of himself did well. He was walking to the station, another mile. The train was near Nottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels? But it did not matter. It would get there before dinner time. He was at Jordan's. She would come in half an hour. At any rate she would be near. He had done the letters. She would be there. Perhaps she had not come. He ran downstairs. Ah! He saw her through the glass door. Her shoulders, stooping a little to her work, made him feel he could not go forward. He could not stand. He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quite cold. Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real self with this shell. And this afternoon he struggled to say, You will come? I think so. She replied, murmuring. He stood before her, unable to say a word. She hid her face from him. Again came over him the feeling that he would lose consciousness. He set his teeth and went upstairs. He had done everything correctly yet, and he would do so. All the morning things seemed a long way off, as they do to a man under chloroform. He himself seemed under a tight band of constraint. Then there was his other self in the distance, doing things, entering stuff in a ledger, and he watched that far off him, carefully to see he made no mistake. But the ache and strain of it could not go on much longer. He worked incessantly. Still it was only twelve o'clock. As if he had nailed his clothing against the desk, he stood there and worked, forcing every stroke out of himself. It was a quarter to one, he would clear away. Then he ran downstairs. You will meet me at the fountain at two o'clock, he said. I can't be there till half past. Yes, he said. She saw his dark, mad eyes. I will try at a quarter past. And he had to be content. He went and got some dinner. All the time he was still under chloroform, and every minute was stretched out indefinitely. He walked miles of streets. Then he thought he would be late at the meeting place. He was at the fountain at five past two. The torture of the next quarter of an hour was refined beyond expression. It was the anguish of combining the living self with the shell. Then he saw her. She came, and he was there. You were late, he said. Only five minutes, she answered. I'd never have done it to you, he laughed. She was in a dark blue costume. He looked at her beautiful figure. You want some flowers, he said, going to the nearest florists. She followed him in silence. He bought her a bunch of scarlet, brick-red carnations. He put them in her coat, flushing. That's a fine color, he said. I'd rather have something softer, she said. He laughed. Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street, he said. She hung her head, afraid of the people they met. He looked sideways at her as they walked. There was a wonderful close down on her face, near the ear that he wanted to touch. And a certain heaviness, the heaviness of a very full ear of corn that dipped slightly in the wind, that there was about her, made his brain spin. He seemed to be spinning down the street, everything going round. As they sat in the tram-car, she leaned her heavy shoulder against him, and he took her hand. He felt himself coming round from the anesthetic, beginning to breathe. Her ear, half-hidden among her blonde hair, was near to him. The temptation to kiss it was almost too great. But there were other people on top of the car. It still remained to him to kiss it. After all, he was not himself, he was some attribute of hers, like the sunshine, that fell on her. He looked quickly away. It had been raining. The big bluff of the castle rock was streaked with rain, as it reared above the flat of the town. They crossed the wide black space of the Midland Railway, and passed the cattle enclosure that stood out white. Then they ran down sordid Wilford Road. She rocked slightly to the tram's motion, and as she leaned against him, rocked upon him. He was a vigorous, slender man with exhaustless energy. His face was rough, with rough-hewn features, like the common peoples, but his eyes under the deep brows were so full of life that they fascinated her. They seemed to dance, and yet they were still trembling on the finest balance of laughter. His mouth the same was just going to spring into a laugh of triumph, yet did not. There was a sharp suspense about him. She bit her lip moodily. His hand was hard-clenched over hers. They paid their two half-pennees at the turnstile and crossed the bridge. The Trent was very full, it swept silent and insidious under the bridge, traveling in a soft body. There had been a great deal of rain. On the river levels were flat gleams of flood-water. The sky was gray, with glisten of silver here and there. In Wilford Churchyard the dahlias were sodden with rain, wet black crimson balls. No one was on the path that went along the green river meadow along the elm-tree colonnade. There was the faintest haze over the silvery dark water and the green meadow bank and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The river slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself like some subtle complex creature. Clara walked moodily, with her eyes wide open. She was quietly beside him. Why, she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, did you leave Miriam? He frowned. Because I wanted to leave her, he said. Why? Because I didn't want to go on with her, and I didn't want to marry. She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path. Drops of water fell from the elm-trees. You didn't want to marry Miriam, or you didn't want to marry at all, she asked. Both, he answered. Both. They had to maneuver to get to the style because of the pools of water. And what did she say? Clara asked. Miriam. She said I was a baby of four and that I always had battled her off. Clara pondered over this for a time. But you have really been going with her for some time, she asked. Yes. And now you don't want any more of her. No, I know it's no good. She pondered again. Don't you think you've treated her rather badly, she asked. Yes, I ought to have dropped it years back, but it would have been no good going on. Two wrongs don't make a right. How old are you? Clara asked. Twenty-five. And I am thirty. She said. I know you are. I shall be thirty-one. Or am I thirty-one? I neither know nor care. What does it matter? They were at the entrance to the grove. The wet, red track, already sticky with fallen leaves, went up to steep bank between the grass. On either side stood the elm trees, like pillars along a great isle, arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell. All was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and he held both her hands, laughing she looked down into his eyes. Then she leaped. Her breast came against his. He held her and covered her face with kisses. They went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released his hand and put it round her waist. You pressed the vein in my arm holding it so tightly, she said. They walked along. His fingertips felt the rocking of her breast. All was silent and deserted. On the left the red-wet plow-land showed through the doorways between the elm-bowls and their branches. On the right, looking down, they could see the treetops of elms growing far beneath them, here occasionally the gurgle of the river. Sometimes there below they cut glimpses of the full, soft sliding Trent, and of water meadows dotted with small cattle. It is scarcely altered since little Kirk White used to come, he said. But he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush was fusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that powdered disconsolate. She stirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string. Halfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the grove rose highest above the river, their forward movement faltered to an end. He led her across to the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path. The cliff of red earth sloped swiftly down, through trees and bushes, to the river that glimmered and was dark between the foliage. The far below water meadows were very green. He and she stood leaning against one another, silent, afraid, their bodies touching all along. There came a quick gurgle from the river below. Why? he asked at length. Did you hate Baxter Dawes? She turned to him with a splendid movement. Her mouth was offered him and her throat. Her eyes were half shut. Her breast was tilted as if it asked for him. He flashed with a small laugh, shut his eyes and met her in a long, whole kiss. Her mouth fused with his, their bodies were sealed and annealed. It was some minutes before they withdrew. They were standing beside the public path. She looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over the brim of the declivity and began to climb down. It's slippery, he said. Never mind, she replied. The red clay went down almost sheer. He slid, went from one tuft of grass to the next, hanging on to the bushes, making for a little platform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laughing with excitement. Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her. He frowned. At last he caught her hand and she stood beside him. The cliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyes flashed. He looked at the big drop below them. It's risky, he said. Or messy at any rate, shall we go back? Not for my sake, she said quickly. All right. You see, I can't help you. I should only hinder. Give me that little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes. They stood perched on the face of the declivity under the trees. Well, I'll go again, he said. Away he went, slipping, staggering, sliding to the next tree, into which he fell with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. She came after cautiously, hanging on to the twigs and grasses. So they descended, stage by stage, to the river's brink. There, to his disgust, the flood had eaten away the path, and the red decline ran straight into the water. He dug in his heels and brought himself up violently. The string of the parcel broke with a snap. The brown parcel bounded down, leaped into the water, and sailed smoothly away. He hung on to his tree. Well, I'll be damned! he cried crossly. Then he laughed. She was coming perilously down. Mind! he warned her. He stood with his back to the tree, waiting. Come now! he called, opening his arms. She let herself run. He caught her, and together they stood, watching the dark water scoop at the raw edge of the bank. The parcel had sailed out of sight. It doesn't matter, she said. He held her close and kissed her. There was only room for their four feet. It's a swindle, he said. But there's a rut where a man has been, so if we go on I guess we shall find the path again. The river slid and twined its great volume. On the other bank cattle were feeding on the desolate flats. The cliff rose high above Paul and Clara on their right hand. They stood against the tree in a watery silence. Let us try going forward, he said, and they struggled in the red clay along the groove a man's nailed boots had made. They were hot and flushed. Their barkled shoes hung heavy on their steps. At last they found the broken path. It was littered with rubble from the water, but at any rate it was easier. They cleaned their boots with twigs. His heart was beating thick and fast. Suddenly, coming on to the little level, he saw two figures of men standing silent at the water's edge. His heart leaped. They were fishing. He turned and put his hand up, warningly to Clara. She hesitated, buttoned her coat. The two went on together. The fishermen turned curiously to watch the two intruders on their privacy and solitude. They had had a fire, but it was nearly out. All kept perfectly still. Men turned again to their fishing. Stood over the gray, glinting water, like statues. Clara went with bowed head, flushing. He was laughing to himself. Directly they passed out of sight behind the willows. Now they ought to be drowned, said Paul softly. Clara did not answer. They toiled forward along a tiny path on the river's lip. Suddenly it vanished. The bank was sheer red, solid clay in front of them, sloping straight into the river. He stood incursed beneath his breath, setting his teeth. It's impossible, said Clara. He stood erect, looking round. Just ahead were two islets in the stream, covered with osiers. But they were unattainable. The cliff came down like a sloping wall from far above their heads. Behind, not far back, were the fishermen. Across the river the distant cattle fed silently in the desolate afternoon. He cursed again deeply under his breath. He gazed up the great steep bank. Was there no hope but to scale back to the public path? Stop a minute, he said, and digging his heels sideways into the steep bank of red clay, he began nimbly to mount. He looked across at every tree-foot. At last he found what he wanted. Two beech trees, side by side on the hill, held the little level on the upper face between their roots. It was littered with damp leaves, but it would do. The fishermen were perhaps sufficiently out of sight. He threw down his rain-proof and waved to her to come. She toiled to his side. Arriving there she looked at him heavily, dumbly, and laid her head on his shoulder. He held her fast as he looked round. They were safe enough from all but the small, lonely cows over the river. He sunk his mouth on her throat, where he felt her heavy pulse beat under his lips. Everything was perfectly still. There was nothing in the afternoon but themselves. When she arose, he, looking on the ground all the time, saw suddenly sprinkled on the black wet beech-roots many scarlet carnation petals, like splash-drops of blood, and the red small splashes fell from her bosom, streaming down her dress to her feet. Your flowers are smashed, he said. She looked at him heavily as she put back her hair. Suddenly he put his fingertips on her cheek. Why dost look so heavy? he reproached her. She smiled sadly, as if she felt alone in herself. He caressed her cheek with his fingers and kissed her. Nay, he said, never thee bother. She gripped his fingers tight and laughed shakily. Then she dropped her hand. He put the hair back from her brows, stroking her temples, kissing them lightly. But that should not were it, he said softly, pleading. No, I don't worry. She laughed tenderly and resigned. Yay, that does. Don't know thee were it. He implored, caressing. No. She consoled him, kissing him. They had a stiff climb to get to the top again. It took them a quarter of an hour. When he got on to the level grass he threw off his cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. Now we're back at the ordinary level, he said. She sat down panting on the tussocky grass. Her cheeks were flush pink. He kissed her, and she gave way to joy. And now I'll clean thy boots and make thee fit for respectable folk, he said. He kneeled at her feet, worked away with a stick and tufts of grass. She put her fingers in his hair, drew his head to her, and kissed it. What am I supposed to be doing? He said, looking at her, laughing. Cleaning shoes or dibbling with love. Answer me that. Just whichever I please, she replied. I'm your boot-boy for the time being and nothing else. But they remained looking into each other's eyes and laughing. Then they kissed with little nibbling kisses. He went with his tongue like his mother. I tell you nothing gets done when there's a woman about. And he returned to his boot-cleaning, singing softly. She touched his thick hair, and he kissed her fingers. He worked away at her shoes. At last they were quite presentable. There you are, you see, he said. Aren't I a great hand at restoring you to respectability? Stand up! There! You look as irreproachable as Britannia herself. He cleaned his own boots a little, washed his hands in the puddle, and sang. They went on into Clifton Village. He was madly in love with her. Every movement she made, every crease in her garments, sent a hot flash through him and seemed adorable. The old lady at whose house they had tea was roused into gaiety by them. I could wish you had something of a better day! She said, hovering round. Nay! He laughed. We've been saying how nice it is! The old lady looked at him curiously. There was a peculiar glow and charm about him. His eyes were dark and laughing. He rubbed his mustache with a glad movement. Have you been saying so? She exclaimed, a light rousing in her old eyes. Truly he laughed! Then I'm sure the day is good enough! said the old lady. She fussed about and did not want to leave them. I don't know whether you'd like some radishes as well, she said to Clara. But I've got some in the garden and the cucumber. Clara flushed. She looked very handsome. I should like some radishes, she answered. And the old lady potted off gleefully. If she knew, said Clara quietly to him. Well, she doesn't know, and it shows we're nice in ourselves at any rate. You look quite enough to satisfy an archangel, and I'm sure I feel harmless. So, if it makes you look nice, it makes folk happy when they have us, and makes us happy, why, we're not cheating them out of much. They went on with a meal. When they were going away, the old lady came timidly with three tiny dahlias in full blow, neat as bees, and speckled scarlet and white. She stood before Clara, pleased with herself, saying, I don't know whether, and holding the flowers forward in her old hand. Oh, how pretty! cried Clara, accepting the flowers. Shall she have them all? asked Paul reproachfully of the old woman. Yes, she shall have them all, she replied, beaming with joy. You have got enough for your share. Ah, but I shall ask her to give me one, he teased. Then she does as she pleases, said the old lady, smiling, and she bobbed a little curtsy of delight. Clara was rather quiet and uncomfortable, as they walked along, he said. You don't feel criminal, do you? She looked at him with startled gray eyes. Criminal, she said. No. But you seem to feel you have done a wrong. No, she said. I only think if they knew. If they knew, they'd cease to understand. As it is, they do understand, and they like it. What do they matter? Here, with only the trees and me, you don't feel not the least bit wrong, do you? He took her by the arm, held her facing him, holding her eyes with his. Something fretted him. Not sinners, are we? He said with an uneasy little frown. No, she replied. He kissed her, laughing. You like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe, he said. I believe Eve enjoyed it when she went cowering out of paradise. But there was a certain glow and quietness about her that made him glad. When he was alone in the railway carriage, he found himself too multuously happy, and the people exceedingly nice, and the night lovely, and everything good. Mrs. Morrill was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not good now, and there had come that ivory pallor into her face, which he never noticed, and which afterwards he never forgot. She did not mention her own ill health to him. After all, she thought, it was not much. You were late, she said, looking at him. His eyes were shining, his face seemed to glow. He smiled to her. Yes, I've been downcliffed and grove with Clara. His mother looked at him again. But won't people talk, she said. Why, they know she's a suffragette and so on, and what if they do talk? Of course, there may be nothing wrong in it, said his mother. But you know what folks are, and if once she gets talked about. Well, I can't help it. Their jaw isn't so almighty important after all. I think you ought to consider her. So I do. What can people say, that we take a walk together? I believe you're jealous. You know I should be glad if she weren't a married woman. Well, my dear, she lives separate from her husband and talks on platforms, so she's already singled out from the sheep, and as far as I can see hasn't much to lose. No, her life's nothing to her, so what's the worth of nothing? She goes with me. It becomes something. Then she must pay. We both must pay. Folk are so frightened of paying, they'd rather starve and die. Very well, my son. We'll see how it will end. Very well, my mother. I'll abide by the end. We'll see. And she's— She's awfully nice, mother. She is, really. You don't know. That's not the same as marrying her. It's perhaps better. There was silence for a while. He wanted to ask his mother something, but was afraid. Should you like to know her? He hesitated. Yes, said Mrs. Moral Cooley. I should like to know what she's like. But she's nice, mother. She is, and not a bit common. I never suggested she was. But you seem to think she's not as good as— She's better than ninety-nine folk out of a hundred, I tell you. She's better, she is. She's fair. She's honest. She's straight. There isn't anything underhand or superior about her. Don't be mean about her. Mrs. Moral flushed. I am sure I am not mean about her. She may be quite as you say, but you don't approve. He finished. And do you expect me to? She answered coldly. Yes, yes. If you'd anything about you, you'd be glad. Do you want to see her? I said I did. Then I'll bring her. Shall I bring her here? You please yourself. Then I will bring her here. One Sunday to tea. If you think a hard thing about her, I shan't forgive you. His mother laughed. As if it would make any difference, she said. He knew he had won. Oh, but it feels so fine when she's there. She's such a queen in her way. End of Part One of Chapter 12