"SONS AND LOVERS\n\nD. H. LAWRENCE\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n     PART I\n     1.   The Early Married Life of the Morels\n     2.   The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle\n     3.   The Casting Off of Morel--The Taking on of William\n     4.   The Young Life of Paul\n     5.   Paul Launches into Life\n     6.   Death in the Family\n\n     PART II\n\n     7.   Lad-and-Girl Love\n     8.   Strife in Love\n     9.   Defeat of Miriam\n     10.  Clara\n     11.  The Test on Miriam\n     12.  Passion\n     13.  Baxter Dawes\n     14.  The Release\n     15.  Derelict\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS\n\n\"THE BOTTOMS\" succeeded to \"Hell Row\". Hell Row was a block of thatched,\nbulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There\nlived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away.\nThe brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small\nmines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded\nwearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were these\nsame pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, the\nfew colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth,\nmaking queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields and\nthe meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs\nhere and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers,\nstraying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood.\n\nThen, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place, gin-pits were\nelbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and iron\nfield of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waite\nand Co. appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formally\nopened the company's first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood\nForest.\n\nAbout this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old had\nacquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansed\naway.\n\nCarston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, down the\nvalleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, until\nsoon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstone\namong the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of the\nCarthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, down to Spinney Park, then on to\nMinton, a large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands\nof the valleyside to Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and running\nnorth to Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of\nDerbyshire: six mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by a\nloop of fine chain, the railway.\n\nTo accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. built the\nSquares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood,\nand then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected the\nBottoms.\n\nThe Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two rows\nof three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in a\nblock. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp\nslope from Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, on\nthe slow climb of the valley towards Selby.\n\nThe houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk\nall round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in\nthe shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny\ntop block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privet\nhedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; that\nwas the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers' wives.\nThe dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facing\ninward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then at\nthe ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits,\nwent the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and the\nmen smoked. So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, that\nwas so well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury because\npeople must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that\nnasty alley of ash-pits.\n\nMrs. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which was already\ntwelve years old and on the downward path, when she descended to it from\nBestwood. But it was the best she could do. Moreover, she had an end\nhouse in one of the top blocks, and thus had only one neighbour; on\nthe other side an extra strip of garden. And, having an end house, she\nenjoyed a kind of aristocracy among the other women of the \"between\"\nhouses, because her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead of\nfive shillings a week. But this superiority in station was not much\nconsolation to Mrs. Morel.\n\nShe was thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rather\nsmall woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she shrank a little\nfrom the first contact with the Bottoms women. She came down in the\nJuly, and in the September expected her third baby.\n\nHer husband was a miner. They had only been in their new home three\nweeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she knew, was sure to make\na holiday of it. He went off early on the Monday morning, the day of\nthe fair. The two children were highly excited. William, a boy of seven,\nfled off immediately after breakfast, to prowl round the wakes ground,\nleaving Annie, who was only five, to whine all morning to go also. Mrs.\nMorel did her work. She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew no\none with whom to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her to\nthe wakes after dinner.\n\nWilliam appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad,\nfair-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about him.\n\n\"Can I have my dinner, mother?\" he cried, rushing in with his cap on.\n\"'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so.\"\n\n\"You can have your dinner as soon as it's done,\" replied the mother.\n\n\"Isn't it done?\" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indignation.\n\"Then I'm goin' be-out it.\"\n\n\"You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It is\nonly half-past twelve.\"\n\n\"They'll be beginnin',\" the boy half cried, half shouted.\n\n\"You won't die if they do,\" said the mother. \"Besides, it's only\nhalf-past twelve, so you've a full hour.\"\n\nThe lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat down.\nThey were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy jumped off his\nchair and stood perfectly stiff. Some distance away could be heard the\nfirst small braying of a merry-go-round, and the tooting of a horn. His\nface quivered as he looked at his mother.\n\n\"I told you!\" he said, running to the dresser for his cap.\n\n\"Take your pudding in your hand--and it's only five past one, so you\nwere wrong--you haven't got your twopence,\" cried the mother in a\nbreath.\n\nThe boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then went\noff without a word.\n\n\"I want to go, I want to go,\" said Annie, beginning to cry.\n\n\"Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!\" said the\nmother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill under the\ntall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from the fields, and\ncattle were turned on to the eddish. It was warm, peaceful.\n\nMrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of horses, one\ngoing by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three organs were grinding,\nand there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, fearful screeching of the\ncocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt Sally man, screeches from the\npeep-show lady. The mother perceived her son gazing enraptured outside\nthe Lion Wallace booth, at the pictures of this famous lion that had\nkilled a negro and maimed for life two white men. She left him alone,\nand went to get Annie a spin of toffee. Presently the lad stood in front\nof her, wildly excited.\n\n\"You never said you was coming--isn't the' a lot of things?--that lion's\nkilled three men--I've spent my tuppence--an' look here.\"\n\nHe pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses on them.\n\n\"I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles in\nthem holes. An' I got these two in two goes-'aepenny a go-they've got\nmoss-roses on, look here. I wanted these.\"\n\nShe knew he wanted them for her.\n\n\"H'm!\" she said, pleased. \"They ARE pretty!\"\n\n\"Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?\"\n\nHe was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about the ground,\nshowed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she explained the\npictures, in a sort of story, to which he listened as if spellbound. He\nwould not leave her. All the time he stuck close to her, bristling with\na small boy's pride of her. For no other woman looked such a lady as she\ndid, in her little black bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she saw\nwomen she knew. When she was tired she said to her son:\n\n\"Well, are you coming now, or later?\"\n\n\"Are you goin' a'ready?\" he cried, his face full of reproach.\n\n\"Already? It is past four, I know.\"\n\n\"What are you goin' a'ready for?\" he lamented.\n\n\"You needn't come if you don't want,\" she said.\n\nAnd she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son stood\nwatching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable to leave\nthe wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the Moon and Stars\nshe heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, and hurried a little,\nthinking her husband was probably in the bar.\n\nAt about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather pale, and\nsomewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did not know it, because\nhe had let her go alone. Since she had gone, he had not enjoyed his\nwakes.\n\n\"Has my dad been?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" said the mother.\n\n\"He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through that\nblack tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves rolled up.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed the mother shortly. \"He's got no money. An' he'll be\nsatisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him more or not.\"\n\nWhen the light was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more to sew, she\nrose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound of excitement, the\nrestlessness of the holiday, that at last infected her. She went\nout into the side garden. Women were coming home from the wakes, the\nchildren hugging a white lamb with green legs, or a wooden horse.\nOccasionally a man lurched past, almost as full as he could carry.\nSometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. But\nusually the women and children were alone. The stay-at-home mothers\nstood gossiping at the corners of the alley, as the twilight sank,\nfolding their arms under their white aprons.\n\nMrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her little\ngirl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind her,\nfixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. The world\nseemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen for her--at\nleast until William grew up. But for herself, nothing but this dreary\nendurance--till the children grew up. And the children! She could not\nafford to have this third. She did not want it. The father was serving\nbeer in a public house, swilling himself drunk. She despised him, and\nwas tied to him. This coming child was too much for her. If it were not\nfor William and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with poverty and\nugliness and meanness.\n\nShe went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take herself out,\nyet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And looking ahead,\nthe prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive.\n\nThe front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There she\nstood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and the\nfading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the stile that\nled uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow of the cut\npastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow sank\nquickly off the field; the earth and the hedges smoked dusk. As it grew\ndark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out of the glare the\ndiminished commotion of the fair.\n\nSometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path under the\nhedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed into a run down\nthe steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a crash into the stile.\nMrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up, swearing viciously, rather\npathetically, as if he thought the stile had wanted to hurt him.\n\nShe went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. She was\nbeginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed so far\naway from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same person walking\nheavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run so lightly up the\nbreakwater at Sheerness ten years before.\n\n\"What have I to do with it?\" she said to herself. \"What have I to do\nwith all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem as if\nI were taken into account.\"\n\nSometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes\none's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were\nslurred over.\n\n\"I wait,\" Mrs. Morel said to herself--\"I wait, and what I wait for can\nnever come.\"\n\nThen she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, looked\nout the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After which\nshe sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her needle flashed\nregularly through the stuff. Occasionally she sighed, moving to relieve\nherself. And all the time she was thinking how to make the most of what\nshe had, for the children's sakes.\n\nAt half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very red and\nvery shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded slightly. He was\npleased with himself.\n\n\"Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpin' Anthony, an' what's\nthink he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'f-crown, an' that's ivry\npenny--\"\n\n\"He thinks you've made the rest up in beer,\" she said shortly.\n\n\"An' I 'aven't--that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very little\nthis day, I have an' all.\" His voice went tender. \"Here, an' I browt\nthee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children.\" He laid the\ngingerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. \"Nay, tha\nniver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?\"\n\nAs a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if it\nhad any milk.\n\n\"It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' Bill\nHodgkisson. 'Bill,' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does ter?\nArena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I ham,\nWalter, my lad,' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind.' An' so I\ntook one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes,\nbut 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt.' An' so, yer\nsee, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nice\nchap!\"\n\n\"A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're drunk\nalong with him,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy, who's drunk, I sh'd like ter know?\" said\nMorel. He was extraordinarily pleased with himself, because of his day's\nhelping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered on.\n\nMrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as quickly\nas possible, while he raked the fire.\n\nMrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, famous independents\nwho had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who remained stout\nCongregationalists. Her grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-market\nat a time when so many lace-manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Her\nfather, George Coppard, was an engineer--a large, handsome, haughty\nman, proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of his\nintegrity. Gertrude resembled her mother in her small build. But her\ntemper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards.\n\nGeorge Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He became foreman\nof the engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness. Mrs. Morel--Gertrude--was\nthe second daughter. She favoured her mother, loved her mother best of\nall; but she had the Coppards' clear, defiant blue eyes and their broad\nbrow. She remembered to have hated her father's overbearing manner\ntowards her gentle, humorous, kindly-souled mother. She remembered\nrunning over the breakwater at Sheerness and finding the boat. She\nremembered to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she had\ngone to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. She\nremembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had become, whom\nshe had loved to help in the private school. And she still had the Bible\nthat John Field had given her. She used to walk home from chapel\nwith John Field when she was nineteen. He was the son of a well-to-do\ntradesman, had been to college in London, and was to devote himself to\nbusiness.\n\nShe could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, when\nthey had sat under the vine at the back of her father's house. The sun\ncame through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made beautiful patterns,\nlike a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some of the leaves were\nclean yellow, like yellow flat flowers.\n\n\"Now sit still,\" he had cried. \"Now your hair, I don't know what it IS\nlike! It's as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, and\nit has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it's\nbrown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour.\"\n\nShe had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed the\nelation which rose within her.\n\n\"But you say you don't like business,\" she pursued.\n\n\"I don't. I hate it!\" he cried hotly.\n\n\"And you would like to go into the ministry,\" she half implored.\n\n\"I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate\npreacher.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you--why DON'T you?\" Her voice rang with defiance. \"If I\nwere a man, nothing would stop me.\"\n\nShe held her head erect. He was rather timid before her.\n\n\"But my father's so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business,\nand I know he'll do it.\"\n\n\"But if you're a MAN?\" she had cried.\n\n\"Being a man isn't everything,\" he replied, frowning with puzzled\nhelplessness.\n\nNow, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some experience of\nwhat being a man meant, she knew that it was NOT everything.\n\nAt twenty, owing to her health, she had left Sheerness. Her father had\nretired home to Nottingham. John Field's father had been ruined; the\nson had gone as a teacher in Norwood. She did not hear of him until, two\nyears later, she made determined inquiry. He had married his landlady, a\nwoman of forty, a widow with property.\n\nAnd still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's Bible. She did not now\nbelieve him to be--Well, she understood pretty well what he might or\nmight not have been. So she preserved his Bible, and kept his memory\nintact in her heart, for her own sake. To her dying day, for thirty-five\nyears, she did not speak of him.\n\nWhen she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas party, a\nyoung man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then twenty-seven years\nold. He was well set-up, erect, and very smart. He had wavy black hair\nthat shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved.\nHis cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist mouth was noticeable because\nhe laughed so often and so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich,\nringing laugh. Gertrude Coppard had watched him, fascinated. He was\nso full of colour and animation, his voice ran so easily into comic\ngrotesque, he was so ready and so pleasant with everybody. Her own\nfather had a rich fund of humour, but it was satiric. This man's was\ndifferent: soft, non-intellectual, warm, a kind of gambolling.\n\nShe herself was opposite. She had a curious, receptive mind which found\nmuch pleasure and amusement in listening to other folk. She was clever\nin leading folk to talk. She loved ideas, and was considered very\nintellectual. What she liked most of all was an argument on religion or\nphilosophy or politics with some educated man. This she did not often\nenjoy. So she always had people tell her about themselves, finding her\npleasure so.\n\nIn her person she was rather small and delicate, with a large brow, and\ndropping bunches of brown silk curls. Her blue eyes were very straight,\nhonest, and searching. She had the beautiful hands of the Coppards.\nHer dress was always subdued. She wore dark blue silk, with a peculiar\nsilver chain of silver scallops. This, and a heavy brooch of twisted\ngold, was her only ornament. She was still perfectly intact, deeply\nreligious, and full of beautiful candour.\n\nWalter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the miner that\nthing of mystery and fascination, a lady. When she spoke to him, it was\nwith a southern pronunciation and a purity of English which thrilled\nhim to hear. She watched him. He danced well, as if it were natural and\njoyous in him to dance. His grandfather was a French refugee who had\nmarried an English barmaid--if it had been a marriage. Gertrude Coppard\nwatched the young miner as he danced, a certain subtle exultation like\nglamour in his movement, and his face the flower of his body, ruddy,\nwith tumbled black hair, and laughing alike whatever partner he bowed\nabove. She thought him rather wonderful, never having met anyone like\nhim. Her father was to her the type of all men. And George Coppard,\nproud in his bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who preferred\ntheology in reading, and who drew near in sympathy only to one man, the\nApostle Paul; who was harsh in government, and in familiarity ironic;\nwho ignored all sensuous pleasure:--he was very different from the\nminer. Gertrude herself was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had not\nthe slightest inclination towards that accomplishment, and had never\nlearned even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father,\nhigh-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of\nthis man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the\nflame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by\nthought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful,\nbeyond her.\n\nHe came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through her as if she had\ndrunk wine.\n\n\"Now do come and have this one wi' me,\" he said caressively. \"It's easy,\nyou know. I'm pining to see you dance.\"\n\nShe had told him before she could not dance. She glanced at his humility\nand smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It moved the man so that he\nforgot everything.\n\n\"No, I won't dance,\" she said softly. Her words came clean and ringing.\n\nNot knowing what he was doing--he often did the right thing by\ninstinct--he sat beside her, inclining reverentially.\n\n\"But you mustn't miss your dance,\" she reproved.\n\n\n\"Nay, I don't want to dance that--it's not one as I care about.\"\n\n\"Yet you invited me to it.\"\n\nHe laughed very heartily at this.\n\n\"I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in taking the curl out of me.\"\n\nIt was her turn to laugh quickly.\n\n\"You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it,\" he laughed,\nrather boisterously.\n\n\"And you are a miner!\" she exclaimed in surprise.\n\n\"Yes. I went down when I was ten.\"\n\nShe looked at him in wondering dismay.\n\n\"When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?\" she asked.\n\n\"You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop out at\nnight to see what's going on.\"\n\n\"It makes me feel blind,\" she frowned.\n\n\"Like a moudiwarp!\" he laughed. \"Yi, an' there's some chaps as does\ngo round like moudiwarps.\" He thrust his face forward in the blind,\nsnout-like way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer for direction. \"They\ndun though!\" he protested naively. \"Tha niver seed such a way they get\nin. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time, an' tha can see for\nthysen.\"\n\nShe looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenly\nopened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds of them\ntoiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed to her noble. He\nrisked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked at him, with a touch\nof appeal in her pure humility.\n\n\"Shouldn't ter like it?\" he asked tenderly. \"'Appen not, it 'ud dirty\nthee.\"\n\nShe had never been \"thee'd\" and \"thou'd\" before.\n\nThe next Christmas they were married, and for three months she was\nperfectly happy: for six months she was very happy.\n\nHe had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: he\nwas nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his own house.\nIt was small, but convenient enough, and quite nicely furnished,\nwith solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest soul. The women, her\nneighbours, were rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother and sisters\nwere apt to sneer at her ladylike ways. But she could perfectly well\nlive by herself, so long as she had her husband close.\n\nSometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to open her\nheart seriously to him. She saw him listen deferentially, but without\nunderstanding. This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and she had\nflashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of an evening: it was not\nenough for him just to be near her, she realised. She was glad when he\nset himself to little jobs.\n\nHe was a remarkably handy man--could make or mend anything. So she would\nsay:\n\n\"I do like that coal-rake of your mother's--it is small and natty.\"\n\n\"Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee one!\"\n\n\"What! why, it's a steel one!\"\n\n\"An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactly\nsame.\"\n\nShe did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy and\nhappy.\n\nBut in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, she\nfelt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity,\ntook them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was married\nin: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning the\npapers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid.\n\n\"Look here,\" she said at night, after he was washed and had had his\ndinner. \"I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. Haven't you\nsettled the bills yet?\"\n\n\"No. I haven't had a chance.\"\n\n\"But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottingham on\nSaturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's chairs\nand eating from an unpaid table.\"\n\nHe did not answer.\n\n\"I can have your bank-book, can't I?\"\n\n\"Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee.\"\n\n\"I thought--\" she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money left\nover. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigid\nwith bitterness and indignation.\n\nThe next day she went down to see his mother.\n\n\"Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, I did,\" tartly retorted the elder woman.\n\n\"And how much did he give you to pay for it?\"\n\nThe elder woman was stung with fine indignation.\n\n\"Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin',\" she replied.\n\n\"Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!\"\n\n\"I can't help that.\"\n\n\"But where has it all gone?\"\n\n\"You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look--beside ten pound as\nhe owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down here.\"\n\n\"Six pounds!\" echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that,\nafter her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six pounds\nmore should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter's\nparents' house, at his expense.\n\n\"And how much has he sunk in his houses?\" she asked.\n\n\"His houses--which houses?\"\n\nGertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house he\nlived in, and the next one, was his own.\n\n\"I thought the house we live in--\" she began.\n\n\"They're my houses, those two,\" said the mother-in-law. \"And not clear\neither. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid.\"\n\nGertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now.\n\n\"Then we ought to be paying you rent,\" she said coldly.\n\n\"Walter is paying me rent,\" replied the mother.\n\n\"And what rent?\" asked Gertrude.\n\n\"Six and six a week,\" retorted the mother.\n\nIt was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect,\nlooked straight before her.\n\n\"It is lucky to be you,\" said the elder woman, bitingly, \"to have a\nhusband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free\nhand.\"\n\nThe young wife was silent.\n\nShe said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towards\nhim. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard\nas rock.\n\nWhen October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, at\nChristmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This\nChristmas she would bear him a child.\n\n\"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?\" asked her nearest neighbour,\nin October, when there was great talk of opening a dancing-class over\nthe Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood.\n\n\"No--I never had the least inclination to,\" Mrs. Morel replied.\n\n\"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You know\nhe's quite a famous one for dancing.\"\n\n\"I didn't know he was famous,\" laughed Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners' Arms\nclub-room for over five year.\"\n\n\"Did he?\"\n\n\"Yes, he did.\" The other woman was defiant. \"An' it was thronged\nevery Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAS carryin's-on,\naccordin' to all accounts.\"\n\nThis kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel, and she had\na fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first; for she was\nsuperior, though she could not help it.\n\nHe began to be rather late in coming home.\n\n\"They're working very late now, aren't they?\" she said to her\nwasher-woman.\n\n\"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop to have\ntheir pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner\nstone cold--an' it serves 'em right.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink.\"\n\nThe woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then went on with\nher work, saying nothing.\n\nGertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born. Morel was good to\nher, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely, miles away from her own\npeople. She felt lonely with him now, and his presence only made it more\nintense.\n\nThe boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He was\na beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes which\nchanged gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him passionately.\nHe came just when her own bitterness of disillusion was hardest to bear;\nwhen her faith in life was shaken, and her soul felt dreary and lonely.\nShe made much of the child, and the father was jealous.\n\nAt last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned to the child; she\nturned from the father. He had begun to neglect her; the novelty of his\nown home was gone. He had no grit, she said bitterly to herself. What\nhe felt just at the minute, that was all to him. He could not abide by\nanything. There was nothing at the back of all his show.\n\nThere began a battle between the husband and wife--a fearful, bloody\nbattle that ended only with the death of one. She fought to make him\nundertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfill his obligations.\nBut he was too different from her. His nature was purely sensuous, and\nshe strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face\nthings. He could not endure it--it drove him out of his mind.\n\nWhile the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become so\nirritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give a\nlittle trouble when the man began to bully. A little more, and the hard\nhands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed her husband,\nloathed him for days; and he went out and drank; and she cared very\nlittle what he did. Only, on his return, she scathed him with her\nsatire.\n\nThe estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly,\ngrossly to offend her where he would not have done.\n\nWilliam was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him, he was\nso pretty. She was not well off now, but her sisters kept the boy in\nclothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather,\nand his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps of hair\nclustering round his head. Mrs. Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning,\nto the chatter of the father and child downstairs. Then she dozed off.\nWhen she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in the grate, the room was\nhot, the breakfast was roughly laid, and seated in his armchair, against\nthe chimney-piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing between\nhis legs, the child--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round\npoll--looking wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out upon\nthe hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a\nmarigold scattered in the reddening firelight.\n\nMrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She went very white, and\nwas unable to speak.\n\n\"What dost think o' 'im?\" Morel laughed uneasily.\n\nShe gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward. Morel shrank\nback.\n\n\"I could kill you, I could!\" she said. She choked with rage, her two\nfists uplifted.\n\n\"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im,\" Morel said, in a frightened\ntone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers. His attempt at\nlaughter had vanished.\n\nThe mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of her child.\nShe put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head.\n\n\"Oh--my boy!\" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke, and,\nsnatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried\npainfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts as\nit hurts a man. It was like ripping something out of her, her sobbing.\n\nMorel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together till\nthe knuckles were white. He gazed in the fire, feeling almost stunned,\nas if he could not breathe.\n\nPresently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared away the\nbreakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls, spread\nupon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and put it at\nthe back of the fire. She went about her work with closed mouth and very\nquiet. Morel was subdued. He crept about wretchedly, and his meals were\na misery that day. She spoke to him civilly, and never alluded to what\nhe had done. But he felt something final had happened.\n\nAfterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would have\nhad to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even brought herself to\nsay to her husband it was just as well he had played barber when he\ndid. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had caused something\nmomentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all her\nlife, as one in which she had suffered the most intensely.\n\nThis act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her\nlove for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him bitterly, she\nhad fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her. Now she ceased\nto fret for his love: he was an outsider to her. This made life much\nmore bearable.\n\nNevertheless, she still continued to strive with him. She still had her\nhigh moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now a\nreligious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with him, because\nshe loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned, she tortured him. If he\ndrank, and lied, was often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she wielded\nthe lash unmercifully.\n\nThe pity was, she was too much his opposite. She could not be content\nwith the little he might be; she would have him the much that he ought\nto be. So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be, she destroyed\nhim. She injured and hurt and scarred herself, but she lost none of her\nworth. She also had the children.\n\nHe drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners, and always\nbeer, so that whilst his health was affected, it was never injured.\nThe week-end was his chief carouse. He sat in the Miners' Arms until\nturning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday evening.\nOn Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and reluctantly leave towards ten\no'clock. Sometimes he stayed at home on Wednesday and Thursday evenings,\nor was only out for an hour. He practically never had to miss work owing\nto his drinking.\n\nBut although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off. He was\nblab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger. Authority was hateful to him, therefore\nhe could only abuse the pit-managers. He would say, in the Palmerston:\n\n\"Th' gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an' 'e says, 'You know,\nWalter, this 'ere'll not do. What about these props?' An' I says to him,\n'Why, what art talkin' about? What d'st mean about th' props?' 'It'll\nnever do, this 'ere,' 'e says. 'You'll be havin' th' roof in, one o'\nthese days.' An' I says, 'Tha'd better stan' on a bit o' clunch, then,\nan' hold it up wi' thy 'ead.' So 'e wor that mad, 'e cossed an' 'e\nswore, an' t'other chaps they did laugh.\" Morel was a good mimic. He\nimitated the manager's fat, squeaky voice, with its attempt at good\nEnglish.\n\n\"'I shan't have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or you?' So\nI says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred. It'll 'appen\ncarry thee ter bed an' back.\"'\n\nSo Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon companions. And some\nof this would be true. The pit-manager was not an educated man. He had\nbeen a boy along with Morel, so that, while the two disliked each other,\nthey more or less took each other for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth\ndid not forgive the butty these public-house sayings. Consequently,\nalthough Morel was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five\npounds a week when he married, he came gradually to have worse and worse\nstalls, where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and unprofitable.\n\nAlso, in summer, the pits are slack. Often, on bright sunny mornings,\nthe men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock.\nNo empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on the hillside look\nacross as they shake the hearthrug against the fence, and count the\nwagons the engine is taking along the line up the valley. And the\nchildren, as they come from school at dinner-time, looking down the\nfields and seeing the wheels on the headstocks standing, say:\n\n\"Minton's knocked off. My dad'll be at home.\"\n\nAnd there is a sort of shadow over all, women and children and men,\nbecause money will be short at the end of the week.\n\nMorel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week, to\nprovide everything--rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors.\nOccasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five. But these\noccasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty-five. In\nwinter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or fifty-five\nshillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, and\nSunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts.\nAnd out of so much, he scarcely spared the children an extra penny or\nbought them a pound of apples. It all went in drink. In the bad times,\nmatters were more worrying, but he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs.\nMorel used to say:\n\n\"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush, there\nisn't a minute of peace.\"\n\nIf he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from thirty-five he kept five;\nfrom thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three; from\ntwenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one-and-six; from eighteen\nhe kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence. He never saved a\npenny, and he gave his wife no opportunity of saving; instead, she had\noccasionally to pay his debts; not public-house debts, for those never\nwere passed on to the women, but debts when he had bought a canary, or a\nfancy walking-stick.\n\nAt the wakes time Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel was trying\nto save against her confinement. So it galled her bitterly to think\nhe should be out taking his pleasure and spending money, whilst she\nremained at home, harassed. There were two days' holiday. On the Tuesday\nmorning Morel rose early. He was in good spirits. Quite early, before\nsix o'clock, she heard him whistling away to himself downstairs. He\nhad a pleasant way of whistling, lively and musical. He nearly always\nwhistled hymns. He had been a choir-boy with a beautiful voice, and had\ntaken solos in Southwell cathedral. His morning whistling alone betrayed\nit.\n\nHis wife lay listening to him tinkering away in the garden, his\nwhistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away. It always gave\nher a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she lay in bed, the\nchildren not yet awake, in the bright early morning, happy in his man's\nfashion.\n\nAt nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were sitting\nplaying on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he came in from his\ncarpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat hanging open. He was\nstill a good-looking man, with black, wavy hair, and a large black\nmoustache. His face was perhaps too much inflamed, and there was about\nhim a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straight\nto the sink where his wife was washing up.\n\n\"What, are thee there!\" he said boisterously. \"Sluthe off an' let me\nwesh mysen.\"\n\n\"You may wait till I've finished,\" said his wife.\n\n\"Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?\"\n\nThis good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub.\"\n\n\"Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy.\"\n\nWith which he stood watching her a moment, then went away to wait for\nher.\n\nWhen he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. Usually\nhe preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, however, he\nmade a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the way he puffed and\nswilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity with which he hurried to\nthe mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him,\nscrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He\nput on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat.\nAs such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his\ninstinct for making the most of his good looks would.\n\nAt half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was\nMorel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall,\nthin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack\neyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were\non a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where he\nintended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or\nless to take charge of him.\n\nMrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had died of\nconsumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislike\nof her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her haemorrhage.\nNone of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now his eldest daughter,\na girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the two\nyounger children.\n\n\"A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!\" Mrs. Morel said of him.\n\n\"I've never known Jerry mean in MY life,\" protested Morel. \"A\nopener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find anywhere, accordin'\nto my knowledge.\"\n\n\"Open-handed to you,\" retorted Mrs. Morel. \"But his fist is shut tight\nenough to his children, poor things.\"\n\n\"Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know.\"\n\nBut Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score.\n\nThe subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over the\nscullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel's eye.\n\n\"Mornin', missis! Mester in?\"\n\n\"Yes--he is.\"\n\nJerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was not\ninvited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of men\nand husbands.\n\n\"A nice day,\" he said to Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Yes.\n\n\"Grand out this morning--grand for a walk.\"\n\n\"Do you mean YOU'RE going for a walk?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottingham,\" he replied.\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nThe two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, full of\nassurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in presence\nof his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. They were\ngoing for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham. Climbing the\nhillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the morning. At the\nMoon and Stars they had their first drink, then on to the Old Spot. Then\na long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a glorious\npint of bitter. But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whose\ngallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city,\nMorel was sleepy. The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely\nin the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spires\nand factory bulks and chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under\nan oak tree and slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go\nforward he felt queer.\n\nThe two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repaired\nto the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing.\nMorel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some\noccult, malevolent power--\"the devil's pictures,\" he called them! But\nhe was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge from\na Newark man, on skittles. All the men in the old, long bar took sides,\nbetting either one way or the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry held\nthe hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Some\nstood with their mugs in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball\ncarefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and\nwon half a crown, which restored him to solvency.\n\nBy seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caught the 7.30\ntrain home.\n\nIn the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant remaining\nwas out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in white\naprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a rest\nbetween drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale;\nthe slate roofs glistered in the arid heat.\n\nMrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, which\nwere not more than two hundred yards away. The water ran quickly over\nstones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned on the rail of the old\nsheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of the\nmeadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round the\ndeep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over\nthe blackish stagnant meadow. She knew William was at the dipping-hole,\nand it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie\nplayed under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called\ncurrants. The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing.\n\nThe children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then she worked awhile.\n\nWhen Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load off\ntheir minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put the\nfinishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with the\nsatisfaction of returned travellers.\n\nThe next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on the\nmen's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were\nalready rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow.\nMrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing, went indoors. Nine\no'clock passed, and ten, and still \"the pair\" had not returned. On a\ndoorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl: \"Lead, kindly\nLight.\" Mrs. Morel was always indignant with the drunken men that they\nmust sing that hymn when they got maudlin.\n\n\"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough,\" she said.\n\nThe kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On the hob a\nlarge black saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel took a panchion, a great\nbowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom,\nand then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor.\n\nJust then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but\ncoming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over the feeling\nof irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he was\nso hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house.\nHe did not know he was angry. But when the garden gate resisted his\nattempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just\nas Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan.\nSwaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquor\npitched. Mrs. Morel started back.\n\n\"Good gracious,\" she cried, \"coming home in his drunkenness!\"\n\n\"Comin' home in his what?\" he snarled, his hat over his eye.\n\nSuddenly her blood rose in a jet.\n\n\"Say you're NOT drunk!\" she flashed.\n\nShe had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into the\nbeer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his face\nforwards at her.\n\n\"'Say you're not drunk,'\" he repeated. \"Why, nobody but a nasty little\nbitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought.\"\n\nHe thrust his face forward at her.\n\n\"There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else.\"\n\n\"I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day,\" he said.\n\n\"You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing,\" she replied. \"And,\"\nshe cried, flashing into sudden fury, \"if you've been sponging on your\nbeloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it.\"\n\n\"It's a lie, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman.\"\n\nThey were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the hatred of\nthe other and the battle between them. She was fiery and furious as he.\nThey went on till he called her a liar.\n\n\"No,\" she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. \"Don't call me\nthat--you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather.\"\nShe forced the last words out of suffocated lungs.\n\n\"You're a liar!\" he yelled, banging the table with his fist. \"You're a\nliar, you're a liar.\"\n\nShe stiffened herself, with clenched fists.\n\n\"The house is filthy with you,\" she cried.\n\n\"Then get out on it--it's mine. Get out on it!\" he shouted. \"It's me as\nbrings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. Then ger out\non't--ger out on't!\"\n\n\"And I would,\" she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence. \"Ah,\nwouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those children. Ay,\nhaven't I repented not going years ago, when I'd only the one\"--suddenly\ndrying into rage. \"Do you think it's for YOU I stop--do you think I'd\nstop one minute for YOU?\"\n\n\"Go, then,\" he shouted, beside himself. \"Go!\"\n\n\"No!\" She faced round. \"No,\" she cried loudly, \"you shan't have it ALL\nyour own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've got those children to see\nto. My word,\" she laughed, \"I should look well to leave them to you.\"\n\n\"Go,\" he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. \"Go!\"\n\n\"I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I could\nget away from you,\" she replied.\n\nHe came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, thrust\nforward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled to be\nfree. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her roughly to the\nouter door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt behind her with a\nbang. Then he went back into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair, his\nhead, bursting full of blood, sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped\ngradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and intoxication.\n\nThe moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel,\nseared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a great white\nlight, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her inflamed soul.\nShe stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the glistening great\nrhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She\nwalked down the garden path, trembling in every limb, while the child\nboiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness;\nmechanically she went over the last scene, then over it again, certain\nphrases, certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down on\nher soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each time the\nbrand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and the\npain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half\nan hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came\nagain to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered to the side\ngarden, where she was walking up and down the path beside the currant\nbushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from\nthe road, that cut transversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn\nhedge.\n\nShe hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could stand\nas if in an immense gulf of white light, the moon streaming high in face\nof her, the moonlight standing up from the hills in front, and filling\nthe valley where the Bottoms crouched, almost blindingly. There, panting\nand half weeping in reaction from the stress, she murmured to herself\nover and over again: \"The nuisance! the nuisance!\"\n\nShe became aware of something about her. With an effort she roused\nherself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tall\nwhite lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air was charged with\ntheir perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gasped slightly in fear.\nShe touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals, then shivered.\nThey seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into\none white bin: the gold scarcely showed on her fingers by moonlight. She\nbent down to look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeared\ndusky. Then she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made her\ndizzy.\n\nMrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and she lost herself\nawhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feeling\nof sickness, and her consciousness in the child, herself melted out like\nscent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted with\nher in the mixing-pot of moonlight, and she rested with the hills and\nlilies and houses, all swum together in a kind of swoon.\n\nWhen she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly she looked\nabout her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spread with\nlinen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden.\nFollowing it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw, strong\nscent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path, hesitating at\nthe white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the white\nruffles of the roses. Their fresh scent and cool, soft leaves reminded\nher of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she\nwas tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt\nforlorn.\n\nThere was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had not been\nwakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away,\nroared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange,\nstretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-grey\nfog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake not far off,\nsound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men.\n\nHer quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hurried down\nthe side garden to the back of the house. Softly she lifted the latch;\nthe door was still bolted, and hard against her. She rapped gently,\nwaited, then rapped again. She must not rouse the children, nor the\nneighbours. He must be asleep, and he would not wake easily. Her heart\nbegan to burn to be indoors. She clung to the door-handle. Now it was\ncold; she would take a chill, and in her present condition!\n\nPutting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried again to the\nside garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the sill, she\ncould just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spread out on the\ntable, and his black head on the board. He was sleeping with his face\nlying on the table. Something in his attitude made her feel tired of\nthings. The lamp was burning smokily; she could tell by the copper\ncolour of the light. She tapped at the window more and more noisily.\nAlmost it seemed as if the glass would break. Still he did not wake up.\n\nAfter vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact with the\nstone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn child, she\nwondered what she could do for warmth. She went down to the coal-house,\nwhere there was an old hearthrug she had carried out for the rag-man the\nday before. This she wrapped over her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy.\nThen she walked up and down the garden path, peeping every now and then\nunder the blind, knocking, and telling herself that in the end the very\nstrain of his position must wake him.\n\nAt last, after about an hour, she rapped long and low at the window.\nGradually the sound penetrated to him. When, in despair, she had ceased\nto tap, she saw him stir, then lift his face blindly. The labouring of\nhis heart hurt him into consciousness. She rapped imperatively at the\nwindow. He started awake. Instantly she saw his fists set and his\neyes glare. He had not a grain of physical fear. If it had been\ntwenty burglars, he would have gone blindly for them. He glared round,\nbewildered, but prepared to fight.\n\n\"Open the door, Walter,\" she said coldly.\n\nHis hands relaxed. It dawned on him what he had done. His head dropped,\nsullen and dogged. She saw him hurry to the door, heard the bolt chock.\nHe tried the latch. It opened--and there stood the silver-grey night,\nfearful to him, after the tawny light of the lamp. He hurried back.\n\nWhen Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him almost running through the door\nto the stairs. He had ripped his collar off his neck in his haste to\nbe gone ere she came in, and there it lay with bursten button-holes. It\nmade her angry.\n\nShe warmed and soothed herself. In her weariness forgetting everything,\nshe moved about at the little tasks that remained to be done, set his\nbreakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes on the hearth\nto warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out a clean scarf and\nsnap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was already\ndead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows were drawn up in a sort of\npeevish misery into his forehead while his cheeks' down-strokes, and his\nsulky mouth, seemed to be saying: \"I don't care who you are nor what you\nare, I SHALL have my own way.\"\n\nMrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she unfastened her\nbrooch at the mirror, she smiled faintly to see her face all smeared\nwith the yellow dust of lilies. She brushed it off, and at last lay\ndown. For some time her mind continued snapping and jetting sparks,\nbut she was asleep before her husband awoke from the first sleep of his\ndrunkenness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE\n\nAFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed\nand ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet\nthere was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically\neven, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the\nleast stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive bearing, his\nphysique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral strength.\n\nBut now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her\nwork, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with\nhis help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening\ntill Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back again\nby ten o'clock, almost quite sober.\n\nHe always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had\nplenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed\nat six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out of\nbed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay waiting\nfor this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest seemed to be\nwhen he was out of the house.\n\nHe went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his\npit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There\nwas always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in\nthe house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel\nsmashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled\nand left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he\nwanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper.\nThen he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors\nwith rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an\nhour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat\non his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and\ncut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer,\nand was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He\nloathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely\nreached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in\nsolitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little\nstool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender,\nhis cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper--what\nof it he could--spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the\nblinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the\nhabit of the mine.\n\nAt a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter,\nand put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with\ntea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the\npit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vest\nof thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like a\nchemise.\n\nThen he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill,\nand because it occurred to him.\n\n\"I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it,\" she replied.\n\n\"Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again.\"\n\nShe accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.\n\n\"I'll back my life there's no sugar in,\" she said.\n\n\"Yi--there's one big 'un,\" he replied, injured.\n\n\"It's a wonder,\" she said, sipping again.\n\nShe had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble\nat him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any\nsort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and\nbutter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him.\nHe always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round\nhis neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket,\nthat carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into\nthe fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He\nloved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared\nat the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth,\nwhich he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling\nquite as happy as when he was in the field.\n\nLater, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round\nin his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace,\nsweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very\nself-righteous, he went upstairs.\n\n\"Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stir a peg all day,\nbut sit and read thy books.\"\n\nWhich made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.\n\n\"And the dinner cooks itself?\" she answered.\n\n\"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner.\"\n\n\"You'd know if there weren't any.\"\n\n\"Ay, 'appen so,\" he answered, departing.\n\nWhen she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She\ncould not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the\nash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have\nto go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden\nfence, she would call:\n\n\"So you keep wagging on, then?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. \"There's nothing else for it.\"\n\n\"Have you seen Hose?\" called a very small woman from across the road. It\nwas Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a\nbrown velvet dress, tight fitting.\n\n\"I haven't,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm sure I\nheered his bell.\"\n\n\"Hark! He's at the end.\"\n\nThe two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a\nman stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of\ncream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to\nhim, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy,\nundyed stockings hanging over her arm.\n\n\"I've done ten dozen this week,\" she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"T-t-t!\" went the other. \"I don't know how you can find time.\"\n\n\"Eh!\" said Mrs. Anthony. \"You can find time if you make time.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you do it,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"And how much shall you\nget for those many?\"\n\n\"Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen,\" replied the other.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"I'd starve before I'd sit down and seam\ntwenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Mrs. Anthony. \"You can rip along with 'em.\"\n\nHose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the\nyard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The\nman, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, and\nbullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully.\n\nIt was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, she\nshould put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace,\nwhich, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in the\nadjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started\nout of her skin as she heard the thud, thud, in her grate. With her\nhands all floury, she rushed to the fence.\n\n\"Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?\"\n\n\"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk.\"\n\nMrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morel's\ncopper, and ran in to her neighbour.\n\n\"Eh, dear, how are you feeling?\" she cried in concern.\n\n\"You might fetch Mrs. Bower,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nMrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, and\ncalled:\n\n\"Ag-gie--Ag-gie!\"\n\nThe sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last\nAggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, whilst Mrs. Kirk\nleft her pudding and stayed with her neighbour.\n\nMrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner. Mrs.\nBower, fat and waddling, bossed the house.\n\n\"Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make him an\napple-charlotte pudding,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"He may go without pudding this day,\" said Mrs. Bower.\n\nMorel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the\npit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o'clock, when the\nwhistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at this\ntime about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually till\nthe first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the\nminer was sick of the work. At two o'clock he looked at his watch, by\nthe light of the green candle--he was in a safe working--and again at\nhalf-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for\nthe next day's work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard\nblows with his pick, \"Uszza--uszza!\" he went.\n\n\"Shall ter finish, Sorry?\" cried Barker, his fellow butty.\n\n\"Finish? Niver while the world stands!\" growled Morel.\n\nAnd he went on striking. He was tired.\n\n\"It's a heart-breaking job,\" said Barker.\n\nBut Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer.\nStill he struck and hacked with all his might.\n\n\"Tha might as well leave it, Walter,\" said Barker. \"It'll do to-morrow,\nwithout thee hackin' thy guts out.\"\n\n\"I'll lay no b---- finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!\" cried Morel.\n\n\"Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else'll ha'e to,\" said Israel.\n\nThen Morel continued to strike.\n\n\"Hey-up there--LOOSE-A'!\" cried the men, leaving the next stall.\n\nMorel continued to strike.\n\n\"Tha'll happen catch me up,\" said Barker, departing.\n\nWhen he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished\nhis job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with\nsweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle,\ntook his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men\nwent swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long,\nheavy tramp underground.\n\nHe sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell\nplash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily.\nMorel gave his answers short and disagreeable.\n\n\"It's rainin', Sorry,\" said old Giles, who had had the news from the\ntop.\n\nMorel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in the\nlamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the top\nin a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he\nhad bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of\nthe pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain was\nfalling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the\nsides of the waggons, over the white \"C.W. and Co.\". Colliers, walking\nindifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field,\na grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from\nthe peppering of the drops thereon.\n\nAll along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and\ndirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked\nwith a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many\nmen passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen's. Morel, feeling\nsufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under\nthe dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of\nGreenhill Lane.\n\nMrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the\ncolliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as\nthey went through the stile up the field.\n\n\"There's some herb beer behind the pantry door,\" she said. \"Th'\nmaster'll want a drink, if he doesn't stop.\"\n\nBut he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it\nwas raining. What did he care about the child or her?\n\nShe was very ill when her children were born.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked, feeling sick to death.\n\n\"A boy.\"\n\nAnd she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of men\nwas warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes,\nand a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of\neverything. She had it in bed with her.\n\nMorel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearily\nand angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the sink; then he\nsluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the\ninner doorway.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy childt.\"\n\nThe miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle on the\ndresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, then came and\ndropped into his chair.\n\n\"Han yer got a drink?\" he asked.\n\nThe woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. She\nset the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel. He\ndrank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank,\ngasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him\nagain. She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs.\n\n\"Was that the master?\" asked Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"I've gave him his dinner,\" replied Mrs. Bower.\n\nAfter he had sat with his arms on the table--he resented the fact that\nMrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him a little plate, instead\nof a full-sized dinner-plate--he began to eat. The fact that his wife\nwas ill, that he had another boy, was nothing to him at that moment.\nHe was too tired; he wanted his dinner; he wanted to sit with his arms\nlying on the board; he did not like having Mrs. Bower about. The fire\nwas too small to please him.\n\nAfter he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes; then he\nstoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet, he went reluctantly\nupstairs. It was a struggle to face his wife at this moment, and he was\ntired. His face was black, and smeared with sweat. His singlet had\ndried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round his\nthroat. So he stood at the foot of the bed.\n\n\"Well, how are ter, then?\" he asked.\n\n\"I s'll be all right,\" she answered.\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nHe stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and this bother was\nrather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite know where he was.\n\n\"A lad, tha says,\" he stammered.\n\nShe turned down the sheet and showed the child.\n\n\"Bless him!\" he murmured. Which made her laugh, because he blessed by\nrote--pretending paternal emotion, which he did not feel just then.\n\n\"Go now,\" she said.\n\n\"I will, my lass,\" he answered, turning away.\n\nDismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half wanted\nhim to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any sign. She only\nbreathed freely when he was gone out of the room again, leaving behind\nhim a faint smell of pit-dirt.\n\nMrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational clergyman. Mr.\nHeaton was young, and very poor. His wife had died at the birth of his\nfirst baby, so he remained alone in the manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts\nof Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, and\nhe depended on her. For hours he talked to her, when she was well. He\nbecame the god-parent of the child.\n\nOccasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then she laid\nthe cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim, and\nhoped Morel would not come too soon; indeed, if he stayed for a pint,\nshe would not mind this day. She had always two dinners to cook, because\nshe believed children should have their chief meal at midday, whereas\nMorel needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby,\nwhilst Mrs. Morel beat up a batter-pudding or peeled the potatoes, and\nhe, watching her all the time, would discuss his next sermon. His ideas\nwere quaint and fantastic. She brought him judiciously to earth. It was\na discussion of the wedding at Cana.\n\n\"When He changed the water into wine at Cana,\" he said, \"that is a\nsymbol that the ordinary life, even the blood, of the married husband\nand wife, which had before been uninspired, like water, became filled\nwith the Spirit, and was as wine, because, when love enters, the whole\nspiritual constitution of a man changes, is filled with the Holy Ghost,\nand almost his form is altered.\"\n\nMrs. Morel thought to herself:\n\n\"Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why he makes his love\ninto the Holy Ghost.\"\n\nThey were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heard the\nsluther of pit-boots.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself.\n\nThe minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He was feeling rather\nsavage. He nodded a \"How d'yer do\" to the clergyman, who rose to shake\nhands with him.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Morel, showing his hand, \"look thee at it! Tha niver\nwants ter shake hands wi' a hand like that, does ter? There's too much\npick-haft and shovel-dirt on it.\"\n\nThe minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel\nrose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his coat,\ndragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily.\n\n\"Are you tired?\" asked the clergyman.\n\n\"Tired? I ham that,\" replied Morel. \"YOU don't know what it is to be\ntired, as I'M tired.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the clergyman.\n\n\"Why, look yer 'ere,\" said the miner, showing the shoulders of his\nsinglet. \"It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a clout with sweat even\nyet. Feel it.\"\n\n\"Goodness!\" cried Mrs. Morel. \"Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feel your\nnasty singlet.\"\n\nThe clergyman put out his hand gingerly.\n\n\"No, perhaps he doesn't,\" said Morel; \"but it's all come out of me,\nwhether or not. An' iv'ry day alike my singlet's wringin' wet. 'Aven't\nyou got a drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from\nthe pit?\"\n\n\"You know you drank all the beer,\" said Mrs. Morel, pouring out his tea.\n\n\"An' was there no more to be got?\" Turning to the clergyman--\"A man gets\nthat caked up wi' th' dust, you know,--that clogged up down a coal-mine,\nhe NEEDS a drink when he comes home.\"\n\n\"I am sure he does,\" said the clergyman.\n\n\"But it's ten to one if there's owt for him.\"\n\n\"There's water--and there's tea,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat.\"\n\nHe poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through his\ngreat black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out another\nsaucerful, and stood his cup on the table.\n\n\"My cloth!\" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate.\n\n\"A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths,\" said\nMorel.\n\n\"Pity!\" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically.\n\nThe room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes.\n\nHe leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward, his\nmouth very red in his black face.\n\n\"Mr. Heaton,\" he said, \"a man as has been down the black hole all day,\ndingin' away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harder than that wall--\"\n\n\"Needn't make a moan of it,\" put in Mrs. Morel.\n\nShe hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, he whined\nand played for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the baby, hated him,\nwith a boy's hatred for false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment of\nhis mother. Annie had never liked him; she merely avoided him.\n\nWhen the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth.\n\n\"A fine mess!\" she said.\n\n\"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha's got a\nparson for tea wi' thee?\" he bawled.\n\nThey were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, and\nMrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked\nAnnie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel to shout\nat her. In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the big\nglazed text over the mantelpiece and read distinctly:\n\n\"God Bless Our Home!\"\n\nWhereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up, rushed at\nhim, boxed his ears, saying:\n\n\"What are YOU putting in for?\"\n\nAnd then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her cheeks, while\nWilliam kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and Morel growled:\n\n\"I canna see what there is so much to laugh at.\"\n\nOne evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unable to bear\nherself after another display from her husband, she took Annie and the\nbaby and went out. Morel had kicked William, and the mother would never\nforgive him.\n\nShe went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of the meadow to the\ncricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space of ripe, evening light,\nwhispering with the distant mill-race. She sat on a seat under the\nalders in the cricket-ground, and fronted the evening. Before her, level\nand solid, spread the big green cricket-field, like the bed of a sea of\nlight. Children played in the bluish shadow of the pavilion. Many rooks,\nhigh up, came cawing home across the softly-woven sky. They stooped in\na long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling,\nlike black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree clump that made a dark\nboss among the pasture.\n\nA few gentlemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear the chock\nof the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused; could see the white\nforms of men shifting silently over the green, upon which already the\nunder shadows were smouldering. Away at the grange, one side of the\nhaystacks was lit up, the other sides blue-grey. A waggon of sheaves\nrocked small across the melting yellow light.\n\nThe sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were\nblazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the\nglistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western\nspace went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the\nbell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stood\nfierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in\na corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing;\nperhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset\nfloated pink opposite the west's scarlet. The big haystacks on the\nhillside, that butted into the glare, went cold.\n\nWith Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets\nvanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and\nthe strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her.\nNow and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby\nwas restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the\nlight.\n\nMrs. Morel looked down at him. She had dreaded this baby like a\ncatastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband. And now she felt\nstrangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavy because of the child,\nalmost as if it were unhealthy, or malformed. Yet it seemed quite well.\nBut she noticed the peculiar knitting of the baby's brows, and the\npeculiar heaviness of its eyes, as if it were trying to understand\nsomething that was pain. She felt, when she looked at her child's dark,\nbrooding pupils, as if a burden were on her heart.\n\n\"He looks as if he was thinking about something--quite sorrowful,\" said\nMrs. Kirk.\n\nSuddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart melted\ninto passionate grief. She bowed over him, and a few tears shook swiftly\nout of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers.\n\n\"My lamb!\" she cried softly.\n\nAnd at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul, that\nshe and her husband were guilty.\n\nThe baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own, but its\nlook was heavy, steady, as if it had realised something that had stunned\nsome point of its soul.\n\nIn her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes, always looking up\nat her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her. She\nno longer loved her husband; she had not wanted this child to come, and\nthere it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart. She felt as if the\nnavel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had not\nbeen broken. A wave of hot love went over her to the infant. She held it\nclose to her face and breast. With all her force, with all her soul she\nwould make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. She\nwould love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Its\nclear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her?\nWhen it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was there a\nreproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with fear\nand pain.\n\nOnce more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hill\nopposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands.\n\n\"Look!\" she said. \"Look, my pretty!\"\n\nShe thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, almost with\nrelief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her bosom\nagain, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence he\ncame.\n\n\"If he lives,\" she thought to herself, \"what will become of him--what\nwill he be?\"\n\nHer heart was anxious.\n\n\"I will call him Paul,\" she said suddenly; she knew not why.\n\nAfter a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the deep green\nmeadow, darkening all.\n\nAs she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel was home by ten\no'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.\n\nWalter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemed\nto exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody.\nIf the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about his\ndinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that\nmade their mother's blood boil, and made them hate him.\n\nOn the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock. The baby was unwell,\nand was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Morel, tired to\ndeath, and still weak, was scarcely under control.\n\n\"I wish the nuisance would come,\" she said wearily to herself.\n\nThe child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too tired to\ncarry him to the cradle.\n\n\"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes,\" she said. \"It only works\nme up; I won't say anything. But I know if he does anything it'll make\nmy blood boil,\" she added to herself.\n\nShe sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could not\nbear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept her head\nbent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But it\nwent through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurched\nagainst the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at the\nwhite pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, then returned,\nstood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child.\n\n\"Is there nothing to eat in the house?\" he asked, insolently, as if to a\nservant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the\nclipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morel hated him most in this\ncondition.\n\n\"You know what there is in the house,\" she said, so coldly, it sounded\nimpersonal.\n\nHe stood and glared at her without moving a muscle.\n\n\"I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer,\" he said\naffectedly.\n\n\"And you got it,\" she said, still ignoring him.\n\nHe glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the\ntable with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer to\nget a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways.\nIn a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons,\nforks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and a\nclang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start.\n\n\"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?\" the mother cried.\n\n\"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen. Tha should get up, like\nother women have to, an' wait on a man.\"\n\n\"Wait on you--wait on you?\" she cried. \"Yes, I see myself.\"\n\n\"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on ME, yes tha sh'lt wait\non me--\"\n\n\"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first.\"\n\n\"What--what?\"\n\nHe was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round.\nHis face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent\nsecond in threat.\n\n\"P-h!\" she went quickly, in contempt.\n\nHe jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharply on his\nshin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.\n\nOne of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed into\nthe fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair. To her\nvery soul she was sick; she clasped the child tightly to her bosom. A\nfew moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she brought herself to.\nThe baby was crying plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding rather\nprofusely. As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, some\ndrops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was at least\nnot hurt. She balanced her head to keep equilibrium, so that the blood\nran into her eye.\n\nWalter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table with one\nhand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance,\nhe went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of her\nrocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then leaning forward over her,\nand swaying as he spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering concern:\n\n\"Did it catch thee?\"\n\nHe swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child. With the\ncatastrophe he had lost all balance.\n\n\"Go away,\" she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind.\n\nHe hiccoughed. \"Let's--let's look at it,\" he said, hiccoughing again.\n\n\"Go away!\" she cried.\n\n\"Lemme--lemme look at it, lass.\"\n\nShe smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying grasp on\nthe back of her rocking-chair.\n\n\"Go away,\" she said, and weakly she pushed him off.\n\nHe stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her. Summoning all her\nstrength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of will,\nmoving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where she bathed\nher eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too dizzy. Afraid lest\nshe should swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair, trembling in every\nfibre. By instinct, she kept the baby clasped.\n\nMorel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back into its\ncavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws, for the scattered\nspoons.\n\nHer brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and came craning his\nneck towards her.\n\n\"What has it done to thee, lass?\" he asked, in a very wretched, humble\ntone.\n\n\"You can see what it's done,\" she answered.\n\nHe stood, bending forward, supported on his hands, which grasped his\nlegs just above the knee. He peered to look at the wound. She drew away\nfrom the thrust of his face with its great moustache, averting her\nown face as much as possible. As he looked at her, who was cold and\nimpassive as stone, with mouth shut tight, he sickened with feebleness\nand hopelessness of spirit. He was turning drearily away, when he saw\na drop of blood fall from the averted wound into the baby's fragile,\nglistening hair. Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark drop hang in\nthe glistening cloud, and pull down the gossamer. Another drop fell. It\nwould soak through to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feeling\nit soak in; then, finally, his manhood broke.\n\n\"What of this child?\" was all his wife said to him. But her low, intense\ntones brought his head lower. She softened: \"Get me some wadding out of\nthe middle drawer,\" she said.\n\nHe stumbled away very obediently, presently returning with a pad, which\nshe singed before the fire, then put on her forehead, as she sat with\nthe baby on her lap.\n\n\"Now that clean pit-scarf.\"\n\nAgain he rummaged and fumbled in the drawer, returning presently with a\nred, narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling fingers proceeded to\nbind it round her head.\n\n\"Let me tie it for thee,\" he said humbly.\n\n\"I can do it myself,\" she replied. When it was done she went upstairs,\ntelling him to rake the fire and lock the door.\n\nIn the morning Mrs. Morel said:\n\n\"I knocked against the latch of the coal-place, when I was getting a\nraker in the dark, because the candle blew out.\" Her two small children\nlooked up at her with wide, dismayed eyes. They said nothing, but their\nparted lips seemed to express the unconscious tragedy they felt.\n\nWalter Morel lay in bed next day until nearly dinner-time. He did not\nthink of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thought of anything,\nbut he would not think of that. He lay and suffered like a sulking dog.\nHe had hurt himself most; and he was the more damaged because he would\nnever say a word to her, or express his sorrow. He tried to wriggle out\nof it. \"It was her own fault,\" he said to himself. Nothing, however,\ncould prevent his inner consciousness inflicting on him the punishment\nwhich ate into his spirit like rust, and which he could only alleviate\nby drinking.\n\nHe felt as if he had not the initiative to get up, or to say a word, or\nto move, but could only lie like a log. Moreover, he had himself violent\npains in the head. It was Saturday. Towards noon he rose, cut himself\nfood in the pantry, ate it with his head dropped, then pulled on his\nboots, and went out, to return at three o'clock slightly tipsy and\nrelieved; then once more straight to bed. He rose again at six in the\nevening, had tea and went straight out.\n\nSunday was the same: bed till noon, the Palmerston Arms till 2.30,\ndinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morel went upstairs,\ntowards four o'clock, to put on her Sunday dress, he was fast asleep.\nShe would have felt sorry for him, if he had once said, \"Wife, I'm\nsorry.\" But no; he insisted to himself it was her fault. And so he\nbroke himself. So she merely left him alone. There was this deadlock of\npassion between them, and she was stronger.\n\nThe family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all sat down to meals\ntogether.\n\n\"Isn't my father going to get up?\" asked William.\n\n\"Let him lie,\" the mother replied.\n\nThere was a feeling of misery over all the house. The children breathed\nthe air that was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They were rather\ndisconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at.\n\nImmediately Morel woke he got straight out of bed. That was\ncharacteristic of him all his life. He was all for activity. The\nprostrated inactivity of two mornings was stifling him.\n\nIt was near six o'clock when he got down. This time he entered without\nhesitation, his wincing sensitiveness having hardened again. He did not\ncare any longer what the family thought or felt.\n\nThe tea-things were on the table. William was reading aloud from \"The\nChild's Own\", Annie listening and asking eternally \"why?\" Both children\nhushed into silence as they heard the approaching thud of their father's\nstockinged feet, and shrank as he entered. Yet he was usually indulgent\nto them.\n\nMorel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate and drank more noisily than\nhe had need. No one spoke to him. The family life withdrew, shrank\naway, and became hushed as he entered. But he cared no longer about his\nalienation.\n\nImmediately he had finished tea he rose with alacrity to go out. It was\nthis alacrity, this haste to be gone, which so sickened Mrs. Morel. As\nshe heard him sousing heartily in cold water, heard the eager scratch\nof the steel comb on the side of the bowl, as he wetted his hair, she\nclosed her eyes in disgust. As he bent over, lacing his boots, there\nwas a certain vulgar gusto in his movement that divided him from the\nreserved, watchful rest of the family. He always ran away from the\nbattle with himself. Even in his own heart's privacy, he excused\nhimself, saying, \"If she hadn't said so-and-so, it would never have\nhappened. She asked for what she's got.\" The children waited in\nrestraint during his preparations. When he had gone, they sighed with\nrelief.\n\nHe closed the door behind him, and was glad. It was a rainy evening. The\nPalmerston would be the cosier. He hastened forward in anticipation. All\nthe slate roofs of the Bottoms shone black with wet. The roads, always\ndark with coal-dust, were full of blackish mud. He hastened along. The\nPalmerston windows were steamed over. The passage was paddled with wet\nfeet. But the air was warm, if foul, and full of the sound of voices and\nthe smell of beer and smoke.\n\n\"What shollt ha'e, Walter?\" cried a voice, as soon as Morel appeared in\nthe doorway.\n\n\"Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?\"\n\nThe men made a seat for him, and took him in warmly. He was glad. In a\nminute or two they had thawed all responsibility out of him, all shame,\nall trouble, and he was clear as a bell for a jolly night.\n\nOn the Wednesday following, Morel was penniless. He dreaded his wife.\nHaving hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what to do with\nhimself that evening, having not even twopence with which to go to the\nPalmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt. So, while his wife\nwas down the garden with the child, he hunted in the top drawer of\nthe dresser where she kept her purse, found it, and looked inside. It\ncontained a half-crown, two halfpennies, and a sixpence. So he took the\nsixpence, put the purse carefully back, and went out.\n\nThe next day, when she wanted to pay the greengrocer, she looked in the\npurse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes. Then she sat\ndown and thought: \"WAS there a sixpence? I hadn't spent it, had I? And I\nhadn't left it anywhere else?\"\n\nShe was much put about. She hunted round everywhere for it. And, as she\nsought, the conviction came into her heart that her husband had taken\nit. What she had in her purse was all the money she possessed. But that\nhe should sneak it from her thus was unbearable. He had done so twice\nbefore. The first time she had not accused him, and at the week-end he\nhad put the shilling again into her purse. So that was how she had known\nhe had taken it. The second time he had not paid back.\n\nThis time she felt it was too much. When he had had his dinner--he came\nhome early that day--she said to him coldly:\n\n\"Did you take sixpence out of my purse last night?\"\n\n\"Me!\" he said, looking up in an offended way. \"No, I didna! I niver\nclapped eyes on your purse.\"\n\nBut she could detect the lie.\n\n\"Why, you know you did,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"I tell you I didna,\" he shouted. \"Yer at me again, are yer? I've had\nabout enough on't.\"\n\n\"So you filch sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking the clothes in.\"\n\n\"I'll may yer pay for this,\" he said, pushing back his chair in\ndesperation. He bustled and got washed, then went determinedly upstairs.\nPresently he came down dressed, and with a big bundle in a blue-checked,\nenormous handkerchief.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, \"you'll see me again when you do.\"\n\n\"It'll be before I want to,\" she replied; and at that he marched out\nof the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly, but her heart\nbrimming with contempt. What would she do if he went to some other\npit, obtained work, and got in with another woman? But she knew him too\nwell--he couldn't. She was dead sure of him. Nevertheless her heart was\ngnawed inside her.\n\n\"Where's my dad?\" said William, coming in from school.\n\n\"He says he's run away,\" replied the mother.\n\n\"Where to?\"\n\n\"Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handkerchief, and\nsays he's not coming back.\"\n\n\"What shall we do?\" cried the boy.\n\n\"Eh, never trouble, he won't go far.\"\n\n\"But if he doesn't come back,\" wailed Annie.\n\nAnd she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morel sat and\nlaughed.\n\n\"You pair of gabeys!\" she exclaimed. \"You'll see him before the night's\nout.\"\n\nBut the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on. Mrs. Morel\ngrew anxious from very weariness. One part of her said it would be a\nrelief to see the last of him; another part fretted because of keeping\nthe children; and inside her, as yet, she could not quite let him go. At\nthe bottom, she knew very well he could NOT go.\n\nWhen she went down to the coal-place at the end of the garden, however,\nshe felt something behind the door. So she looked. And there in the dark\nlay the big blue bundle. She sat on a piece of coal and laughed. Every\ntime she saw it, so fat and yet so ignominious, slunk into its corner in\nthe dark, with its ends flopping like dejected ears from the knots, she\nlaughed again. She was relieved.\n\nMrs. Morel sat waiting. He had not any money, she knew, so if he stopped\nhe was running up a bill. She was very tired of him--tired to death. He\nhad not even the courage to carry his bundle beyond the yard-end.\n\nAs she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the door and came in,\nslinking, and yet sulky. She said not a word. He took off his coat, and\nslunk to his armchair, where he began to take off his boots.\n\n\"You'd better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off,\" she\nsaid quietly.\n\n\"You may thank your stars I've come back to-night,\" he said, looking up\nfrom under his dropped head, sulkily, trying to be impressive.\n\n\"Why, where should you have gone? You daren't even get your parcel\nthrough the yard-end,\" she said.\n\nHe looked such a fool she was not even angry with him. He continued to\ntake his boots off and prepare for bed.\n\n\"I don't know what's in your blue handkerchief,\" she said. \"But if you\nleave it the children shall fetch it in the morning.\"\n\nWhereupon he got up and went out of the house, returning presently and\ncrossing the kitchen with averted face, hurrying upstairs. As Mrs. Morel\nsaw him slink quickly through the inner doorway, holding his bundle, she\nlaughed to herself: but her heart was bitter, because she had loved him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE CASTING OFF OF MOREL--THE TAKING ON OF WILLIAM\n\nDURING the next week Morel's temper was almost unbearable. Like all\nminers, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, he\nwould often pay for himself.\n\n\"You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral,\" he said. \"It's a winder as we\ncanna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse.\"\n\nSo Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite first\nmedicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging in\nthe attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue, horehound, elder\nflowers, parsley-purt, marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury.\nUsually there was a jug of one or other decoction standing on the hob,\nfrom which he drank largely.\n\n\"Grand!\" he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. \"Grand!\" And he\nexhorted the children to try.\n\n\"It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews,\" he vowed. But\nthey were not to be tempted.\n\nThis time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs would\nshift the \"nasty peens in his head\". He was sickening for an attack of\nan inflammation of the brain. He had never been well since his sleeping\non the ground when he went with Jerry to Nottingham. Since then he had\ndrunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had him\nto nurse. He was one of the worst patients imaginable. But, in spite of\nall, and putting aside the fact that he was breadwinner, she never\nquite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him for\nherself.\n\nThe neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had the children\nin to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her, one\nwould mind the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless.\nIt was not every day the neighbours helped. Then she had nursing of baby\nand husband, cleaning and cooking, everything to do. She was quite worn\nout, but she did what was wanted of her.\n\nAnd the money was just sufficient. She had seventeen shillings a week\nfrom clubs, and every Friday Barker and the other butty put by a portion\nof the stall's profits for Morel's wife. And the neighbours made broths,\nand gave eggs, and such invalids' trifles. If they had not helped her so\ngenerously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled through,\nwithout incurring debts that would have dragged her down.\n\nThe weeks passed. Morel, almost against hope, grew better. He had a fine\nconstitution, so that, once on the mend, he went straight forward to\nrecovery. Soon he was pottering about downstairs. During his illness his\nwife had spoilt him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He often\nput his band to his head, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and\nshammed pains he did not feel. But there was no deceiving her. At first\nshe merely smiled to herself. Then she scolded him sharply.\n\n\"Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose.\"\n\nThat wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness.\n\n\"I wouldn't be such a mardy baby,\" said the wife shortly.\n\nThen he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy. He was\nforced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine.\n\nNevertheless, there was a state of peace in the house for some time.\nMrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost\nlike a child, was rather happy. Neither knew that she was more tolerant\nbecause she loved him less. Up till this time, in spite of all, he had\nbeen her husband and her man. She had felt that, more or less, what he\ndid to himself he did to her. Her living depended on him. There were\nmany, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him, but it was always\nebbing.\n\nNow, with the birth of this third baby, her self no longer set towards\nhim, helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose, standing off\nfrom him. After this she scarcely desired him. And, standing more aloof\nfrom him, not feeling him so much part of herself, but merely part of\nher circumstances, she did not mind so much what he did, could leave him\nalone.\n\nThere was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year, which\nis like autumn in a man's life. His wife was casting him off, half\nregretfully, but relentlessly; casting him off and turning now for love\nand life to the children. Henceforward he was more or less a husk. And\nhe himself acquiesced, as so many men do, yielding their place to their\nchildren.\n\nDuring his recuperation, when it was really over between them, both made\nan effort to come back somewhat to the old relationship of the first\nmonths of their marriage. He sat at home and, when the children were in\nbed, and she was sewing--she did all her sewing by hand, made all shirts\nand children's clothing--he would read to her from the newspaper, slowly\npronouncing and delivering the words like a man pitching quoits. Often\nshe hurried him on, giving him a phrase in anticipation. And then he\ntook her words humbly.\n\nThe silences between them were peculiar. There would be the swift,\nslight \"cluck\" of her needle, the sharp \"pop\" of his lips as he let out\nthe smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars as he spat in the fire.\nThen her thoughts turned to William. Already he was getting a big boy.\nAlready he was top of the class, and the master said he was the smartest\nlad in the school. She saw him a man, young, full of vigour, making the\nworld glow again for her.\n\nAnd Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think about,\nwould be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul would reach out in its\nblind way to her and find her gone. He felt a sort of emptiness, almost\nlike a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled and restless. Soon he could\nnot live in that atmosphere, and he affected his wife. Both felt an\noppression on their breathing when they were left together for some\ntime. Then he went to bed and she settled down to enjoy herself alone,\nworking, thinking, living.\n\nMeanwhile another infant was coming, fruit of this little peace and\ntenderness between the separating parents. Paul was seventeen months old\nwhen the new baby was born. He was then a plump, pale child, quiet, with\nheavy blue eyes, and still the peculiar slight knitting of the brows.\nThe last child was also a boy, fair and bonny. Mrs. Morel was sorry when\nshe knew she was with child, both for economic reasons and because she\ndid not love her husband; but not for the sake of the infant.\n\nThey called the baby Arthur. He was very pretty, with a mop of gold\ncurls, and he loved his father from the first. Mrs. Morel was glad this\nchild loved the father. Hearing the miner's footsteps, the baby would\nput up his arms and crow. And if Morel were in a good temper, he called\nback immediately, in his hearty, mellow voice:\n\n\"What then, my beauty? I sh'll come to thee in a minute.\"\n\nAnd as soon as he had taken off his pit-coat, Mrs. Morel would put an\napron round the child, and give him to his father.\n\n\"What a sight the lad looks!\" she would exclaim sometimes, taking back\nthe baby, that was smutted on the face from his father's kisses and\nplay. Then Morel laughed joyfully.\n\n\"He's a little collier, bless his bit o' mutton!\" he exclaimed.\n\nAnd these were the happy moments of her life now, when the children\nincluded the father in her heart.\n\nMeanwhile William grew bigger and stronger and more active, while Paul,\nalways rather delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and trotted after his\nmother like her shadow. He was usually active and interested, but\nsometimes he would have fits of depression. Then the mother would find\nthe boy of three or four crying on the sofa.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" she asked, and got no answer.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" she insisted, getting cross.\n\n\"I don't know,\" sobbed the child.\n\nSo she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but without\neffect. It made her feel beside herself. Then the father, always\nimpatient, would jump from his chair and shout:\n\n\"If he doesn't stop, I'll smack him till he does.\"\n\n\"You'll do nothing of the sort,\" said the mother coldly. And then she\ncarried the child into the yard, plumped him into his little chair, and\nsaid: \"Now cry there, Misery!\"\n\nAnd then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves perhaps caught his eye, or\nat last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, but they\ncaused a shadow in Mrs. Morel's heart, and her treatment of Paul was\ndifferent from that of the other children.\n\nSuddenly one morning as she was looking down the alley of the Bottoms\nfor the barm-man, she heard a voice calling her. It was the thin little\nMrs. Anthony in brown velvet.\n\n\"Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you?\" replied Mrs. Morel. \"Why, what's the matter?\"\n\n\"A lad as gets 'old of another an' rips his clothes off'n 'is back,\"\nMrs. Anthony said, \"wants showing something.\"\n\n\"Your Alfred's as old as my William,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"'Appen 'e is, but that doesn't give him a right to get hold of the\nboy's collar, an' fair rip it clean off his back.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"I don't thrash my children, and even if I did,\nI should want to hear their side of the tale.\"\n\n\"They'd happen be a bit better if they did get a good hiding,\" retorted\nMrs. Anthony. \"When it comes ter rippin' a lad's clean collar off'n 'is\nback a-purpose--\"\n\n\"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Make me a liar!\" shouted Mrs. Anthony.\n\nMrs. Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her hand trembled as she held\nher mug of barm.\n\n\"But I s'll let your mester know,\" Mrs. Anthony cried after her.\n\nAt dinner-time, when William had finished his meal and wanted to be off\nagain--he was then eleven years old--his mother said to him:\n\n\"What did you tear Alfred Anthony's collar for?\"\n\n\"When did I tear his collar?\"\n\n\"I don't know when, but his mother says you did.\"\n\n\"Why--it was yesterday--an' it was torn a'ready.\"\n\n\"But you tore it more.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked seventeen--an' Alfy Ant'ny 'e\nsays:\n\n     'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me,\n     Went down to a river to bade.\n     Adam an' Eve got drownded,\n     Who do yer think got saved?'\n\nAn' so I says: 'Oh, Pinch-YOU,' an' so I pinched 'im, an' 'e was mad,\nan' so he snatched my cobbler an' run off with it. An' so I run after\n'im, an' when I was gettin' hold of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it ripped 'is\ncollar. But I got my cobbler--\"\n\nHe pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hanging on a\nstring. This old cobbler had \"cobbled\"--hit and smashed--seventeen other\ncobblers on similar strings. So the boy was proud of his veteran.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"you know you've got no right to rip his\ncollar.\"\n\n\"Well, our mother!\" he answered. \"I never meant tr'a done it--an' it was\non'y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a'ready.\"\n\n\"Next time,\" said his mother, \"YOU be more careful. I shouldn't like it\nif you came home with your collar torn off.\"\n\n\"I don't care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose.\"\n\nThe boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded.\n\n\"No--well, you be more careful.\"\n\nWilliam fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, who hated any\nbother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony,\nand the business would be over.\n\nBut that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood\nin the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes.\nThen:\n\n\"Wheer's that Willy?\" he asked.\n\n\"What do you want HIM for?\" asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.\n\n\"I'll let 'im know when I get him,\" said Morel, banging his pit-bottle\non to the dresser.\n\n\"I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you about\nAlfy's collar,\" said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.\n\n\"Niver mind who's got hold of me,\" said Morel. \"When I get hold of 'IM\nI'll make his bones rattle.\"\n\n\"It's a poor tale,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"that you're so ready to side\nwith any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own\nchildren.\"\n\n\"I'll learn 'im!\" said Morel. \"It none matters to me whose lad 'e is;\n'e's none goin' rippin' an' tearin' about just as he's a mind.\"\n\n\"'Ripping and tearing about!'\" repeated Mrs. Morel. \"He was running\nafter that Alfy, who'd taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold\nof his collar, because the other dodged--as an Anthony would.\"\n\n\"I know!\" shouted Morel threateningly.\n\n\"You would, before you're told,\" replied his wife bitingly.\n\n\"Niver you mind,\" stormed Morel. \"I know my business.\"\n\n\"That's more than doubtful,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"supposing some\nloud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.\"\n\n\"I know,\" repeated Morel.\n\nAnd he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William\nran in, saying:\n\n\"Can I have my tea, mother?\"\n\n\"Tha can ha'e more than that!\" shouted Morel.\n\n\"Hold your noise, man,\" said Mrs. Morel; \"and don't look so ridiculous.\"\n\n\"He'll look ridiculous before I've done wi' him!\" shouted Morel, rising\nfrom his chair and glaring at his son.\n\nWilliam, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone\npale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father.\n\n\"Go out!\" Mrs. Morel commanded her son.\n\nWilliam had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, and\ncrouched.\n\n\"I'll GI'E him 'go out'!\" he shouted like an insane thing.\n\n\"What!\" cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. \"You shall not touch him\nfor HER telling, you shall not!\"\n\n\"Shonna I?\" shouted Morel. \"Shonna I?\"\n\nAnd, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in between\nthem, with her fist lifted.\n\n\"Don't you DARE!\" she cried.\n\n\"What!\" he shouted, baffled for the moment. \"What!\"\n\nShe spun round to her son.\n\n\"GO out of the house!\" she commanded him in fury.\n\nThe boy, as if hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morel\nrushed to the door, but was too late. He returned, pale under his\npit-dirt with fury. But now his wife was fully roused.\n\n\"Only dare!\" she said in a loud, ringing voice. \"Only dare, milord, to\nlay a finger on that child! You'll regret it for ever.\"\n\nHe was afraid of her. In a towering rage, he sat down.\n\nWhen the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joined\nthe Women's Guild. It was a little club of women attached to the\nCo-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday night in the long\nroom over the grocery shop of the Bestwood \"Co-op\". The women were\nsupposed to discuss the benefits to be derived from co-operation, and\nother social questions. Sometimes Mrs. Morel read a paper. It seemed\nqueer to the children to see their mother, who was always busy about\nthe house, sitting writing in her rapid fashion, thinking, referring\nto books, and writing again. They felt for her on such occasions the\ndeepest respect.\n\nBut they loved the Guild. It was the only thing to which they did not\ngrudge their mother--and that partly because she enjoyed it, partly\nbecause of the treats they derived from it. The Guild was called by some\nhostile husbands, who found their wives getting too independent, the\n\"clat-fart\" shop--that is, the gossip-shop. It is true, from off\nthe basis of the Guild, the women could look at their homes, at the\nconditions of their own lives, and find fault. So the colliers found\ntheir women had a new standard of their own, rather disconcerting. And\nalso, Mrs. Morel always had a lot of news on Monday nights, so that the\nchildren liked William to be in when their mother came home, because she\ntold him things.\n\nThen, when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the \"Co-op.\"\noffice. He was a very clever boy, frank, with rather rough features and\nreal viking blue eyes.\n\n\"What dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed Jack on 'im for?\" said Morel.\n\"All he'll do is to wear his britches behind out an' earn nowt. What's\n'e startin' wi'?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter what he's starting with,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"It wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we me, an' 'ell earn a easy ten shillin'\na wik from th' start. But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end out on a\nstool's better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi'me, I know.\"\n\n\"He is NOT going in the pit,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"and there's an end of\nit.\"\n\n\"It wor good enough for me, but it's non good enough for 'im.\"\n\n\"If your mother put you in the pit at twelve, it's no reason why I\nshould do the same with my lad.\"\n\n\"Twelve! It wor a sight afore that!\"\n\n\"Whenever it was,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nShe was very proud of her son. He went to the night school, and learned\nshorthand, so that by the time he was sixteen he was the best shorthand\nclerk and book-keeper on the place, except one. Then he taught in the\nnight schools. But he was so fiery that only his good-nature and his\nsize protected him.\n\nAll the things that men do--the decent things--William did. He could\nrun like the wind. When he was twelve he won a first prize in a race;\nan inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on the\ndresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen pleasure. The boy only ran for her.\nHe flew home with his anvil, breathless, with a \"Look, mother!\" That was\nthe first real tribute to herself. She took it like a queen.\n\n\"How pretty!\" she exclaimed.\n\nThen he began to get ambitious. He gave all his money to his mother.\nWhen he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him back two for\nhimself, and, as he never drank, he felt himself rich. He went about\nwith the bourgeois of Bestwood. The townlet contained nothing higher\nthan the clergyman. Then came the bank manager, then the doctors, then\nthe tradespeople, and after that the hosts of colliers. Willam began\nto consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and\nthe tradesmen. He played billiards in the Mechanics' Hall. Also he\ndanced--this in spite of his mother. All the life that Bestwood offered\nhe enjoyed, from the sixpenny-hops down Church Street, to sports and\nbilliards.\n\nPaul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like\nladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart for a\nbrief fortnight.\n\nOccasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs.\nMorel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed\nthe air.\n\n\"Is Mr. Morel in?\" the damsel would ask appealingly.\n\n\"My husband is at home,\" Mrs. Morel replied.\n\n\"I--I mean YOUNG Mr. Morel,\" repeated the maiden painfully.\n\n\"Which one? There are several.\"\n\nWhereupon much blushing and stammering from the fair one.\n\n\"I--I met Mr. Morel--at Ripley,\" she explained.\n\n\"Oh--at a dance!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I don't approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is NOT at\nhome.\"\n\nThen he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl away\nso rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow, who walked with\nlong strides, sometimes frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily to\nthe back of his head. Now he came in frowning. He threw his cap on to\nthe sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand, and glared down at\nhis mother. She was small, with her hair taken straight back from her\nforehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth.\nKnowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly.\n\n\"Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't know about a lady. There was a girl came.\"\n\n\"And why didn't you tell me?\"\n\n\"Because I forgot, simply.\"\n\nHe fumed a little.\n\n\"A good-looking girl--seemed a lady?\"\n\n\"I didn't look at her.\"\n\n\"Big brown eyes?\"\n\n\"I did NOT look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they're running\nafter you, they're not to come and ask your mother for you. Tell them\nthat--brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she was a nice girl.\"\n\n\"And I'm sure she wasn't.\"\n\nThere ended the altercation. Over the dancing there was a great strife\nbetween the mother and the son. The grievance reached its height when\nWilliam said he was going to Hucknall Torkard--considered a low town--to\na fancy-dress ball. He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress he\ncould hire, which one of his friends had had, and which fitted him\nperfectly. The Highland suit came home. Mrs. Morel received it coldly\nand would not unpack it.\n\n\"My suit come?\" cried William.\n\n\"There's a parcel in the front room.\"\n\nHe rushed in and cut the string.\n\n\"How do you fancy your son in this!\" he said, enraptured, showing her\nthe suit.\n\n\"You know I don't want to fancy you in it.\"\n\nOn the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morel\nput on her coat and bonnet.\n\n\"Aren't you going to stop and see me, mother?\" he asked.\n\n\"No; I don't want to see you,\" she replied.\n\nShe was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid of\nher son's going the same way as his father. He hesitated a moment, and\nhis heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highland\nbonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her. She\nwent out.\n\nWhen he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a\nsituation in Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty shillings a week\ninstead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His mother and his father\nwere brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he was\ngoing to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her\nyounger sons. Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very\nclever, was getting on well, having lessons in French and German from\nhis godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel.\nArthur, a spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board school, but\nthere was talk of his trying to get a scholarship for the High School in\nNottingham.\n\nWilliam remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was studying\nhard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Still\nhe went out to the dances and the river parties. He did not drink. The\nchildren were all rabid teetotallers. He came home very late at night,\nand sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him to take more care,\nto do one thing or another.\n\n\"Dance, if you want to dance, my son; but don't think you can work in\nthe office, and then amuse yourself, and THEN study on top of all. You\ncan't; the human frame won't stand it. Do one thing or the other--amuse\nyourself or learn Latin; but don't try to do both.\"\n\nThen he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. This\nseemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether to rejoice or\nto grieve.\n\n\"They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother,\" he cried, his\neyes blazing as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silent\ninside her. He read the letter: \"'And will you reply by Thursday whether\nyou accept. Yours faithfully--' They want me, mother, at a hundred and\ntwenty a year, and don't even ask to see me. Didn't I tell you I could\ndo it! Think of me in London! And I can give you twenty pounds a year,\nmater. We s'll all be rolling in money.\"\n\n\"We shall, my son,\" she answered sadly.\n\nIt never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going\naway than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for his\ndeparture, her heart began to close and grow dreary with despair. She\nloved him so much! More than that, she hoped in him so much. Almost she\nlived by him. She liked to do things for him: she liked to put a cup for\nhis tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so proud. It was a joy\nto her to have him proud of his collars. There was no laundry. So she\nused to rub away at them with her little convex iron, to polish them,\ntill they shone from the sheer pressure of her arm. Now she would not do\nit for him. Now he was going away. She felt almost as if he were going\nas well out of her heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with\nhimself. That was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all\nhimself away.\n\nA few days before his departure--he was just twenty--he burned his\nlove-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen\ncupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. Some\nof them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most were too\ntrivial.\n\nNow, on the Saturday morning he said:\n\n\"Come on, Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have the\nbirds and flowers.\"\n\nMrs. Morel had done her Saturday's work on the Friday, because he was\nhaving a last day's holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which\nhe loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so\nmiserable.\n\nHe took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had\npurple and green thistles. William sniffed the page.\n\n\"Nice scent! Smell.\"\n\nAnd he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose.\n\n\"Um!\" said Paul, breathing in. \"What d'you call it? Smell, mother.\"\n\nHis mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper.\n\n\"I don't want to smell their rubbish,\" she said, sniffing.\n\n\"This girl's father,\" said William, \"is as rich as Croesus. He owns\nproperty without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French.\n'You will see, I've forgiven you'--I like HER forgiving me. 'I told\nmother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you\ncome to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father's consent also. I\nsincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If,\nhowever, you--'\"\n\n\"'Let you know how it' what?\" interrupted Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"'Transpires'--oh yes!\"\n\n\"'Transpires!'\" repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. \"I thought she was so\nwell educated!\"\n\nWilliam felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving\nPaul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from\nhis letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her\nand made her anxious for him.\n\n\"My lad,\" she said, \"they're very wise. They know they've only got to\nflatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its\nhead scratched.\"\n\n\"Well, they can't go on scratching for ever,\" he replied. \"And when\nthey've done, I trot away.\"\n\n\"But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pull\noff,\" she answered.\n\n\"Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter\nthemselves.\"\n\n\"You flatter YOURSELF,\" she said quietly.\n\nSoon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the\nfile of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty\ntickets from the corners of the notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots\nand ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL\n\nPAUL would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small. His fair\nhair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. He was a\npale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and with a full,\ndropping underlip.\n\nAs a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious of what other\npeople felt, particularly his mother. When she fretted he understood,\nand could have no peace. His soul seemed always attentive to her.\n\nAs he grew older he became stronger. William was too far removed from\nhim to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boy belonged at first\nalmost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a \"flybie-skybie\", as her\nmother called her. But she was intensely fond of her second brother. So\nPaul was towed round at the heels of Annie, sharing her game. She raced\nwildly at lerky with the other young wild-cats of the Bottoms. And\nalways Paul flew beside her, living her share of the game, having as\nyet no part of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister\nadored him. He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to.\n\nShe had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not so fond.\nSo she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with an antimacassar,\nto sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul must practise jumping off\nthe sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face of the hidden doll.\nAnnie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul\nremained quite still.\n\n\"You couldn't tell it was there, mother; you couldn't tell it was\nthere,\" he repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept for the doll\nhe sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She forgave\nher brother--he was so much upset. But a day or two afterwards she was\nshocked.\n\n\"Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella,\" he said. \"Let's burn her.\"\n\nShe was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to see what the boy\nwould do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some of the shavings out of\nArabella's body, put the waxen fragments into the hollow face, poured\non a little paraffin, and set the whole thing alight. He watched with\nwicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt off the broken forehead of\nArabella, and drop like sweat into the flame. So long as the stupid big\ndoll burned he rejoiced in silence. At the end be poked among the embers\nwith a stick, fished out the arms and legs, all blackened, and smashed\nthem under stones.\n\n\"That's the sacrifice of Missis Arabella,\" he said. \"An' I'm glad\nthere's nothing left of her.\"\n\nWhich disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say nothing. He\nseemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken it.\n\nAll the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarly against their\nfather, along with their mother. Morel continued to bully and to drink.\nHe had periods, months at a time, when he made the whole life of the\nfamily a misery. Paul never forgot coming home from the Band of Hope\none Monday evening and finding his mother with her eye swollen and\ndiscoloured, his father standing on the hearthrug, feet astride, his\nhead down, and William, just home from work, glaring at his father.\nThere was a silence as the young children entered, but none of the\nelders looked round.\n\nWilliam was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched. He waited\nuntil the children were silent, watching with children's rage and hate;\nthen he said:\n\n\"You coward, you daren't do it when I was in.\"\n\nBut Morel's blood was up. He swung round on his son. William was bigger,\nbut Morel was hard-muscled, and mad with fury.\n\n\"Dossn't I?\" he shouted. \"Dossn't I? Ha'e much more o' thy chelp, my\nyoung jockey, an' I'll rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an' I sholl that,\ndost see?\"\n\nMorel crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly, almost\nbeast-like fashion. William was white with rage.\n\n\"Will yer?\" he said, quiet and intense. \"It 'ud be the last time,\nthough.\"\n\nMorel danced a little nearer, crouching, drawing back his fist to\nstrike. William put his fists ready. A light came into his blue eyes,\nalmost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word, and the men\nwould have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would. The three children sat\npale on the sofa.\n\n\"Stop it, both of you,\" cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice. \"We've had\nenough for ONE night. And YOU,\" she said, turning on to her husband,\n\"look at your children!\"\n\nMorel glanced at the sofa.\n\n\"Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!\" he sneered. \"Why, what\nhave I done to the children, I should like to know? But they're like\nyourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks and nasty ways--you've\nlearned 'em in it, you 'ave.\"\n\nShe refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while he threw his\nboots under the table and went to bed.\n\n\"Why didn't you let me have a go at him?\" said William, when his father\nwas upstairs. \"I could easily have beaten him.\"\n\n\"A nice thing--your own father,\" she replied.\n\n\"'FATHER!'\" repeated William. \"Call HIM MY father!\"\n\n\"Well, he is--and so--\"\n\n\"But why don't you let me settle him? I could do, easily.\"\n\n\"The idea!\" she cried. \"It hasn't come to THAT yet.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"it's come to worse. Look at yourself. WHY didn't you let\nme give it him?\"\n\n\"Because I couldn't bear it, so never think of it,\" she cried quickly.\n\nAnd the children went to bed, miserably.\n\nWhen William was growing up, the family moved from the Bottoms to a\nhouse on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the valley, which\nspread out like a convex cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, before it. In\nfront of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind, sweeping from\nDerbyshire, caught the houses with full force, and the tree shrieked\nagain. Morel liked it.\n\n\"It's music,\" he said. \"It sends me to sleep.\"\n\nBut Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it became almost a\ndemoniacal noise. The winter of their first year in the new house their\nfather was very bad. The children played in the street, on the brim of\nthe wide, dark valley, until eight o'clock. Then they went to bed. Their\nmother sat sewing below. Having such a great space in front of the house\ngave the children a feeling of night, of vastness, and of terror. This\nterror came in from the shrieking of the tree and the anguish of the\nhome discord. Often Paul would wake up, after he had been asleep a long\ntime, aware of thuds downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then he\nheard the booming shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk, then the\nsharp replies of his mother, then the bang, bang of his father's fist on\nthe table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher.\nAnd then the whole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieks and\ncries from the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The children lay silent in\nsuspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hear what their father was\ndoing. He might hit their mother again. There was a feeling of horror,\na kind of bristling in the darkness, and a sense of blood. They lay with\ntheir hearts in the grip of an intense anguish. The wind came through\nthe tree fiercer and fiercer. All the chords of the great harp hummed,\nwhistled, and shrieked. And then came the horror of the sudden silence,\nsilence everywhere, outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it a\nsilence of blood? What had he done?\n\nThe children lay and breathed the darkness. And then, at last, they\nheard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairs in his\nstockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last, if the wind allowed,\nthey heard the water of the tap drumming into the kettle, which their\nmother was filling for morning, and they could go to sleep in peace.\n\nSo they were happy in the morning--happy, very happy playing, dancing at\nnight round the lonely lamp-post in the midst of the darkness. But they\nhad one tight place of anxiety in their hearts, one darkness in their\neyes, which showed all their lives.\n\nPaul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion.\n\n\"Make him stop drinking,\" he prayed every night. \"Lord, let my father\ndie,\" he prayed very often. \"Let him not be killed at pit,\" he prayed\nwhen, after tea, the father did not come home from work.\n\nThat was another time when the family suffered intensely. The children\ncame from school and had their teas. On the hob the big black saucepan\nwas simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven, ready for Morel's dinner.\nHe was expected at five o'clock. But for months he would stop and drink\nevery night on his way from work.\n\nIn the winter nights, when it was cold, and grew dark early, Mrs. Morel\nwould put a brass candlestick on the table, light a tallow candle to\nsave the gas. The children finished their bread-and-butter, or dripping,\nand were ready to go out to play. But if Morel had not come they\nfaltered. The sense of his sitting in all his pit-dirt, drinking, after\na long day's work, not coming home and eating and washing, but sitting,\ngetting drunk, on an empty stomach, made Mrs. Morel unable to bear\nherself. From her the feeling was transmitted to the other children. She\nnever suffered alone any more: the children suffered with her.\n\nPaul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great trough of\ntwilight, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were. A few last\ncolliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamplighter came along. No\nmore colliers came. Darkness shut down over the valley; work was done.\nIt was night.\n\nThen Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle still burned on\nthe table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone. On the hob\nthe saucepan steamed; the dinner-plate lay waiting on the table. All\nthe room was full of the sense of waiting, waiting for the man who was\nsitting in his pit-dirt, dinnerless, some mile away from home, across\nthe darkness, drinking himself drunk. Paul stood in the doorway.\n\n\"Has my dad come?\" he asked.\n\n\"You can see he hasn't,\" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the futility of the\nquestion.\n\nThen the boy dawdled about near his mother. They shared the same\nanxiety. Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strained the potatoes.\n\n\"They're ruined and black,\" she said; \"but what do I care?\"\n\nNot many words were spoken. Paul almost hated his mother for suffering\nbecause his father did not come home from work.\n\n\"What do you bother yourself for?\" he said. \"If he wants to stop and get\ndrunk, why don't you let him?\"\n\n\"Let him!\" flashed Mrs. Morel. \"You may well say 'let him'.\"\n\nShe knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is on a quick\nway to ruining himself and his home. The children were yet young, and\ndepended on the breadwinner. William gave her the sense of relief,\nproviding her at last with someone to turn to if Morel failed. But the\ntense atmosphere of the room on these waiting evenings was the same.\n\nThe minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still the cloth lay on the\ntable, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same sense of anxiety\nand expectation in the room. The boy could not stand it any longer. He\ncould not go out and play. So he ran in to Mrs. Inger, next door but\none, for her to talk to him. She had no children. Her husband was good\nto her but was in a shop, and came home late. So, when she saw the lad\nat the door, she called:\n\n\"Come in, Paul.\"\n\nThe two sat talking for some time, when suddenly the boy rose, saying:\n\n\"Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing.\"\n\nHe pretended to be perfectly cheerful, and did not tell his friend what\nailed him. Then he ran indoors.\n\nMorel at these times came in churlish and hateful.\n\n\"This is a nice time to come home,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Wha's it matter to yo' what time I come whoam?\" he shouted.\n\nAnd everybody in the house was still, because he was dangerous. He ate\nhis food in the most brutal manner possible, and, when he had done,\npushed all the pots in a heap away from him, to lay his arms on the\ntable. Then he went to sleep.\n\nPaul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head, with its black\nhair slightly soiled with grey, lay on the bare arms, and the face,\ndirty and inflamed, with a fleshy nose and thin, paltry brows, was\nturned sideways, asleep with beer and weariness and nasty temper. If\nanyone entered suddenly, or a noise were made, the man looked up and\nshouted:\n\n\"I'll lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin' thee, if tha doesna stop\nthat clatter! Dost hear?\"\n\nAnd the two last words, shouted in a bullying fashion, usually at Annie,\nmade the family writhe with hate of the man.\n\nHe was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him anything.\nThe children, alone with their mother, told her all about the day's\nhappenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in them until it\nwas told to their mother. But as soon as the father came in, everything\nstopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth, happy machinery of the\nhome. And he was always aware of this fall of silence on his entry,\nthe shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far to\nalter.\n\nHe would dearly have liked the children to talk to him, but they could\nnot. Sometimes Mrs. Morel would say:\n\n\"You ought to tell your father.\"\n\nPaul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper. Everybody was\nhighly jubilant.\n\n\"Now you'd better tell your father when he comes in,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\"You know how be carries on and says he's never told anything.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Paul. But he would almost rather have forfeited the\nprize than have to tell his father.\n\n\"I've won a prize in a competition, dad,\" he said. Morel turned round to\nhim.\n\n\"Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing--about famous women.\"\n\n\"And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?\"\n\n\"It's a book.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed!\"\n\n\"About birds.\"\n\n\"Hm--hm!\"\n\nAnd that was all. Conversation was impossible between the father and any\nother member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God in\nhim.\n\nThe only times when he entered again into the life of his own people\nwas when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening, he\ncobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Then he always\nwanted several attendants, and the children enjoyed it. They united with\nhim in the work, in the actual doing of something, when he was his real\nself again.\n\nHe was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in a good\nhumour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years, of\nfriction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again. It was\nnice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron into the scullery,\ncrying:\n\n\"Out of my road--out of my road!\"\n\nThen he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose, and made\nthe shape he wanted. Or he sat absorbed for a moment, soldering. Then\nthe children watched with joy as the metal sank suddenly molten, and was\nshoved about against the nose of the soldering-iron, while the room was\nfull of a scent of burnt resin and hot tin, and Morel was silent and\nintent for a minute. He always sang when he mended boots because of the\njolly sound of hammering. And he was rather happy when he sat putting\ngreat patches on his moleskin pit trousers, which he would often do,\nconsidering them too dirty, and the stuff too hard, for his wife to\nmend.\n\nBut the best time for the young children was when he made fuses. Morel\nfetched a sheaf of long sound wheat-straws from the attic. These he\ncleaned with his hand, till each one gleamed like a stalk of gold, after\nwhich he cut the straws into lengths of about six inches, leaving, if he\ncould, a notch at the bottom of each piece. He always had a beautifully\nsharp knife that could cut a straw clean without hurting it. Then he set\nin the middle of the table a heap of gunpowder, a little pile of black\ngrains upon the white-scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the straws\nwhile Paul and Annie rifled and plugged them. Paul loved to see the\nblack grains trickle down a crack in his palm into the mouth of the\nstraw, peppering jollily downwards till the straw was full. Then he\nbunged up the mouth with a bit of soap--which he got on his thumb-nail\nfrom a pat in a saucer--and the straw was finished.\n\n\"Look, dad!\" he said.\n\n\"That's right, my beauty,\" replied Morel, who was peculiarly lavish of\nendearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse into the powder-tin,\nready for the morning, when Morel would take it to the pit, and use it\nto fire a shot that would blast the coal down.\n\nMeantime Arthur, still fond of his father, would lean on the arm of\nMorel's chair and say:\n\n\"Tell us about down pit, daddy.\"\n\nThis Morel loved to do.\n\n\"Well, there's one little 'oss--we call 'im Taffy,\" he would begin. \"An'\nhe's a fawce 'un!\"\n\nMorel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel Taffy's\ncunning.\n\n\"He's a brown 'un,\" he would answer, \"an' not very high. Well, he comes\ni' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze.\n\n\"'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein' some snuff?'\n\n\"An' 'e sneezes again. Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'ead on yer,\nthat cadin'.\n\n\"'What's want, Taff?' yo' say.\"\n\n\"And what does he?\" Arthur always asked.\n\n\"He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie.\"\n\nThis story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody loved it.\n\nOr sometimes it was a new tale.\n\n\"An' what dost think, my darlin'? When I went to put my coat on at\nsnap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse.\n\n\"'Hey up, theer!' I shouts.\n\n\"An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail.\"\n\n\"And did you kill it?\"\n\n\"I did, for they're a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi' 'em.\"\n\n\"An' what do they live on?\"\n\n\"The corn as the 'osses drops--an' they'll get in your pocket an' eat\nyour snap, if you'll let 'em--no matter where yo' hing your coat--the\nslivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are.\"\n\nThese happy evenings could not take place unless Morel had some job\nto do. And then he always went to bed very early, often before the\nchildren. There was nothing remaining for him to stay up for, when he\nhad finished tinkering, and had skimmed the headlines of the newspaper.\n\nAnd the children felt secure when their father was in bed. They lay and\ntalked softly a while. Then they started as the lights went suddenly\nsprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swung in the hands of the\ncolliers tramping by outside, going to take the nine o'clock shift. They\nlistened to the voices of the men, imagined them dipping down into the\ndark valley. Sometimes they went to the window and watched the three\nor four lamps growing tinier and tinier, swaying down the fields in the\ndarkness. Then it was a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely in\nthe warmth.\n\nPaul was rather a delicate boy, subject to bronchitis. The others were\nall quite strong; so this was another reason for his mother's difference\nin feeling for him. One day he came home at dinner-time feeling ill. But\nit was not a family to make any fuss.\n\n\"What's the matter with YOU?\" his mother asked sharply.\n\n\"Nothing,\" he replied.\n\nBut he ate no dinner.\n\n\"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school,\" she said.\n\n\"Why?\" he asked.\n\n\"That's why.\"\n\nSo after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cushions the\nchildren loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That afternoon Mrs.\nMorel was ironing. She listened to the small, restless noise the boy\nmade in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her heart the old,\nalmost weary feeling towards him. She had never expected him to live.\nAnd yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would have\nbeen a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture of\nanguish in her love for him.\n\nHe, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter of the\niron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing-board.\nOnce roused, he opened his eyes to see his mother standing on the\nhearthrug with the hot iron near her cheek, listening, as it were, to\nthe heat. Her still face, with the mouth closed tight from suffering and\ndisillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side,\nand her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract\nwith love. When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life,\nbut as if she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly,\nthis feeling about her that she had never had her life's fulfilment:\nand his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense of\nimpotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childish\naim.\n\nShe spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded, raced off the\ndark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the sack\nlining of the hearthrug vigorously. She was warm in the ruddy firelight.\nPaul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one side. Her\nmovements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure to watch her.\nNothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, could have been found\nfault with by her children. The room was warm and full of the scent of\nhot linen. Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her.\n\nPaul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did not mind much.\nWhat happened happened, and it was no good kicking against the pricks.\nHe loved the evenings, after eight o'clock, when the light was put out,\nand he could watch the fire-flames spring over the darkness of the walls\nand ceiling; could watch huge shadows waving and tossing, till the room\nseemed full of men who battled silently.\n\nOn retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom. He was\nalways very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed the atmosphere\nfor the boy.\n\n\"Are ter asleep, my darlin'?\" Morel asked softly.\n\n\"No; is my mother comin'?\"\n\n\"She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do you want anything?\" Morel\nrarely \"thee'd\" his son.\n\n\"I don't want nothing. But how long will she be?\"\n\n\"Not long, my duckie.\"\n\nThe father waited undecidedly on the hearthrug for a moment or two. He\nfelt his son did not want him. Then he went to the top of the stairs and\nsaid to his wife:\n\n\"This childt's axin' for thee; how long art goin' to be?\"\n\n\"Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep.\"\n\n\"She says you're to go to sleep,\" the father repeated gently to Paul.\n\n\"Well, I want HER to come,\" insisted the boy.\n\n\"He says he can't go off till you come,\" Morel called downstairs.\n\n\"Eh, dear! I shan't be long. And do stop shouting downstairs. There's\nthe other children--\"\n\nThen Morel came again and crouched before the bedroom fire. He loved a\nfire dearly.\n\n\"She says she won't be long,\" he said.\n\nHe loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverish with\nirritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate all his sick\nimpatience. At last Morel, after having stood looking at his son awhile,\nsaid softly:\n\n\"Good-night, my darling.\"\n\n\"Good-night,\" Paul replied, turning round in relief to be alone.\n\nPaul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect, in\nspite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the\nsecurity and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the\nother, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in\nits healing. Paul lay against her and slept, and got better; whilst she,\nalways a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep that seemed to\ngive her faith.\n\nIn convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy horses feeding\nat the troughs in the field, scattering their hay on the trodden yellow\nsnow; watch the miners troop home--small, black figures trailing slowly\nin gangs across the white field. Then the night came up in dark blue\nvapour from the snow.\n\nIn convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes, suddenly\narriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like swallows,\nthen were gone, and a drop of water was crawling down the glass. The\nsnowflakes whirled round the corner of the house, like pigeons dashing\nby. Away across the valley the little black train crawled doubtfully\nover the great whiteness.\n\nWhile they were so poor, the children were delighted if they could do\nanything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Arthur went out early\nin the morning, in summer, looking for mushrooms, hunting through the\nwet grass, from which the larks were rising, for the white-skinned,\nwonderful naked bodies crouched secretly in the green. And if they got\nhalf a pound they felt exceedingly happy: there was the joy of finding\nsomething, the joy of accepting something straight from the hand of\nNature, and the joy of contributing to the family exchequer.\n\nBut the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty, was the\nblackberries. Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings on the Saturdays;\nalso she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur scoured the coppices and\nwoods and old quarries, so long as a blackberry was to be found, every\nweek-end going on their search. In that region of mining villages\nblackberries became a comparative rarity. But Paul hunted far and wide.\nHe loved being out in the country, among the bushes. But he also could\nnot bear to go home to his mother empty. That, he felt, would disappoint\nher, and he would have died rather.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" she would exclaim as the lads came in, late, and tired\nto death, and hungry, \"wherever have you been?\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied Paul, \"there wasn't any, so we went over Misk Hills. And\nlook here, our mother!\"\n\nShe peeped into the basket.\n\n\"Now, those are fine ones!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"And there's over two pounds--isn't there over two pounds\"?\n\nShe tried the basket.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered doubtfully.\n\nThen Paul fished out a little spray. He always brought her one spray,\nthe best he could find.\n\n\"Pretty!\" she said, in a curious tone, of a woman accepting a\nlove-token.\n\nThe boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than own himself\nbeaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never realised this,\nwhilst he was young. She was a woman who waited for her children to grow\nup. And William occupied her chiefly.\n\nBut when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much at home, the\nmother made a companion of Paul. The latter was unconsciously jealous of\nhis brother, and William was jealous of him. At the same time, they were\ngood friends.\n\nMrs. Morel's intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fine,\nperhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule that Paul\nshould fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers of the five\npits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. All the earnings of\neach stall were put down to the chief butty, as contractor, and he\ndivided the wages again, either in the public-house or in his own home.\nSo that the children could fetch the money, school closed early on\nFriday afternoons. Each of the Morel children--William, then Annie,\nthen Paul--had fetched the money on Friday afternoons, until they went\nthemselves to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three, with a\nlittle calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls,\nchildren, and men were seen trooping to the offices.\n\nThese offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building, almost\nlike a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of Greenhill\nLane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room paved with blue\nbrick, and having a seat all round, against the wall. Here sat the\ncolliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The women and\nchildren usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. Paul always\nexamined the grass border, and the big grass bank, because in it grew\ntiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a sound of many voices.\nThe women had on their Sunday hats. The girls chattered loudly. Little\ndogs ran here and there. The green shrubs were silent all around.\n\nThen from inside came the cry \"Spinney Park--Spinney Park.\" All the folk\nfor Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time for Bretty to be paid,\nPaul went in among the crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A counter\nwent across, dividing it into half. Behind the counter stood two\nmen--Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite\nwas large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having a\nrather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silk\nneckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the\nopen grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the\nthroats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom\nwas rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were not\nwitty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions against\nthe colliers.\n\nThe room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had been\nhome and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog.\nPaul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind the\nlegs of the men, near the fire which scorched him. He knew the order of\nthe names--they went according to stall number.\n\n\"Holliday,\" came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite. Then Mrs.\nHolliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside.\n\n\"Bower--John Bower.\"\n\nA boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible,\nglowered at him over his spectacles.\n\n\"John Bower!\" he repeated.\n\n\"It's me,\" said the boy.\n\n\"Why, you used to 'ave a different nose than that,\" said glossy Mr.\nWinterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, thinking of\nJohn Bower senior.\n\n\"How is it your father's not come!\" said Mr. Braithwaite, in a large and\nmagisterial voice.\n\n\"He's badly,\" piped the boy.\n\n\"You should tell him to keep off the drink,\" pronounced the great\ncashier.\n\n\"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer,\" said a mocking voice\nfrom behind.\n\nAll the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked down at his\nnext sheet.\n\n\"Fred Pilkington!\" he called, quite indifferent.\n\nMr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm.\n\nPaul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. He was\npushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning. But he did\nnot hope to get through the wall of men.\n\n\"Walter Morel!\" came the ringing voice.\n\n\"Here!\" piped Paul, small and inadequate.\n\n\"Morel--Walter Morel!\" the cashier repeated, his finger and thumb on the\ninvoice, ready to pass on.\n\nPaul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could not\nor would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. Then Mr.\nWinterbottom came to the rescue.\n\n\"He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?\"\n\nThe fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He pointed at\nthe fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside, and disclosed the\nboy.\n\n\"Here he is!\" said Mr. Winterbottom.\n\nPaul went to the counter.\n\n\"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don't you shout up when\nyou're called?\" said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the invoice a\nfive-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate and pretty movement, picked\nup a little ten-pound column of gold, and plumped it beside the silver.\nThe gold slid in a bright stream over the paper. The cashier finished\ncounting off the money; the boy dragged the whole down the counter to\nMr. Winterbottom, to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid.\nHere he suffered again.\n\n\"Sixteen an' six,\" said Mr. Winterbottom.\n\nThe lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some loose silver\nand half a sovereign.\n\n\"How much do you think you've given me?\" asked Mr. Winterbottom.\n\nThe boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the faintest notion.\n\n\"Haven't you got a tongue in your head?\"\n\nPaul bit his lip, and pushed forward some more silver.\n\n\"Don't they teach you to count at the Board-school?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nowt but algibbra an' French,\" said a collier.\n\n\"An' cheek an' impidence,\" said another.\n\nPaul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he got his\nmoney into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of the damned\non these occasions.\n\nHis relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the Mansfield\nRoad, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. There were\nsome gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple trees of an\norchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream. The boy went near\nthe wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men, but could not\nrecognise them in their dirt. And this was a new torture to him.\n\nWhen he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not yet come.\nMrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morel's mother,\nhad been Mrs. Wharmby's friend.\n\n\"Your father's not come yet,\" said the landlady, in the peculiar\nhalf-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly to\ngrown men. \"Sit you down.\"\n\nPaul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were\n\"reckoning\"--sharing out their money--in a corner; others came in. They\nall glanced at the boy without speaking. At last Morel came; brisk, and\nwith something of an air, even in his blackness.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said rather tenderly to his son. \"Have you bested me? Shall\nyou have a drink of something?\"\n\nPaul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists, and he\nwould have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all the men than\nin having a tooth drawn.\n\nThe landlady looked at him _de haut en bas_, rather pitying, and at\nthe same time, resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul went home,\nglowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking day, and\nthere was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him.\n\nSuddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing:\n\n\"I'm NOT going to the office any more,\" he said.\n\n\"Why, what's the matter?\" his mother asked in surprise. His sudden rages\nrather amused her.\n\n\"I'm NOT going any more,\" he declared.\n\n\"Oh, very well, tell your father so.\"\n\nHe chewed his bun as if he hated it.\n\n\"I'm not--I'm not going to fetch the money.\"\n\n\"Then one of Carlin's children can go; they'd be glad enough of the\nsixpence,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nThis sixpence was Paul's only income. It mostly went in buying birthday\npresents; but it WAS an income, and he treasured it. But--\n\n\"They can have it, then!\" he said. \"I don't want it.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" said his mother. \"But you needn't bully ME about it.\"\n\n\"They're hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I'm not going\nany more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his 'h's', an' Mr. Winterbottom says\n'You was'.\"\n\n\"And is that why you won't go any more?\" smiled Mrs. Morel.\n\nThe boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes dark and\nfurious. His mother moved about at her work, taking no notice of him.\n\n\"They always stan' in front of me, so's I can't get out,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, my lad, you've only to ASK them,\" she replied.\n\n\"An' then Alfred Winterbottom says, 'What do they teach you at the\nBoard-school?'\"\n\n\"They never taught HIM much,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"that is a fact--neither\nmanners nor wit--and his cunning he was born with.\"\n\nSo, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hypersensitiveness\nmade her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her, made\nher sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised.\n\n\"What was the cheque?\" she asked.\n\n\"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and six stoppages,\"\nreplied the boy. \"It's a good week; and only five shillings stoppages\nfor my father.\"\n\nSo she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, and could\ncall him to account if he gave her short money. Morel always kept to\nhimself the secret of the week's amount.\n\nFriday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule that Paul\nshould stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and draw or read; he\nwas very fond of drawing. Annie always \"gallivanted\" on Friday nights;\nArthur was enjoying himself as usual. So the boy remained alone.\n\nMrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on the top\nof the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby, Ilkeston\nand Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran in from\nsurrounding villages. The market-place was full of women, the streets\npacked with men. It was amazing to see so many men everywhere in the\nstreets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with her lace woman, sympathised\nwith her fruit man--who was a gabey, but his wife was a bad 'un--laughed\nwith the fish man--who was a scamp but so droll--put the linoleum man\nin his place, was cold with the odd-wares man, and only went to the\ncrockery man when she was driven--or drawn by the cornflowers on a\nlittle dish; then she was coldly polite.\n\n\"I wondered how much that little dish was,\" she said.\n\n\"Sevenpence to you.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\nShe put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave the\nmarket-place without it. Again she went by where the pots lay coldly on\nthe floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretending not to.\n\nShe was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her bonnet was\nin its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie.\n\n\"Mother!\" the girl implored, \"don't wear that nubbly little bonnet.\"\n\n\"Then what else shall I wear,\" replied the mother tartly. \"And I'm sure\nit's right enough.\"\n\nIt had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was reduced to\nblack lace and a bit of jet.\n\n\"It looks rather come down,\" said Paul. \"Couldn't you give it a\npick-me-up?\"\n\n\"I'll jowl your head for impudence,\" said Mrs. Morel, and she tied the\nstrings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin.\n\nShe glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, the pot man,\nhad an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something between them.\nSuddenly he shouted:\n\n\"Do you want it for fivepence?\"\n\nShe started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took up her\ndish.\n\n\"I'll have it,\" she said.\n\n\"Yer'll do me the favour, like?\" he said. \"Yer'd better spit in it, like\nyer do when y'ave something give yer.\"\n\nMrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner.\n\n\"I don't see you give it me,\" she said. \"You wouldn't let me have it for\nfivepence if you didn't want to.\"\n\n\"In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky if you\ncan give your things away,\" he growled.\n\n\"Yes; there are bad times, and good,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nBut she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare now finger\nhis pots. So she was happy.\n\nPaul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She was always her\nbest so--triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling rich in spirit.\nHe heard her quick, light step in the entry and looked up from his\ndrawing.\n\n\"Oh!\" she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway.\n\n\"My word, you ARE loaded!\" he exclaimed, putting down his brush.\n\n\"I am!\" she gasped. \"That brazen Annie said she'd meet me. SUCH a\nweight!\"\n\nShe dropped her string bag and her packages on the table.\n\n\"Is the bread done?\" she asked, going to the oven.\n\n\"The last one is soaking,\" he replied. \"You needn't look, I've not\nforgotten it.\"\n\n\"Oh, that pot man!\" she said, closing the oven door. \"You know what a\nwretch I've said he was? Well, I don't think he's quite so bad.\"\n\n\"Don't you?\"\n\nThe boy was attentive to her. She took off her little black bonnet.\n\n\"No. I think he can't make any money--well, it's everybody's cry alike\nnowadays--and it makes him disagreeable.\"\n\n\"It would ME,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have--how much do you think\nhe let me have THIS for?\"\n\nShe took the dish out of its rag of newspaper, and stood looking on it\nwith joy.\n\n\"Show me!\" said Paul.\n\nThe two stood together gloating over the dish.\n\n\"I LOVE cornflowers on things,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me--\"\n\n\"One and three,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Fivepence!\"\n\n\"It's not enough, mother.\"\n\n\"No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd been\nextravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't have let me have\nit if he hadn't wanted to.\"\n\n\"No, he needn't, need he,\" said Paul, and the two comforted each other\nfrom the fear of having robbed the pot man.\n\n\"We c'n have stewed fruit in it,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Or custard, or a jelly,\" said his mother.\n\n\"Or radishes and lettuce,\" said he.\n\n\"Don't forget that bread,\" she said, her voice bright with glee.\n\nPaul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base.\n\n\"It's done,\" he said, giving it to her.\n\nShe tapped it also.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied, going to unpack her bag. \"Oh, and I'm a wicked,\nextravagant woman. I know I s'll come to want.\"\n\nHe hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance. She\nunfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots of pansies\nand of crimson daisies.\n\n\"Four penn'orth!\" she moaned.\n\n\"How CHEAP!\" he cried.\n\n\"Yes, but I couldn't afford it THIS week of all weeks.\"\n\n\"But lovely!\" he cried.\n\n\"Aren't they!\" she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. \"Paul, look at\nthis yellow one, isn't it--and a face just like an old man!\"\n\n\"Just!\" cried Paul, stooping to sniff. \"And smells that nice! But he's a\nbit splashed.\"\n\nHe ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully washed\nthe pansy.\n\n\"NOW look at him now he's wet!\" he said.\n\n\"Yes!\" she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction.\n\nThe children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end where\nthe Morels lived there were not many young things. So the few were more\nunited. Boys and girls played together, the girls joining in the fights\nand the rough games, the boys taking part in the dancing games and rings\nand make-belief of the girls.\n\nAnnie and Paul and Arthur loved the winter evenings, when it was not\nwet. They stayed indoors till the colliers were all gone home, till it\nwas thick dark, and the street would be deserted. Then they tied their\nscarves round their necks, for they scorned overcoats, as all the\ncolliers' children did, and went out. The entry was very dark, and at\nthe end the whole great night opened out, in a hollow, with a little\ntangle of lights below where Minton pit lay, and another far away\nopposite for Selby. The farthest tiny lights seemed to stretch out the\ndarkness for ever. The children looked anxiously down the road at the\none lamp-post, which stood at the end of the field path. If the little,\nluminous space were deserted, the two boys felt genuine desolation. They\nstood with their hands in their pockets under the lamp, turning their\nbacks on the night, quite miserable, watching the dark houses. Suddenly\na pinafore under a short coat was seen, and a long-legged girl came\nflying up.\n\n\"Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an' Eddie Dakin?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nBut it did not matter so much--there were three now. They set up a game\nround the lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling. Then the play\nwent fast and furious.\n\nThere was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop of\ndarkness, as if all the night were there. In front, another wide, dark\nway opened over the hill brow. Occasionally somebody came out of this\nway and went into the field down the path. In a dozen yards the night\nhad swallowed them. The children played on.\n\nThey were brought exceedingly close together owing to their isolation.\nIf a quarrel took place, the whole play was spoilt. Arthur was very\ntouchy, and Billy Pillins--really Philips--was worse. Then Paul had to\nside with Arthur, and on Paul's side went Alice, while Billy Pillins\nalways had Emmie Limb and Eddie Dakin to back him up. Then the six would\nfight, hate with a fury of hatred, and flee home in terror. Paul never\nforgot, after one of these fierce internecine fights, seeing a big red\nmoon lift itself up, slowly, between the waste road over the hilltop,\nsteadily, like a great bird. And he thought of the Bible, that the moon\nshould be turned to blood. And the next day he made haste to be friends\nwith Billy Pillins. And then the wild, intense games went on again under\nthe lamp-post, surrounded by so much darkness. Mrs. Morel, going into\nher parlour, would hear the children singing away:\n\n     \"My shoes are made of Spanish leather,\n     My socks are made of silk;\n     I wear a ring on every finger,\n     I wash myself in milk.\"\n\nThey sounded so perfectly absorbed in the game as their voices came\nout of the night, that they had the feel of wild creatures singing.\nIt stirred the mother; and she understood when they came in at eight\no'clock, ruddy, with brilliant eyes, and quick, passionate speech.\n\nThey all loved the Scargill Street house for its openness, for the great\nscallop of the world it had in view. On summer evenings the women would\nstand against the field fence, gossiping, facing the west, watching the\nsunsets flare quickly out, till the Derbyshire hills ridged across the\ncrimson far away, like the black crest of a newt.\n\nIn this summer season the pits never turned full time, particularly the\nsoft coal. Mrs. Dakin, who lived next door to Mrs. Morel, going to the\nfield fence to shake her hearthrug, would spy men coming slowly up the\nhill. She saw at once they were colliers. Then she waited, a tall, thin,\nshrew-faced woman, standing on the hill brow, almost like a menace to\nthe poor colliers who were toiling up. It was only eleven o'clock. From\nthe far-off wooded hills the haze that hangs like fine black crape at\nthe back of a summer morning had not yet dissipated. The first man came\nto the stile. \"Chock-chock!\" went the gate under his thrust.\n\n\"What, han' yer knocked off?\" cried Mrs. Dakin.\n\n\"We han, missis.\"\n\n\"It's a pity as they letn yer goo,\" she said sarcastically.\n\n\"It is that,\" replied the man.\n\n\"Nay, you know you're flig to come up again,\" she said.\n\nAnd the man went on. Mrs. Dakin, going up her yard, spied Mrs. Morel\ntaking the ashes to the ash-pit.\n\n\"I reckon Minton's knocked off, missis,\" she cried.\n\n\"Isn't it sickenin!\" exclaimed Mrs. Morel in wrath.\n\n\"Ha! But I'n just seed Jont Hutchby.\"\n\n\"They might as well have saved their shoe-leather,\" said Mrs. Morel. And\nboth women went indoors disgusted.\n\nThe colliers, their faces scarcely blackened, were trooping home again.\nMorel hated to go back. He loved the sunny morning. But he had gone to\npit to work, and to be sent home again spoilt his temper.\n\n\"Good gracious, at this time!\" exclaimed his wife, as he entered.\n\n\"Can I help it, woman?\" he shouted.\n\n\"And I've not done half enough dinner.\"\n\n\"Then I'll eat my bit o' snap as I took with me,\" he bawled\npathetically. He felt ignominious and sore.\n\nAnd the children, coming home from school, would wonder to see their\nfather eating with his dinner the two thick slices of rather dry and\ndirty bread-and-butter that had been to pit and back.\n\n\"What's my dad eating his snap for now?\" asked Arthur.\n\n\"I should ha'e it holled at me if I didna,\" snorted Morel.\n\n\"What a story!\" exclaimed his wife.\n\n\"An' is it goin' to be wasted?\" said Morel. \"I'm not such a extravagant\nmortal as you lot, with your waste. If I drop a bit of bread at pit, in\nall the dust an' dirt, I pick it up an' eat it.\"\n\n\"The mice would eat it,\" said Paul. \"It wouldn't be wasted.\"\n\n\"Good bread-an'-butter's not for mice, either,\" said Morel. \"Dirty or\nnot dirty, I'd eat it rather than it should be wasted.\"\n\n\"You might leave it for the mice and pay for it out of your next pint,\"\nsaid Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Oh, might I?\" he exclaimed.\n\nThey were very poor that autumn. William had just gone away to London,\nand his mother missed his money. He sent ten shillings once or twice,\nbut he had many things to pay for at first. His letters came regularly\nonce a week. He wrote a good deal to his mother, telling her all his\nlife, how he made friends, and was exchanging lessons with a Frenchman,\nhow he enjoyed London. His mother felt again he was remaining to her\njust as when he was at home. She wrote to him every week her direct,\nrather witty letters. All day long, as she cleaned the house, she\nthought of him. He was in London: he would do well. Almost, he was like\nher knight who wore HER favour in the battle.\n\nHe was coming at Christmas for five days. There had never been such\npreparations. Paul and Arthur scoured the land for holly and evergreens.\nAnnie made the pretty paper hoops in the old-fashioned way. And there\nwas unheard-of extravagance in the larder. Mrs. Morel made a big and\nmagnificent cake. Then, feeling queenly, she showed Paul how to blanch\nalmonds. He skinned the long nuts reverently, counting them all, to see\nnot one was lost. It was said that eggs whisked better in a cold place.\nSo the boy stood in the scullery, where the temperature was nearly at\nfreezing-point, and whisked and whisked, and flew in excitement to his\nmother as the white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy.\n\n\"Just look, mother! Isn't it lovely?\"\n\nAnd he balanced a bit on his nose, then blew it in the air.\n\n\"Now, don't waste it,\" said the mother.\n\nEverybody was mad with excitement. William was coming on Christmas Eve.\nMrs. Morel surveyed her pantry. There was a big plum cake, and a rice\ncake, jam tarts, lemon tarts, and mince-pies--two enormous dishes. She\nwas finishing cooking--Spanish tarts and cheese-cakes. Everywhere was\ndecorated. The kissing bunch of berried holly hung with bright and\nglittering things, spun slowly over Mrs. Morel's head as she trimmed her\nlittle tarts in the kitchen. A great fire roared. There was a scent of\ncooked pastry. He was due at seven o'clock, but he would be late. The\nthree children had gone to meet him. She was alone. But at a quarter to\nseven Morel came in again. Neither wife nor husband spoke. He sat in his\narmchair, quite awkward with excitement, and she quietly went on with\nher baking. Only by the careful way in which she did things could it be\ntold how much moved she was. The clock ticked on.\n\n\"What time dost say he's coming?\" Morel asked for the fifth time.\n\n\"The train gets in at half-past six,\" she replied emphatically.\n\n\"Then he'll be here at ten past seven.\"\n\n\"Eh, bless you, it'll be hours late on the Midland,\" she said\nindifferently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring him early.\nMorel went down the entry to look for him. Then he came back.\n\n\"Goodness, man!\" she said. \"You're like an ill-sitting hen.\"\n\n\"Hadna you better be gettin' him summat t' eat ready?\" asked the father.\n\n\"There's plenty of time,\" she answered.\n\n\"There's not so much as I can see on,\" he answered, turning crossly in\nhis chair. She began to clear her table. The kettle was singing. They\nwaited and waited.\n\nMeantime the three children were on the platform at Sethley Bridge,\non the Midland main line, two miles from home. They waited one hour.\nA train came--he was not there. Down the line the red and green lights\nshone. It was very dark and very cold.\n\n\"Ask him if the London train's come,\" said Paul to Annie, when they saw\na man in a tip cap.\n\n\"I'm not,\" said Annie. \"You be quiet--he might send us off.\"\n\nBut Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting someone by\nthe London train: it sounded so grand. Yet he was much too much scared\nof broaching any man, let alone one in a peaked cap, to dare to ask. The\nthree children could scarcely go into the waiting-room for fear of being\nsent away, and for fear something should happen whilst they were off the\nplatform. Still they waited in the dark and cold.\n\n\"It's an hour an' a half late,\" said Arthur pathetically.\n\n\"Well,\" said Annie, \"it's Christmas Eve.\"\n\nThey all grew silent. He wasn't coming. They looked down the darkness\nof the railway. There was London! It seemed the utter-most of distance.\nThey thought anything might happen if one came from London. They were\nall too troubled to talk. Cold, and unhappy, and silent, they huddled\ntogether on the platform.\n\nAt last, after more than two hours, they saw the lights of an engine\npeering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran out. The children\ndrew back with beating hearts. A great train, bound for Manchester, drew\nup. Two doors opened, and from one of them, William. They flew to him.\nHe handed parcels to them cheerily, and immediately began to explain\nthat this great train had stopped for HIS sake at such a small station\nas Sethley Bridge: it was not booked to stop.\n\nMeanwhile the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, the chop\nwas cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel put on her black apron.\nShe was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to read. The\nminutes were a torture to her.\n\n\"H'm!\" said Morel. \"It's an hour an' a ha'ef.\"\n\n\"And those children waiting!\" she said.\n\n\"Th' train canna ha' come in yet,\" he said.\n\n\"I tell you, on Christmas Eve they're HOURS wrong.\"\n\nThey were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with anxiety. The\nash tree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And all that space of night\nfrom London home! Mrs. Morel suffered. The slight click of the works\ninside the clock irritated her. It was getting so late; it was getting\nunbearable.\n\nAt last there was a sound of voices, and a footstep in the entry.\n\n\"Ha's here!\" cried Morel, jumping up.\n\nThen he stood back. The mother ran a few steps towards the door and\nwaited. There was a rush and a patter of feet, the door burst open.\nWilliam was there. He dropped his Gladstone bag and took his mother in\nhis arms.\n\n\"Mater!\" he said.\n\n\"My boy!\" she cried.\n\nAnd for two seconds, no longer, she clasped him and kissed him. Then she\nwithdrew and said, trying to be quite normal:\n\n\"But how late you are!\"\n\n\"Aren't I!\" he cried, turning to his father. \"Well, dad!\"\n\nThe two men shook hands.\n\n\"Well, my lad!\"\n\nMorel's eyes were wet.\n\n\"We thought tha'd niver be commin',\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, I'd come!\" exclaimed William.\n\nThen the son turned round to his mother.\n\n\"But you look well,\" she said proudly, laughing.\n\n\"Well!\" he exclaimed. \"I should think so--coming home!\"\n\nHe was a fine fellow, big, straight, and fearless-looking. He looked\nround at the evergreens and the kissing bunch, and the little tarts that\nlay in their tins on the hearth.\n\n\"By jove! mother, it's not different!\" he said, as if in relief.\n\nEverybody was still for a second. Then he suddenly sprang forward,\npicked a tart from the hearth, and pushed it whole into his mouth.\n\n\"Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!\" the father exclaimed.\n\nHe had brought them endless presents. Every penny he had he had spent\non them. There was a sense of luxury overflowing in the house. For his\nmother there was an umbrella with gold on the pale handle. She kept\nit to her dying day, and would have lost anything rather than that.\nEverybody had something gorgeous, and besides, there were pounds of\nunknown sweets: Turkish delight, crystallised pineapple, and such-like\nthings which, the children thought, only the splendour of London could\nprovide. And Paul boasted of these sweets among his friends.\n\n\"Real pineapple, cut off in slices, and then turned into crystal--fair\ngrand!\"\n\nEverybody was mad with happiness in the family. Home was home, and they\nloved it with a passion of love, whatever the suffering had been. There\nwere parties, there were rejoicings. People came in to see William, to\nsee what difference London had made to him. And they all found him \"such\na gentleman, and SUCH a fine fellow, my word\"!\n\nWhen he went away again the children retired to various places to weep\nalone. Morel went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Morel felt as if she were\nnumbed by some drug, as if her feelings were paralysed. She loved him\npassionately.\n\nHe was in the office of a lawyer connected with a large shipping firm,\nand at the midsummer his chief offered him a trip in the Mediterranean\non one of the boats, for quite a small cost. Mrs. Morel wrote: \"Go, go,\nmy boy. You may never have a chance again, and I should love to think of\nyou cruising there in the Mediterranean almost better than to have you\nat home.\" But William came home for his fortnight's holiday. Not even\nthe Mediterranean, which pulled at all his young man's desire to travel,\nand at his poor man's wonder at the glamorous south, could take him away\nwhen he might come home. That compensated his mother for much.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nPAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE\n\nMOREL was rather a heedless man, careless of danger. So he had endless\naccidents. Now, when Mrs. Morel heard the rattle of an empty coal-cart\ncease at her entry-end, she ran into the parlour to look, expecting\nalmost to see her husband seated in the waggon, his face grey under his\ndirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or other. If it were he, she\nwould run out to help.\n\nAbout a year after William went to London, and just after Paul had left\nschool, before he got work, Mrs. Morel was upstairs and her son was\npainting in the kitchen--he was very clever with his brush--when there\ncame a knock at the door. Crossly he put down his brush to go. At the\nsame moment his mother opened a window upstairs and looked down.\n\nA pit-lad in his dirt stood on the threshold.\n\n\"Is this Walter Morel's?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"What is it?\"\n\nBut she had guessed already.\n\n\"Your mester's got hurt,\" he said.\n\n\"Eh, dear me!\" she exclaimed. \"It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. And\nwhat's he done this time?\"\n\n\"I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg somewhere. They ta'ein' 'im ter\nth' 'ospital.\"\n\n\"Good gracious me!\" she exclaimed. \"Eh, dear, what a one he is! There's\nnot five minutes of peace, I'll be hanged if there is! His thumb's\nnearly better, and now--Did you see him?\"\n\n\"I seed him at th' bottom. An' I seed 'em bring 'im up in a tub, an'\n'e wor in a dead faint. But he shouted like anythink when Doctor Fraser\nexamined him i' th' lamp cabin--an' cossed an' swore, an' said as 'e wor\ngoin' to be ta'en whoam--'e worn't goin' ter th' 'ospital.\"\n\nThe boy faltered to an end.\n\n\"He WOULD want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thank\nyou, my lad. Eh, dear, if I'm not sick--sick and surfeited, I am!\"\n\nShe came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting.\n\n\"And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital,\" she\nwent on. \"But what a CARELESS creature he is! OTHER men don't have all\nthese accidents. Yes, he WOULD want to put all the burden on me. Eh,\ndear, just as we WERE getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away,\nthere's no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know I\ns'll have to go trailing to Keston. I s'll have to leave that bedroom.\"\n\n\"I can finish it,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back, I should think. Oh,\nmy blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he'll make! And those granite\nsetts at Tinder Hill--he might well call them kidney pebbles--they'll\njolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can't mend them, the state\nthey're in, an' all the men as go across in that ambulance. You'd think\nthey'd have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs,\nthere'd be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trail\nthem ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It's a crying shame!\nOh, and the fuss he'll make! I know he will! I wonder who's with him.\nBarker, I s'd think. Poor beggar, he'll wish himself anywhere rather.\nBut he'll look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'll\nbe stuck in that hospital--and WON'T he hate it! But if it's only his\nleg it's not so bad.\"\n\nAll the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off her bodice, she\ncrouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into her lading-can.\n\n\"I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!\" she exclaimed,\nwriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms,\nrather surprising on a smallish woman.\n\nPaul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table.\n\n\"There isn't a train till four-twenty,\" he said. \"You've time enough.\"\n\n\"Oh no, I haven't!\" she cried, blinking at him over the towel as she\nwiped her face.\n\n\"Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I come\nwith you to Keston?\"\n\n\"Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to take\nhim? Eh, dear! His clean shirt--and it's a blessing it IS clean. But it\nhad better be aired. And stockings--he won't want them--and a towel, I\nsuppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?\"\n\n\"A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,\" said Paul. His father had been in\nthe hospital before.\n\n\"Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,\" continued Mrs.\nMorel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, and\nwas touched now with grey. \"He's very particular to wash himself to the\nwaist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose they see\nplenty like it.\"\n\nPaul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very\nthin bread and butter.\n\n\"Here you are,\" he said, putting her cup of tea in her place.\n\n\"I can't be bothered!\" she exclaimed crossly.\n\n\"Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready,\" he insisted.\n\nSo she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. She\nwas thinking.\n\nIn a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles to\nKeston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulging\nstring bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges--a\nlittle, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her, that she was\nthrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quickly\nin her anxiety, felt at the back of her her son's heart waiting on her,\nfelt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her.\nAnd when she was at the hospital, she thought: \"It WILL upset that lad\nwhen I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful.\" And when she was\ntrudging home again, she felt he was coming to share her burden.\n\n\"Is it bad?\" asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house.\n\n\"It's bad enough,\" she replied.\n\n\"What?\"\n\nShe sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her son watched her\nface as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened hands fingering at\nthe bow under her chin.\n\n\"Well,\" she answered, \"it's not really dangerous, but the nurse says\nit's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on his\nleg--here--and it's a compound fracture. There are pieces of bone\nsticking through--\"\n\n\"Ugh--how horrid!\" exclaimed the children.\n\n\"And,\" she continued, \"of course he says he's going to die--it wouldn't\nbe him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said, looking at me.\n'Don't be so silly,' I said to him. 'You're not going to die of a broken\nleg, however badly it's smashed.' 'I s'll niver come out of 'ere but in\na wooden box,' he groaned. 'Well,' I said, 'if you want them to carry\nyou into the garden in a wooden box, when you're better, I've no doubt\nthey will.' 'If we think it's good for him,' said the Sister. She's an\nawfully nice Sister, but rather strict.\"\n\nMrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence.\n\n\"Of course, he IS bad,\" she continued, \"and he will be. It's a great\nshock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it IS a very\ndangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mend so easily. And\nthen there's the fever and the mortification--if it took bad ways he'd\nquickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded man, with wonderful\nhealing flesh, and so I see no reason why it SHOULD take bad ways. Of\ncourse there's a wound--\"\n\nShe was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children realised\nthat it was very bad for their father, and the house was silent,\nanxious.\n\n\"But he always gets better,\" said Paul after a while.\n\n\"That's what I tell him,\" said the mother.\n\nEverybody moved about in silence.\n\n\"And he really looked nearly done for,\" she said. \"But the Sister says\nthat is the pain.\"\n\nAnnie took away her mother's coat and bonnet.\n\n\"And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'll have to go now,\nWalter, because of the train--and the children.' And he looked at me. It\nseems hard.\"\n\nPaul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went outside\nfor some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, in her little\nrocking-chair that her husband had made for her when the first baby was\ncoming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterly\nsorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of\nhearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now, when\nall her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would have\nslaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she would\nhave taken the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away inside\nher, she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her\nmost of all, this failure to love him, even when he roused her strong\nemotions. She brooded a while.\n\n\"And there,\" she said suddenly, \"when I'd got halfway to Keston, I found\nI'd come out in my working boots--and LOOK at them.\" They were an old\npair of Paul's, brown and rubbed through at the toes. \"I didn't know\nwhat to do with myself, for shame,\" she added.\n\nIn the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Morel talked\nagain to her son, who was helping her with her housework.\n\n\"I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow!\n'Well,' I said to him, 'what sort of a journey did you have with him?'\n'Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay,' I said, 'I know what he'd be.'\n'But it WOR bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it WOR that!' he said. 'I know,' I\nsaid. 'At ivry jolt I thought my 'eart would ha' flown clean out o' my\nmouth,' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives sometimes! Missis, not for a\nfortune would I go through wi' it again.' 'I can quite understand it,'\nI said. 'It's a nasty job, though,' he said, 'an' one as'll be a long\nwhile afore it's right again.' 'I'm afraid it will,' I said. I like Mr.\nBarker--I DO like him. There's something so manly about him.\"\n\nPaul resumed his task silently.\n\n\"And of course,\" Mrs. Morel continued, \"for a man like your father,\nthe hospital IS hard. He CAN'T understand rules and regulations. And he\nwon't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed\nthe muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day,\nWOULD he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of\ncourse, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving\nhim. I'm sure, when I kissed him an' came away, it seemed a shame.\"\n\nSo she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud to him,\nand he took it in as best he could, by sharing her trouble to lighten\nit. And in the end she shared almost everything with him without\nknowing.\n\nMorel had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical condition.\nThen he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going to get better, the\nwhole family sighed with relief, and proceeded to live happily.\n\nThey were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There were\nfourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillings from the sick\nclub, and five shillings from the Disability Fund; and then every week\nthe butties had something for Mrs. Morel--five or seven shillings--so\nthat she was quite well to do. And whilst Morel was progressing\nfavourably in the hospital, the family was extraordinarily happy and\npeaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays Mrs. Morel went to Nottingham to\nsee her husband. Then she always brought back some little thing: a small\ntube of paints for Paul, or some thick paper; a couple of postcards for\nAnnie, that the whole family rejoiced over for days before the girl was\nallowed to send them away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit of pretty\nwood. She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon the\nfolk in the picture-shop knew her, and knew about Paul. The girl in\nthe book-shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morel was full of\ninformation when she got home from Nottingham. The three sat round till\nbed-time, listening, putting in, arguing. Then Paul often raked the\nfire.\n\n\"I'm the man in the house now,\" he used to say to his mother with joy.\nThey learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be. And they\nalmost regretted--though none of them would have owned to such\ncallousness--that their father was soon coming back.\n\nPaul was now fourteen, and was looking for work. He was a rather small\nand rather finely-made boy, with dark brown hair and light blue eyes.\nHis face had already lost its youthful chubbiness, and was becoming\nsomewhat like William's--rough-featured, almost rugged--and it was\nextraordinarily mobile. Usually he looked as if he saw things, was full\nof life, and warm; then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly and\nwas very lovable; and then, when there was any clog in his soul's quick\nrunning, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that\nbecomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels\nhimself held cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch of\nwarmth.\n\nHe suffered very much from the first contact with anything. When he was\nseven, the starting school had been a nightmare and a torture to him.\nBut afterwards he liked it. And now that he felt he had to go out into\nlife, he went through agonies of shrinking self-consciousness. He was\nquite a clever painter for a boy of his years, and he knew some French\nand German and mathematics that Mr. Heaton had taught him. But nothing\nhe had was of any commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavy\nmanual work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with his\nhands, preferred racing about, or making excursions into the country, or\nreading, or painting.\n\n\"What do you want to be?\" his mother asked.\n\n\"Anything.\"\n\n\"That is no answer,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nBut it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His ambition,\nas far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earn his thirty or\nthirty-five shillings a week somewhere near home, and then, when his\nfather died, have a cottage with his mother, paint and go out as he\nliked, and live happy ever after. That was his programme as far as doing\nthings went. But he was proud within himself, measuring people against\nhimself, and placing them, inexorably. And he thought that PERHAPS he\nmight also make a painter, the real thing. But that he left alone.\n\n\"Then,\" said his mother, \"you must look in the paper for the\nadvertisements.\"\n\nHe looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter humiliation and an anguish\nto go through. But he said nothing. When he got up in the morning, his\nwhole being was knotted up over this one thought:\n\n\"I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job.\"\n\nIt stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing all joy and even\nlife, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot.\n\nAnd then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to be a queer,\nquiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town, he felt as\nif all the folk he met said to themselves: \"He's going to the Co-op.\nreading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. I\nsuppose he's living on his mother.\" Then he crept up the stone stairs\nbehind the drapery shop at the Co-op., and peeped in the reading-room.\nUsually one or two men were there, either old, useless fellows, or\ncolliers \"on the club\". So he entered, full of shrinking and suffering\nwhen they looked up, seated himself at the table, and pretended to scan\nthe news. He knew they would think: \"What does a lad of thirteen want in\na reading-room with a newspaper?\" and he suffered.\n\nThen he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he was a prisoner\nof industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over the old red wall of the\ngarden opposite, looking in their jolly way down on the women who\nwere hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn,\nbrightening in the sun. Two collieries, among the fields, waved their\nsmall white plumes of steam. Far off on the hills were the woods of\nAnnesley, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He was\nbeing taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley was\ngoing now.\n\nThe brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enormous barrels,\nfour a side, like beans in a burst bean-pod. The waggoner, throned\naloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so much below Paul's eye.\nThe man's hair, on his small, bullet head, was bleached almost white by\nthe sun, and on his thick red arms, rocking idly on his sack apron, the\nwhite hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep with\nsunshine. The horses, handsome and brown, went on by themselves, looking\nby far the masters of the show.\n\nPaul wished he were stupid. \"I wish,\" he thought to himself, \"I was fat\nlike him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pig and a brewer's\nwaggoner.\"\n\nThen, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy an\nadvertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in immense\nrelief. His mother would scan over his copies.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"you may try.\"\n\nWilliam had written out a letter of application, couched in admirable\nbusiness language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy's\nhandwriting was execrable, so that William, who did all things well, got\ninto a fever of impatience.\n\nThe elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he found that he\ncould associate with men far above his Bestwood friends in station. Some\nof the clerks in the office had studied for the law, and were more or\nless going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friends\namong men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon\nvisiting and staying in houses of men who, in Bestwood, would have\nlooked down on the unapproachable bank manager, and would merely have\ncalled indifferently on the Rector. So he began to fancy himself as a\ngreat gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised at the ease with which he\nbecame a gentleman.\n\nHis mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodging in\nWalthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kind of fever\ninto the young man's letters. He was unsettled by all the change, he did\nnot stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spin rather giddily on the\nquick current of the new life. His mother was anxious for him. She could\nfeel him losing himself. He had danced and gone to the theatre, boated\non the river, been out with friends; and she knew he sat up afterwards\nin his cold bedroom grinding away at Latin, because he intended to get\non in his office, and in the law as much as he could. He never sent his\nmother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own\nlife. And she did not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a\ntight corner, and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry.\nShe still dreamed of William, and of what he would do, with herself\nbehind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy and\nanxious her heart was because of him.\n\nAlso he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance, a\nhandsome brunette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the men were\nrunning thick and fast.\n\n\"I wonder if you would run, my boy,\" his mother wrote to him, \"unless\nyou saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vain\nenough in a crowd. But take care, and see how you feel when you find\nyourself alone, and in triumph.\" William resented these things, and\ncontinued the chase. He had taken the girl on the river. \"If you saw\nher, mother, you would know how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the\nclearest of clear, transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet,\nand such grey eyes--bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It\nis all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dresses\nas well as any woman in London. I tell you, your son doesn't half put\nhis head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him.\"\n\nMrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not go walking down\nPiccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes, rather than with\na woman who was near to him. But she congratulated him in her doubtful\nfashion. And, as she stood over the washing-tub, the mother brooded over\nher son. She saw him saddled with an elegant and expensive wife, earning\nlittle money, dragging along and getting draggled in some small, ugly\nhouse in a suburb. \"But there,\" she told herself, \"I am very likely\na silly--meeting trouble halfway.\" Nevertheless, the load of anxiety\nscarcely ever left her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by\nhimself.\n\nPresently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan, Manufacturer of\nSurgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was all\njoy.\n\n\"There, you see!\" she cried, her eyes shining. \"You've only written four\nletters, and the third is answered. You're lucky, my boy, as I always\nsaid you were.\"\n\nPaul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elastic\nstockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's notepaper,\nand he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed.\nAnd he seemed to feel the business world, with its regulated system of\nvalues, and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemed monstrous\nalso that a business could be run on wooden legs.\n\nMother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August and\nblazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed up tight inside him.\nHe would have suffered much physical pain rather than this unreasonable\nsuffering at being exposed to strangers, to be accepted or rejected. Yet\nhe chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to her\nhow he suffered over these things, and she only partly guessed. She\nwas gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office at\nBestwood, and Paul watched her take from her purse the money for the\ntickets. As he saw her hands in their old black kid gloves getting the\nsilver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with pain of love of\nher.\n\nShe was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because she WOULD talk\naloud in presence of the other travellers.\n\n\"Now look at that silly cow!\" she said, \"careering round as if it\nthought it was a circus.\"\n\n\"It's most likely a bottfly,\" he said very low.\n\n\"A what?\" she asked brightly and unashamed.\n\nThey thought a while. He was sensible all the time of having her\nopposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him--a rare,\nintimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out\nof the window.\n\nThe sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother and son\nwalked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovers having an\nadventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped to hang over the\nparapet and look at the barges on the canal below.\n\n\"It's just like Venice,\" he said, seeing the sunshine on the water that\nlay between high factory walls.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" she answered, smiling.\n\nThey enjoyed the shops immensely.\n\n\"Now you see that blouse,\" she would say, \"wouldn't that just suit our\nAnnie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?\"\n\n\"And made of needlework as well,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThey had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The town was strange\nand delightful to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a knot of\napprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan.\n\nIt was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a\nnarrow street that led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old-fashioned,\nhaving low dark shops and dark green house doors with brass knockers,\nand yellow-ochred doorsteps projecting on to the pavement; then another\nold shop whose small window looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother\nand son went cautiously, looking everywhere for \"Thomas Jordan and\nSon\". It was like hunting in some wild place. They were on tiptoe of\nexcitement.\n\nSuddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were names of various\nfirms, Thomas Jordan among them.\n\n\"Here it is!\" said Mrs. Morel. \"But now WHERE is it?\"\n\nThey looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory, on\nthe other a Commercial Hotel.\n\n\"It's up the entry,\" said Paul.\n\nAnd they ventured under the archway, as into the jaws of the dragon.\nThey emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings all round. It\nwas littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine actually\ncaught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. But\nelsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors, and two\nflights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of\na staircase, loomed the ominous words \"Thomas Jordan and Son--Surgical\nAppliances.\" Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I\nmounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he\nfollowed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door.\n\nShe pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In front of her\nwas a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks,\nwith their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going about in an at-home\nsort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemed\nluminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very\nhomely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood\nbehind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore a\nboy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit.\n\nOne of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face.\nHis way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end of\nthe room, where was a glass office. And then he came forward. He did\nnot say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs.\nMorel.\n\n\"Can I see Mr. Jordan?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'll fetch him,\" answered the young man.\n\nHe went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old man\nlooked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little\nman came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and wore\nan alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly and\ninquiringly down the room.\n\n\"Good-morning!\" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as to\nwhether she were a customer or not.\n\n\"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call\nthis morning.\"\n\n\"Come this way,\" said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner\nintended to be businesslike.\n\nThey followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered\nin black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers.\nOn the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled\ntogether. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of new\nwash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so\nmuch stunned that he only noticed the outside things.\n\n\"Sit down!\" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to a\nhorse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the\nlittle old man fidgeted and found a paper.\n\n\"Did you write this letter?\" he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognised\nas his own notepaper in front of him.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered.\n\nAt that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guilty\nfor telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, in\nwondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat,\nred hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen\ntable. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the\nman held it.\n\n\"Where did you learn to write?\" said the old man crossly.\n\nPaul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer.\n\n\"He IS a bad writer,\" put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed\nup her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common\nlittle man, and he loved her face clear of the veil.\n\n\"And you say you know French?\" inquired the little man, still sharply.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Paul.\n\n\"What school did you go to?\"\n\n\"The Board-school.\"\n\n\"And did you learn it there?\"\n\n\"No--I--\" The boy went crimson and got no farther.\n\n\"His godfather gave him lessons,\" said Mrs. Morel, half pleading and\nrather distant.\n\nMr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he always seemed to\nkeep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet of paper from\nhis pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it\nto Paul.\n\n\"Read that,\" he said.\n\nIt was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the\nboy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.\n\n\"'Monsieur,'\" he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan.\n\"It's the--it's the--\"\n\nHe wanted to say \"handwriting\", but his wits would no longer work even\nsufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, and\nhating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again.\n\n\"'Sir,--Please send me'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'two pairs--gris\nfil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can't\ntell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the--\"\n\nHe wanted to say \"handwriting\", but the word still refused to come.\nSeeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him.\n\n\"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without TOES.'\"\n\n\"Well,\" flashed Paul, \"'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--as a rule--\"\n\nThe little man looked at him. He did not know whether \"doigts\" meant\n\"fingers\"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant \"toes\".\n\n\"Fingers to stockings!\" he snapped.\n\n\"Well, it DOES mean fingers,\" the boy persisted.\n\nHe hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked\nat the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and\nwith that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the\nfavour of others.\n\n\"And when could he come?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"as soon as you wish. He has finished school\nnow.\"\n\n\"He would live in Bestwood?\"\n\n\"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight.\"\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nIt ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight\nshillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word,\nafter having insisted that \"doigts\" meant \"fingers\". He followed his\nmother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes full\nof love and joy.\n\n\"I think you'll like it,\" she said.\n\n\"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. I\ncouldn't read the writing.\"\n\n\"Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see much\nof him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them.\"\n\n\"But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?\"\n\n\"I suppose he was a workman who has got on,\" she said. \"You mustn't mind\npeople so much. They're not being disagreeable to YOU--it's their way.\nYou always think people are meaning things for you. But they don't.\"\n\nIt was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-place the\nblue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened.\nShops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full\nof colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was a\nrow of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun--apples and piles of\nreddish oranges, small green-gage plums and bananas. There was a warm\nscent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of\nignominy and of rage sank.\n\n\"Where should we go for dinner?\" asked the mother.\n\nIt was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an\neating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of\ntea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and\nbread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to\neat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance.\nPaul felt rather guilty.\n\nThey found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scanned\nthe bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so dear. So she\nordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish.\n\n\"We oughtn't to have come here, mother,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Never mind,\" she said. \"We won't come again.\"\n\nShe insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he liked\nsweets.\n\n\"I don't want it, mother,\" he pleaded.\n\n\"Yes,\" she insisted; \"you'll have it.\"\n\nAnd she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, and\nMrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited\nfor the girl's pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men.\n\n\"Brazen hussy!\" said Mrs. Morel to Paul. \"Look now, she's taking that\nman HIS pudding, and he came long after us.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter, mother,\" said Paul.\n\nMrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too\nmeagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights just\nthen. They waited and waited.\n\n\"Should we go, mother?\" he said.\n\nThen Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near.\n\n\"Will you bring one currant tart?\" said Mrs. Morel clearly.\n\nThe girl looked round insolently.\n\n\"Directly,\" she said.\n\n\"We have waited quite long enough,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nIn a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldly\nfor the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at his\nmother's hardness. He knew that only years of battling had taught her to\ninsist even so little on her rights. She shrank as much as he.\n\n\"It's the last time I go THERE for anything!\" she declared, when they\nwere outside the place, thankful to be clear.\n\n\"We'll go,\" she said, \"and look at Keep's and Boot's, and one or two\nplaces, shall we?\"\n\nThey had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted to buy\nhim a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence he\nrefused. He stood in front of milliners' shops and drapers' shops almost\nbored, but content for her to be interested. They wandered on.\n\n\"Now, just look at those black grapes!\" she said. \"They make your mouth\nwater. I've wanted some of those for years, but I s'll have to wait a\nbit before I get them.\"\n\nThen she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway sniffing.\n\n\"Oh! oh! Isn't it simply lovely!\"\n\nPaul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady in black\npeering over the counter curiously.\n\n\"They're looking at you,\" he said, trying to draw his mother away.\n\n\"But what is it?\" she exclaimed, refusing to be moved.\n\n\"Stocks!\" he answered, sniffing hastily. \"Look, there's a tubful.\"\n\n\"So there is--red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smell\nlike it!\" And, to his great relief, she moved out of the doorway, but\nonly to stand in front of the window.\n\n\"Paul!\" she cried to him, who was trying to get out of sight of the\nelegant young lady in black--the shop-girl. \"Paul! Just look here!\"\n\nHe came reluctantly back.\n\n\"Now, just look at that fuchsia!\" she exclaimed, pointing.\n\n\"H'm!\" He made a curious, interested sound. \"You'd think every second as\nthe flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an' heavy.\"\n\n\"And such an abundance!\" she cried.\n\n\"And the way they drop downwards with their threads and knots!\"\n\n\"Yes!\" she exclaimed. \"Lovely!\"\n\n\"I wonder who'll buy it!\" he said.\n\n\"I wonder!\" she answered. \"Not us.\"\n\n\"It would die in our parlour.\"\n\n\"Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every bit of a plant you put\nin, and the kitchen chokes them to death.\"\n\nThey bought a few things, and set off towards the station. Looking up\nthe canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw the Castle\non its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock, in a positive miracle of\ndelicate sunshine.\n\n\"Won't it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times?\" said Paul. \"I can\ngo all round here and see everything. I s'll love it.\"\n\n\"You will,\" assented his mother.\n\nHe had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home in\nthe mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired.\n\nIn the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticket and took it\nto the station. When he got back, his mother was just beginning to wash\nthe floor. He sat crouched up on the sofa.\n\n\"He says it'll be here on Saturday,\" he said.\n\n\"And how much will it be?\"\n\n\"About one pound eleven,\" he said.\n\nShe went on washing her floor in silence.\n\n\"Is it a lot?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's no more than I thought,\" she answered.\n\n\"An' I s'll earn eight shillings a week,\" he said.\n\nShe did not answer, but went on with her work. At last she said:\n\n\"That William promised me, when he went to London, as he'd give me a\npound a month. He has given me ten shillings--twice; and now I know\nhe hasn't a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want it. Only just now\nyou'd think he might be able to help with this ticket, which I'd never\nexpected.\"\n\n\"He earns a lot,\" said Paul.\n\n\"He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they're all alike. They're\nlarge in promises, but it's precious little fulfilment you get.\"\n\n\"He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself,\" said Paul.\n\n\"And I keep this house on less than thirty,\" she replied; \"and am\nsupposed to find money for extras. But they don't care about helping\nyou, once they've gone. He'd rather spend it on that dressed-up\ncreature.\"\n\n\"She should have her own money if she's so grand,\" said Paul.\n\n\"She should, but she hasn't. I asked him. And I know he doesn't buy her\na gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever bought ME a gold bangle.\"\n\nWilliam was succeeding with his \"Gipsy\", as he called her. He asked the\ngirl--her name was Louisa Lily Denys Western--for a photograph to send\nto his mother. The photo came--a handsome brunette, taken in profile,\nsmirking slightly--and, it might be, quite naked, for on the photograph\nnot a scrap of clothing was to be seen, only a naked bust.\n\n\"Yes,\" wrote Mrs. Morel to her son, \"the photograph of Louie is very\nstriking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you think, my\nboy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young man that photo\nto send to his mother--the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful,\nas you say. But I hardly expected to see so much of them at the first\nview.\"\n\nMorel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the parlour. He\ncame out with it between his thick thumb and finger.\n\n\"Who dost reckon this is?\" he asked of his wife.\n\n\"It's the girl our William is going with,\" replied Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"H'm! 'Er's a bright spark, from th' look on 'er, an' one as wunna do\nhim owermuch good neither. Who is she?\"\n\n\"Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western.\"\n\n\"An' come again to-morrer!\" exclaimed the miner. \"An' is 'er an\nactress?\"\n\n\"She is not. She's supposed to be a lady.\"\n\n\"I'll bet!\" he exclaimed, still staring at the photo. \"A lady, is she?\nAn' how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o' game on?\"\n\n\"On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what\nbit of money's given her.\"\n\n\"H'm!\" said Morel, laying down the photograph. \"Then he's a fool to ha'\nta'en up wi' such a one as that.\"\n\n\"Dear Mater,\" William replied. \"I'm sorry you didn't like the\nphotograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you mightn't\nthink it decent. However, I told Gyp that it didn't quite suit your prim\nand proper notions, so she's going to send you another, that I hope\nwill please you better. She's always being photographed; in fact, the\nphotographers ask her if they may take her for nothing.\"\n\nPresently the new photograph came, with a little silly note from the\ngirl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satin evening bodice,\ncut square, with little puff sleeves, and black lace hanging down her\nbeautiful arms.\n\n\"I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes,\" said Mrs.\nMorel sarcastically. \"I'm sure I ought to be impressed.\"\n\n\"You are disagreeable, mother,\" said Paul. \"I think the first one with\nbare shoulders is lovely.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" answered his mother. \"Well, I don't.\"\n\nOn the Monday morning the boy got up at six to start work. He had the\nseason-ticket, which had cost such bitterness, in his waistcoat pocket.\nHe loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother packed his dinner\nin a small, shut-up basket, and he set off at a quarter to seven to\ncatch the 7.15 train. Mrs. Morel came to the entry-end to see him off.\n\nIt was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slender green fruits\nthat the children call \"pigeons\" were twinkling gaily down on a little\nbreeze, into the front gardens of the houses. The valley was full of a\nlustrous dark haze, through which the ripe corn shimmered, and in which\nthe steam from Minton pit melted swiftly. Puffs of wind came. Paul\nlooked over the high woods of Aldersley, where the country gleamed, and\nhome had never pulled at him so powerfully.\n\n\"Good-morning, mother,\" he said, smiling, but feeling very unhappy.\n\n\"Good-morning,\" she replied cheerfully and tenderly.\n\nShe stood in her white apron on the open road, watching him as he\ncrossed the field. He had a small, compact body that looked full of\nlife. She felt, as she saw him trudging over the field, that where he\ndetermined to go he would get. She thought of William. He would have\nleaped the fence instead of going round the stile. He was away in\nLondon, doing well. Paul would be working in Nottingham. Now she had\ntwo sons in the world. She could think of two places, great centres of\nindustry, and feel that she had put a man into each of them, that these\nmen would work out what SHE wanted; they were derived from her, they\nwere of her, and their works also would be hers. All the morning long\nshe thought of Paul.\n\nAt eight o'clock he climbed the dismal stairs of Jordan's Surgical\nAppliance Factory, and stood helplessly against the first great\nparcel-rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The place was still\nnot awake. Over the counters were great dust sheets. Two men only had\narrived, and were heard talking in a corner, as they took off their\ncoats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. It was ten past eight.\nEvidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voices\nof the two clerks. Then he heard someone cough, and saw in the office\nat the end of the room an old, decaying clerk, in a round smoking-cap of\nblack velvet embroidered with red and green, opening letters. He waited\nand waited. One of the junior clerks went to the old man, greeted him\ncheerily and loudly. Evidently the old \"chief\" was deaf. Then the young\nfellow came striding importantly down to his counter. He spied Paul.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said. \"You the new lad?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Paul.\n\n\"H'm! What's your name?\"\n\n\"Paul Morel.\"\n\n\"Paul Morel? All right, you come on round here.\"\n\nPaul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The room was second\nstorey. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor, fenced as with a\nwall of counters, and down this wide shaft the lifts went, and the light\nfor the bottom storey. Also there was a corresponding big, oblong hole\nin the ceiling, and one could see above, over the fence of the top\nfloor, some machinery; and right away overhead was the glass roof, and\nall light for the three storeys came downwards, getting dimmer, so that\nit was always night on the ground floor and rather gloomy on the second\nfloor. The factory was the top floor, the warehouse the second, the\nstorehouse the ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place.\n\nPaul was led round to a very dark corner.\n\n\"This is the 'Spiral' corner,\" said the clerk. \"You're Spiral, with\nPappleworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't get here\ntill half-past eight. So you can fetch the letters, if you like, from\nMr. Melling down there.\"\n\nThe young man pointed to the old clerk in the office.\n\n\"All right,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are your entry ledgers. Mr.\nPappleworth won't be long.\"\n\nAnd the thin young man stalked away with long, busy strides over the\nhollow wooden floor.\n\nAfter a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of the glass\noffice. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down over the rim of his\nspectacles.\n\n\"Good-morning,\" he said, kindly and impressively. \"You want the letters\nfor the Spiral department, Thomas?\"\n\nPaul resented being called \"Thomas\". But he took the letters and\nreturned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, where the\ngreat parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were three doors in\nthe corner. He sat on a high stool and read the letters--those whose\nhandwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows:\n\n\"Will you please send me at once a pair of lady's silk spiral\nthigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year; length,\nthigh to knee, etc.\" Or, \"Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat his\nprevious order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage.\"\n\nMany of these letters, some of them in French or Norwegian, were a great\npuzzle to the boy. He sat on his stool nervously awaiting the arrival\nof his \"boss\". He suffered tortures of shyness when, at half-past eight,\nthe factory girls for upstairs trooped past him.\n\nMr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty to\nnine, when all the other men were at work. He was a thin, sallow man\nwith a red nose, quick, staccato, and smartly but stiffly dressed. He\nwas about thirty-six years old. There was something rather \"doggy\",\nrather smart, rather 'cute and shrewd, and something warm, and something\nslightly contemptible about him.\n\n\"You my new lad?\" he said.\n\nPaul stood up and said he was.\n\n\"Fetched the letters?\"\n\nMr. Pappleworth gave a chew to his gum.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Copied 'em?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, come on then, let's look slippy. Changed your coat?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You want to bring an old coat and leave it here.\" He pronounced the\nlast words with the chlorodyne gum between his side teeth. He vanished\ninto the darkness behind the great parcel-rack, reappeared coatless,\nturning up a smart striped shirt-cuff over a thin and hairy arm. Then\nhe slipped into his coat. Paul noticed how thin he was, and that his\ntrousers were in folds behind. He seized a stool, dragged it beside the\nboy's, and sat down.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he said.\n\nPaul took a seat.\n\nMr. Pappleworth was very close to him. The man seized the letters,\nsnatched a long entry-book out of a rack in front of him, flung it open,\nseized a pen, and said:\n\n\"Now look here. You want to copy these letters in here.\" He sniffed\ntwice, gave a quick chew at his gum, stared fixedly at a letter,\nthen went very still and absorbed, and wrote the entry rapidly, in a\nbeautiful flourishing hand. He glanced quickly at Paul.\n\n\"See that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Think you can do it all right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"All right then, let's see you.\"\n\nHe sprang off his stool. Paul took a pen. Mr. Pappleworth disappeared.\nPaul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly, laboriously,\nand exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, and feeling quite\nbusy and happy, when Mr. Pappleworth reappeared.\n\n\"Now then, how'r' yer getting on? Done 'em?\"\n\nHe leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of chlorodyne.\n\n\"Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer!\" he exclaimed\nsatirically. \"Ne'er mind, how many h'yer done? Only three! I'd 'a eaten\n'em. Get on, my lad, an' put numbers on 'em. Here, look! Get on!\"\n\nPaul ground away at the letters, whilst Mr. Pappleworth fussed over\nvarious jobs. Suddenly the boy started as a shrill whistle sounded near\nhis ear. Mr. Pappleworth came, took a plug out of a pipe, and said, in\nan amazingly cross and bossy voice:\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\nPaul heard a faint voice, like a woman's, out of the mouth of the tube.\nHe gazed in wonder, never having seen a speaking-tube before.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Pappleworth disagreeably into the tube, \"you'd better\nget some of your back work done, then.\"\n\nAgain the woman's tiny voice was heard, sounding pretty and cross.\n\n\"I've not time to stand here while you talk,\" said Mr. Pappleworth, and\nhe pushed the plug into the tube.\n\n\"Come, my lad,\" he said imploringly to Paul, \"there's Polly crying out\nfor them orders. Can't you buck up a bit? Here, come out!\"\n\nHe took the book, to Paul's immense chagrin, and began the copying\nhimself. He worked quickly and well. This done, he seized some strips\nof long yellow paper, about three inches wide, and made out the day's\norders for the work-girls.\n\n\"You'd better watch me,\" he said to Paul, working all the while rapidly.\nPaul watched the weird little drawings of legs, and thighs, and ankles,\nwith the strokes across and the numbers, and the few brief directions\nwhich his chief made upon the yellow paper. Then Mr. Pappleworth\nfinished and jumped up.\n\n\"Come on with me,\" he said, and the yellow papers flying in his hands,\nhe dashed through a door and down some stairs, into the basement where\nthe gas was burning. They crossed the cold, damp storeroom, then a\nlong, dreary room with a long table on trestles, into a smaller, cosy\napartment, not very high, which had been built on to the main building.\nIn this room a small woman with a red serge blouse, and her black hair\ndone on top of her head, was waiting like a proud little bantam.\n\n\"Here y'are!\" said Pappleworth.\n\n\"I think it is 'here you are'!\" exclaimed Polly. \"The girls have been\nhere nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time wasted!\"\n\n\"YOU think of getting your work done and not talking so much,\" said Mr.\nPappleworth. \"You could ha' been finishing off.\"\n\n\"You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!\" cried\nPony, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing.\n\n\"Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!\" he mocked. \"Here's your new lad. Don't ruin him\nas you did the last.\"\n\n\"As we did the last!\" repeated Polly. \"Yes, WE do a lot of ruining, we\ndo. My word, a lad would TAKE some ruining after he'd been with you.\"\n\n\"It's time for work now, not for talk,\" said Mr. Pappleworth severely\nand coldly.\n\n\"It was time for work some time back,\" said Polly, marching away with\nher head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty.\n\nIn that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under the\nwindow. Through the inner doorway was another longer room, with six more\nmachines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed in white aprons, stood\ntalking together.\n\n\"Have you nothing else to do but talk?\" said Mr. Pappleworth.\n\n\"Only wait for you,\" said one handsome girl, laughing.\n\n\"Well, get on, get on,\" he said. \"Come on, my lad. You'll know your road\ndown here again.\"\n\nAnd Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checking\nand invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his execrable\nhandwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down from the glass\noffice and stood behind him, to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly a\nred and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in.\n\n\"MR. J. A. Bates, Esquire!\" exclaimed the cross voice just behind his\near.\n\nPaul looked at \"Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire\" in his own vile writing, and\nwondered what was the matter now.\n\n\"Didn't they teach you any better THAN that while they were at it? If\nyou put 'Mr.' you don't put Esquire'-a man can't be both at once.\"\n\nThe boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of honours,\nhesitated, and with trembling fingers, scratched out the \"Mr.\" Then all\nat once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice.\n\n\"Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?\" And he tore\nup the blue form irritably.\n\nPaul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan watched.\n\n\"I don't know what they DO teach in schools. You'll have to write better\nthan that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry\nand play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?\" he asked of Mr.\nPappleworth.\n\n\"Yes; prime, isn't it?\" replied Mr. Pappleworth indifferently.\n\nMr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that his\nmaster's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manufacturer,\nalthough he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave his\nmen alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did not\nlook like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his role of\nproprietor at first, to put things on a right footing.\n\n\"Let's see, WHAT'S your name?\" asked Mr. Pappleworth of the boy.\n\n\"Paul Morel.\"\n\nIt is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce their\nown names.\n\n\"Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them things there,\nand then--\"\n\nMr. Pappleworth subsided on to a stool, and began writing. A girl came\nup from out of a door just behind, put some newly-pressed elastic web\nappliances on the counter, and returned. Mr. Pappleworth picked up the\nwhitey-blue knee-band, examined it, and its yellow order-paper quickly,\nand put it on one side. Next was a flesh-pink \"leg\". He went through\nthe few things, wrote out a couple of orders, and called to Paul to\naccompany him. This time they went through the door whence the girl had\nemerged. There Paul found himself at the top of a little wooden flight\nof steps, and below him saw a room with windows round two sides, and at\nthe farther end half a dozen girls sitting bending over the benches\nin the light from the window, sewing. They were singing together \"Two\nLittle Girls in Blue\". Hearing the door opened, they all turned round,\nto see Mr. Pappleworth and Paul looking down on them from the far end of\nthe room. They stopped singing.\n\n\"Can't you make a bit less row?\" said Mr. Pappleworth. \"Folk'll think we\nkeep cats.\"\n\nA hunchback woman on a high stool turned her long, rather heavy face\ntowards Mr. Pappleworth, and said, in a contralto voice:\n\n\"They're all tom-cats then.\"\n\nIn vain Mr. Pappleworth tried to be impressive for Paul's benefit.\nHe descended the steps into the finishing-off room, and went to the\nhunchback Fanny. She had such a short body on her high stool that her\nhead, with its great bands of bright brown hair, seemed over large, as\ndid her pale, heavy face. She wore a dress of green-black cashmere, and\nher wrists, coming out of the narrow cuffs, were thin and flat, as she\nput down her work nervously. He showed her something that was wrong with\na knee-cap.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"you needn't come blaming it on to me. It's not my\nfault.\" Her colour mounted to her cheek.\n\n\"I never said it WAS your fault. Will you do as I tell you?\" replied Mr.\nPappleworth shortly.\n\n\"You don't say it's my fault, but you'd like to make out as it was,\" the\nhunchback woman cried, almost in tears. Then she snatched the knee-cap\nfrom her \"boss\", saying: \"Yes, I'll do it for you, but you needn't be\nsnappy.\"\n\n\"Here's your new lad,\" said Mr. Pappleworth.\n\nFanny turned, smiling very gently on Paul.\n\n\"Oh!\" she said.\n\n\"Yes; don't make a softy of him between you.\"\n\n\"It's not us as 'ud make a softy of him,\" she said indignantly.\n\n\"Come on then, Paul,\" said Mr. Pappleworth.\n\n\"Au revoy, Paul,\" said one of the girls.\n\nThere was a titter of laughter. Paul went out, blushing deeply, not\nhaving spoken a word.\n\nThe day was very long. All morning the work-people were coming to speak\nto Mr. Pappleworth. Paul was writing or learning to make up parcels,\nready for the midday post. At one o'clock, or, rather, at a quarter to\none, Mr. Pappleworth disappeared to catch his train: he lived in the\nsuburbs. At one o'clock, Paul, feeling very lost, took his dinner-basket\ndown into the stockroom in the basement, that had the long table on\ntrestles, and ate his meal hurriedly, alone in that cellar of gloom and\ndesolation. Then he went out of doors. The brightness and the freedom of\nthe streets made him feel adventurous and happy. But at two o'clock\nhe was back in the corner of the big room. Soon the work-girls went\ntrooping past, making remarks. It was the commoner girls who worked\nupstairs at the heavy tasks of truss-making and the finishing of\nartificial limbs. He waited for Mr. Pappleworth, not knowing what to do,\nsitting scribbling on the yellow order-paper. Mr. Pappleworth came at\ntwenty minutes to three. Then he sat and gossiped with Paul, treating\nthe boy entirely as an equal, even in age.\n\nIn the afternoon there was never very much to do, unless it were near\nthe week-end, and the accounts had to be made up. At five o'clock all\nthe men went down into the dungeon with the table on trestles, and there\nthey had tea, eating bread-and-butter on the bare, dirty boards, talking\nwith the same kind of ugly haste and slovenliness with which they ate\ntheir meal. And yet upstairs the atmosphere among them was always jolly\nand clear. The cellar and the trestles affected them.\n\nAfter tea, when all the gases were lighted, WORK went more briskly.\nThere was the big evening post to get off. The hose came up warm and\nnewly pressed from the workrooms. Paul had made out the invoices. Now he\nhad the packing up and addressing to do, then he had to weigh his stock\nof parcels on the scales. Everywhere voices were calling weights, there\nwas the chink of metal, the rapid snapping of string, the hurrying to\nold Mr. Melling for stamps. And at last the postman came with his sack,\nlaughing and jolly. Then everything slacked off, and Paul took his\ndinner-basket and ran to the station to catch the eight-twenty train.\nThe day in the factory was just twelve hours long.\n\nHis mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had to walk from\nKeston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And he left the\nhouse before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morel was rather anxious about\nhis health. But she herself had had to put up with so much that she\nexpected her children to take the same odds. They must go through with\nwhat came. And Paul stayed at Jordan's, although all the time he was\nthere his health suffered from the darkness and lack of air and the long\nhours.\n\nHe came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She saw he was\nrather pleased, and her anxiety all went.\n\n\"Well, and how was it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Ever so funny, mother,\" he replied. \"You don't have to work a bit hard,\nand they're nice with you.\"\n\n\"And did you get on all right?\"\n\n\"Yes: they only say my writing's bad. But Mr. Pappleworth--he's my\nman--said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm Spiral, mother; you\nmust come and see. It's ever so nice.\"\n\nSoon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Pappleworth, who had a certain \"saloon bar\"\nflavour about him, was always natural, and treated him as if he had been\na comrade. Sometimes the \"Spiral boss\" was irritable, and chewed more\nlozenges than ever. Even then, however, he was not offensive, but one\nof those people who hurt themselves by their own irritability more than\nthey hurt other people.\n\n\"Haven't you done that YET?\" he would cry. \"Go on, be a month of\nSundays.\"\n\nAgain, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular and in\nhigh spirits.\n\n\"I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow,\" he said\njubilantly to Paul.\n\n\"What's a Yorkshire terrier?\"\n\n\"DON'T know what a Yorkshire terrier is? DON'T KNOW A YORKSHIRE--\" Mr.\nPappleworth was aghast.\n\n\"Is it a little silky one--colours of iron and rusty silver?\"\n\n\"THAT'S it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds' worth of pups\nalready, and she's worth over seven pounds herself; and she doesn't\nweigh twenty ounces.\"\n\nThe next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Paul\ndid not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag that would never\ndry. Then a man called for her, and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr.\nPappleworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy, and the talk\nwent on _sotto voce_.\n\nMr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and then the only\nfault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the counter.\n\n\"Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen in your\near!\" And one day he said to the lad: \"Why don't you hold your shoulders\nstraighter? Come down here,\" when he took him into the glass office and\nfitted him with special braces for keeping the shoulders square.\n\nBut Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and rather dull.\nHe liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly, the little brisk\noverseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar, asked him if she\ncould cook him anything on her little stove. Next day his mother gave\nhim a dish that could be heated up. He took it into the pleasant, clean\nroom to Polly. And very soon it grew to be an established custom that he\nshould have dinner with her. When he came in at eight in the morning he\ntook his basket to her, and when he came down at one o'clock she had his\ndinner ready.\n\nHe was not very tall, and pale, with thick chestnut hair, irregular\nfeatures, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He often\ncalled her a \"robinet\". Though naturally rather quiet, he would sit and\nchatter with her for hours telling her about his home. The girls all\nliked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a little circle while he\nsat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. Some of them regarded\nhim as a curious little creature, so serious, yet so bright and jolly,\nand always so delicate in his way with them. They all liked him, and he\nadored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane of\nred hair, her face of apple-blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady in\nher shabby black frock, appealed to his romantic side.\n\n\"When you sit winding,\" he said, \"it looks as if you were spinning at\na spinning-wheel--it looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in the\n'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could.\"\n\nAnd she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he had a sketch\nhe prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool before the wheel, her\nflowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, her red mouth shut\nand serious, running the scarlet thread off the hank on to the reel.\n\nWith Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrust her hip at\nhim, he usually joked.\n\nEmma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But to condescend\nto him made her happy, and he did not mind.\n\n\"How do you put needles in?\" he asked.\n\n\"Go away and don't bother.\"\n\n\"But I ought to know how to put needles in.\"\n\nShe ground at her machine all the while steadily.\n\n\"There are many things you ought to know,\" she replied.\n\n\"Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine.\"\n\n\"Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, THIS is how you do it.\"\n\nHe watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped. Then Polly\nappeared, and said in a clear voice:\n\n\"Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you're going to be down\nhere playing with the girls, Paul.\"\n\nPaul flew upstairs, calling \"Good-bye!\" and Emma drew herself up.\n\n\"It wasn't ME who wanted him to play with the machine,\" she said.\n\nAs a rule, when all the girls came back at two o'clock, he ran upstairs\nto Fanny, the hunchback, in the finishing-off room. Mr. Pappleworth\ndid not appear till twenty to three, and he often found his boy sitting\nbeside Fanny, talking, or drawing, or singing with the girls.\n\nOften, after a minute's hesitation, Fanny would begin to sing. She had a\nfine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus, and it went well.\nPaul was not at all embarrassed, after a while, sitting in the room with\nthe half a dozen work-girls.\n\nAt the end of the song Fanny would say:\n\n\"I know you've been laughing at me.\"\n\n\"Don't be so soft, Fanny!\" cried one of the girls.\n\nOnce there was mention of Connie's red hair.\n\n\"Fanny's is better, to my fancy,\" said Emma.\n\n\"You needn't try to make a fool of me,\" said Fanny, flushing deeply.\n\n\"No, but she has, Paul; she's got beautiful hair.\"\n\n\"It's a treat of a colour,\" said he. \"That coldish colour like earth,\nand yet shiny. It's like bog-water.\"\n\n\"Goodness me!\" exclaimed one girl, laughing.\n\n\"How I do but get criticised,\" said Fanny.\n\n\"But you should see it down, Paul,\" cried Emma earnestly. \"It's simply\nbeautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants something to paint.\"\n\nFanny would not, and yet she wanted to.\n\n\"Then I'll take it down myself,\" said the lad.\n\n\"Well, you can if you like,\" said Fanny.\n\nAnd he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush of hair, of\nuniform dark brown, slid over the humped back.\n\n\"What a lovely lot!\" he exclaimed.\n\nThe girls watched. There was silence. The youth shook the hair loose\nfrom the coil.\n\n\"It's splendid!\" he said, smelling its perfume. \"I'll bet it's worth\npounds.\"\n\n\"I'll leave it you when I die, Paul,\" said Fanny, half joking.\n\n\"You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair,\" said one\nof the girls to the long-legged hunchback.\n\nPoor Fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults. Polly was\ncurt and businesslike. The two departments were for ever at war, and\nPaul was always finding Fanny in tears. Then he was made the recipient\nof all her woes, and he had to plead her case with Polly.\n\nSo the time went along happily enough. The factory had a homely feel.\nNo one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyed it when the work got\nfaster, towards post-time, and all the men united in labour. He liked to\nwatch his fellow-clerks at work. The man was the work and the work was\nthe man, one thing, for the time being. It was different with the girls.\nThe real woman never seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out,\nwaiting.\n\nFrom the train going home at night he used to watch the lights of the\ntown, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blaze in the\nvalleys. He felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off, there was\na patch of lights at Bulwell like myriad petals shaken to the ground\nfrom the shed stars; and beyond was the red glare of the furnaces,\nplaying like hot breath on the clouds.\n\nHe had to walk two and more miles from Keston home, up two long hills,\ndown two short hills. He was often tired, and he counted the lamps\nclimbing the hill above him, how many more to pass. And from the\nhilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round on the villages five\nor six miles away, that shone like swarms of glittering living things,\nalmost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered the\nfar-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally the black valley\nspace between was traced, violated by a great train rushing south to\nLondon or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles level\non the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with\ntheir passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages\nglittered in silence.\n\nAnd then he came to the corner at home, which faced the other side\nof the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose with\ngladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly on the table.\n\n\"It'll help, mother?\" he asked wistfully.\n\n\"There's precious little left,\" she answered, \"after your ticket and\ndinners and such are taken off.\"\n\nThen he told her the budget of the day. His life-story, like an Arabian\nNights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost as if it\nwere her own life.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nDEATH IN THE FAMILY\n\nARTHUR MOREL was growing up. He was a quick, careless, impulsive boy, a\ngood deal like his father. He hated study, made a great moan if he had\nto work, and escaped as soon as possible to his sport again.\n\nIn appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well made,\ngraceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh colouring, and\nhis exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with his\ngenerous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite. But as he grew\nolder his temper became uncertain. He flew into rages over nothing,\nseemed unbearably raw and irritable.\n\nHis mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He thought only of\nhimself. When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way he\nhated, even if it were she. When he was in trouble he moaned to her\nceaselessly.\n\n\"Goodness, boy!\" she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said,\nhated him, \"if you don't like it, alter it, and if you can't alter it,\nput up with it.\"\n\nAnd his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he came\nto detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body, which\nhad been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem to\nripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable. There came\nover him a look of meanness and of paltriness. And when the mean-looking\nelderly man bullied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was furious.\nMoreover, Morel's manners got worse and worse, his habits somewhat\ndisgusting. When the children were growing up and in the crucial stage\nof adolescence, the father was like some ugly irritant to their souls.\nHis manners in the house were the same as he used among the colliers\ndown pit.\n\n\"Dirty nuisance!\" Arthur would cry, jumping up and going straight out\nof the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel persisted the more\nbecause his children hated it. He seemed to take a kind of satisfaction\nin disgusting them, and driving them nearly mad, while they were so\nirritably sensitive at the age of fourteen or fifteen. So that Arthur,\nwho was growing up when his father was degenerate and elderly, hated him\nworst of all.\n\nThen, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptuous hatred\nof his children.\n\n\"There's not a man tries harder for his family!\" he would shout. \"He\ndoes his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I'm not\ngoing to stand it, I tell you!\"\n\nBut for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as he\nimagined, they would have felt sorry. As it was, the battle now went on\nnearly all between father and children, he persisting in his dirty and\ndisgusting ways, just to assert his independence. They loathed him.\n\nArthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won a\nscholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother decided\nto let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only come home at\nweek-ends.\n\nAnnie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning about four\nshillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since she\nhad passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in the\nhouse.\n\nMrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But still\nhe stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everything\nhe did was for her. She waited for his coming home in the evening, and\nthen she unburdened herself of all she had pondered, or of all that\nhad occurred to her during the day. He sat and listened with his\nearnestness. The two shared lives.\n\nWilliam was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her an\nengagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped at such a\nfabulous price.\n\n\"Eight guineas!\" said Morel. \"More fool him! If he'd gen me some on't,\nit 'ud ha' looked better on 'im.\"\n\n\"Given YOU some of it!\" cried Mrs. Morel. \"Why give YOU some of it!\"\n\nShe remembered HE had bought no engagement ring at all, and she\npreferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But now the\nyoung man talked only of the dances to which he went with his betrothed,\nand the different resplendent clothes she wore; or he told his mother\nwith glee how they went to the theatre like great swells.\n\nHe wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should come at the\nChristmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but with no presents.\nMrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing footsteps, she rose and went to\nthe door. William entered.\n\n\"Hello, mother!\" He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to present a\ntall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black-and-white\ncheck, and furs.\n\n\"Here's Gyp!\"\n\nMiss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a small smile.\n\n\"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"I am afraid you will be hungry,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?\"\n\nWilliam Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly.\n\n\"How should I?\" he said.\n\n\"Then I've lost them. Don't be cross with me.\"\n\nA frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced round\nthe kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glittering\nkissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden chairs and\nlittle deal table. At that moment Morel came in.\n\n\"Hello, dad!\"\n\n\"Hello, my son! Tha's let on me!\"\n\nThe two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She gave the same\nsmile that showed her teeth.\n\n\"How do you do, Mr. Morel?\"\n\nMorel bowed obsequiously.\n\n\"I'm very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself very\nwelcome.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you,\" she replied, rather amused.\n\n\"You will like to go upstairs,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"If you don't mind; but not if it is any trouble to you.\"\n\n\"It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box.\"\n\n\"And don't be an hour dressing yourself up,\" said William to his\nbetrothed.\n\nAnnie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, preceded\nthe young lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. and Mrs. Morel had\nvacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by candlelight. The\ncolliers' wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case of extreme illness.\n\n\"Shall I unstrap the box?\" asked Annie.\n\n\"Oh, thank you very much!\"\n\nAnnie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot water.\n\n\"I think she's rather tired, mother,\" said William. \"It's a beastly\njourney, and we had such a rush.\"\n\n\"Is there anything I can give her?\" asked Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Oh no, she'll be all right.\"\n\nBut there was a chill in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss Western\ncame down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, very fine for the\ncollier's kitchen.\n\n\"I told you you'd no need to change,\" said William to her.\n\n\"Oh, Chubby!\" Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel.\n\"Don't you think he's always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?\"\n\n\"Is he?\" said Mrs. Morel. \"That's not very nice of him.\"\n\n\"It isn't, really!\"\n\n\"You are cold,\" said the mother. \"Won't you come near the fire?\"\n\nMorel jumped out of his armchair.\n\n\"Come and sit you here!\" he cried. \"Come and sit you here!\"\n\n\"No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp,\" said William.\n\n\"No, no!\" cried Morel. \"This cheer's warmest. Come and sit here, Miss\nWesson.\"\n\n\"Thank you so much,\" said the girl, seating herself in the collier's\narmchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of the\nkitchen penetrate her.\n\n\"Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!\" she said, putting up her mouth to him,\nand using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made the\nrest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The young\nlady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures to\nher for the present. William winced.\n\nIn such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a lady\ncondescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainly\nclownish--in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself?\n\n\"I'll go,\" said Annie.\n\nMiss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when the\ngirl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: \"Oh, thank\nyou!\" in a gracious way.\n\nShe sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been so\npoor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, and\nchattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twist\ntobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as he\npuffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answered\nquietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence and\nadmiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best was\ngot out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth,\nthe best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand.\nShe felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how to\ntreat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable.\n\nAt about ten o'clock he said to her:\n\n\"Aren't you tired, Gyp?\"\n\n\"Rather, Chubby,\" she answered, at once in the intimate tones and\nputting her head slightly on one side.\n\n\"I'll light her the candle, mother,\" he said.\n\n\"Very well,\" replied the mother.\n\nMiss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Good-night, Mrs. Morel,\" she said.\n\nPaul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stone\nbeer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet, and\nkissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the lady,\nbecause the house was full.\n\n\"You wait a minute,\" said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursing\nthe hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to everybody's\ndiscomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In five minutes\nhe was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did not know why.\nHe talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but himself and\nhis mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old attitude on\nthe hearthrug, and said hesitatingly:\n\n\"Well, mother?\"\n\n\"Well, my son?\"\n\nShe sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, for\nhis sake.\n\n\"Do you like her?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" came the slow answer.\n\n\"She's shy yet, mother. She's not used to it. It's different from her\naunt's house, you know.\"\n\n\"Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult.\"\n\n\"She does.\" Then he frowned swiftly. \"If only she wouldn't put on her\nBLESSED airs!\"\n\n\"It's only her first awkwardness, my boy. She'll be all right.\"\n\n\"That's it, mother,\" he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy.\n\"You know, she's not like you, mother. She's not serious, and she can't\nthink.\"\n\n\"She's young, my boy.\"\n\n\"Yes; and she's had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a\nchild. Since then she's lived with her aunt, whom she can't bear. And\nher father was a rake. She's had no love.\"\n\n\"No! Well, you must make up to her.\"\n\n\"And so--you have to forgive her a lot of things.\"\n\n\"WHAT do you have to forgive her, my boy?\"\n\n\"I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she's never had\nanybody to bring her deeper side out. And she's FEARFULLY fond of me.\"\n\n\"Anybody can see that.\"\n\n\"But you know, mother--she's--she's different from us. Those sort of\npeople, like those she lives amongst, they don't seem to have the same\nprinciples.\"\n\n\"You mustn't judge too hastily,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nBut he seemed uneasy within himself.\n\nIn the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house.\n\n\"Hello!\" he called, sitting on the stairs. \"Are you getting up?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" her voice called faintly.\n\n\"Merry Christmas!\" he shouted to her.\n\nHer laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did not\ncome down in half an hour.\n\n\"Was she REALLY getting up when she said she was?\" he asked of Annie.\n\n\"Yes, she was,\" replied Annie.\n\nHe waited a while, then went to the stairs again.\n\n\"Happy New Year,\" he called.\n\n\"Thank you, Chubby dear!\" came the laughing voice, far away.\n\n\"Buck up!\" he implored.\n\nIt was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, who\nalways rose before six, looked at the clock.\n\n\"Well, it's a winder!\" he exclaimed.\n\nThe family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of the\nstairs.\n\n\"Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?\" he called, rather\ncrossly. She only laughed. The family expected, after that time of\npreparation, something like magic. At last she came, looking very nice\nin a blouse and skirt.\n\n\"Have you REALLY been all this time getting ready?\" he asked.\n\n\"Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. Morel?\"\n\nShe played the grand lady at first. When she went with William\nto chapel, he in his frock-coat and silk hat, she in her furs and\nLondon-made costume, Paul and Arthur and Annie expected everybody to bow\nto the ground in admiration. And Morel, standing in his Sunday suit\nat the end of the road, watching the gallant pair go, felt he was the\nfather of princes and princesses.\n\nAnd yet she was not so grand. For a year now she had been a sort of\nsecretary or clerk in a London office. But while she was with the Morels\nshe queened it. She sat and let Annie or Paul wait on her as if they\nwere her servants. She treated Mrs. Morel with a certain glibness and\nMorel with patronage. But after a day or so she began to change her\ntune.\n\nWilliam always wanted Paul or Annie to go along with them on their\nwalks. It was so much more interesting. And Paul really DID admire\n\"Gipsy\" wholeheartedly; in fact, his mother scarcely forgave the boy for\nthe adulation with which he treated the girl.\n\nOn the second day, when Lily said: \"Oh, Annie, do you know where I left\nmy muff?\" William replied:\n\n\"You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie?\"\n\nAnd Lily went upstairs with a cross, shut mouth. But it angered the\nyoung man that she made a servant of his sister.\n\nOn the third evening William and Lily were sitting together in the\nparlour by the fire in the dark. At a quarter to eleven Mrs. Morel was\nheard raking the fire. William came out to the kitchen, followed by his\nbeloved.\n\n\"Is it as late as that, mother?\" he said. She had been sitting alone.\n\n\"It is not LATE, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up.\"\n\n\"Won't you go to bed, then?\" he asked.\n\n\"And leave you two? No, my boy, I don't believe in it.\"\n\n\"Can't you trust us, mother?\"\n\n\"Whether I can or not, I won't do it. You can stay till eleven if you\nlike, and I can read.\"\n\n\"Go to bed, Gyp,\" he said to his girl. \"We won't keep mater waiting.\"\n\n\"Annie has left the candle burning, Lily,\" said Mrs. Morel; \"I think you\nwill see.\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel.\"\n\nWilliam kissed his sweetheart at the foot of the stairs, and she went.\nHe returned to the kitchen.\n\n\"Can't you trust us, mother?\" he repeated, rather offended.\n\n\"My boy, I tell you I don't BELIEVE in leaving two young things like you\nalone downstairs when everyone else is in bed.\"\n\nAnd he was forced to take this answer. He kissed his mother good-night.\n\nAt Easter he came over alone. And then he discussed his sweetheart\nendlessly with his mother.\n\n\"You know, mother, when I'm away from her I don't care for her a bit. I\nshouldn't care if I never saw her again. But, then, when I'm with her in\nthe evenings I am awfully fond of her.\"\n\n\"It's a queer sort of love to marry on,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"if she holds\nyou no more than that!\"\n\n\"It IS funny!\" he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him. \"But\nyet--there's so much between us now I couldn't give her up.\"\n\n\"You know best,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"But if it is as you say, I wouldn't\ncall it LOVE--at any rate, it doesn't look much like it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, mother. She's an orphan, and--\"\n\nThey never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled and rather\nfretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength and money went\nin keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford to take his mother to\nNottingham when he came over.\n\nPaul's wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings, to his great\njoy. He was quite happy at Jordan's, but his health suffered from the\nlong hours and the confinement. His mother, to whom he became more and\nmore significant, thought how to help.\n\nHis half-day holiday was on Monday afternoon. On a Monday morning in\nMay, as the two sat alone at breakfast, she said:\n\n\"I think it will be a fine day.\"\n\nHe looked up in surprise. This meant something.\n\n\"You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, he asked me\nlast week if I wouldn't go and see Mrs. Leivers, and I promised to bring\nyou on Monday if it's fine. Shall we go?\"\n\n\"I say, little woman, how lovely!\" he cried. \"And we'll go this\nafternoon?\"\n\nPaul hurried off to the station jubilant. Down Derby Road was a\ncherry-tree that glistened. The old brick wall by the Statutes ground\nburned scarlet, spring was a very flame of green. And the steep swoop\nof highroad lay, in its cool morning dust, splendid with patterns of\nsunshine and shadow, perfectly still. The trees sloped their great green\nshoulders proudly; and inside the warehouse all the morning, the boy had\na vision of spring outside.\n\nWhen he came home at dinner-time his mother was rather excited.\n\n\"Are we going?\" he asked.\n\n\"When I'm ready,\" she replied.\n\nPresently he got up.\n\n\"Go and get dressed while I wash up,\" he said.\n\nShe did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took her boots.\nThey were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those naturally exquisite\npeople who can walk in mud without dirtying their shoes. But Paul had to\nclean them for her. They were kid boots at eight shillings a pair. He,\nhowever, thought them the most dainty boots in the world, and he cleaned\nthem with as much reverence as if they had been flowers.\n\nSuddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She had got a\nnew cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward.\n\n\"Oh, my stars!\" he exclaimed. \"What a bobby-dazzler!\"\n\nShe sniffed in a little haughty way, and put her head up.\n\n\"It's not a bobby-dazzler at all!\" she replied. \"It's very quiet.\"\n\nShe walked forward, whilst he hovered round her.\n\n\"Well,\" she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and mighty, \"do\nyou like it?\"\n\n\"Awfully! You ARE a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!\"\n\nHe went and surveyed her from the back.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"if I was walking down the street behind you, I should\nsay: 'Doesn't THAT little person fancy herself!\"'\n\n\"Well, she doesn't,\" replied Mrs. Morel. \"She's not sure it suits her.\"\n\n\"Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped in\nburnt paper. It DOES suit you, and I say you look nice.\"\n\nShe sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know better.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"it's cost me just three shillings. You couldn't have\ngot it ready-made for that price, could you?\"\n\n\"I should think you couldn't,\" he replied.\n\n\"And, you know, it's good stuff.\"\n\n\"Awfully pretty,\" he said.\n\nThe blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black.\n\n\"Too young for me, though, I'm afraid,\" she said.\n\n\"Too young for you!\" he exclaimed in disgust. \"Why don't you buy some\nfalse white hair and stick it on your head.\"\n\n\"I s'll soon have no need,\" she replied. \"I'm going white fast enough.\"\n\n\"Well, you've no business to,\" he said. \"What do I want with a\nwhite-haired mother?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you'll have to put up with one, my lad,\" she said rather\nstrangely.\n\nThey set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William had given\nher, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller than she, though\nhe was not big. He fancied himself.\n\nOn the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit waved its\nplumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely.\n\n\"Now look at that!\" said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood on the road to\nwatch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hill crawled a little group\nin silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small truck, and a man. They\nclimbed the incline against the heavens. At the end the man tipped the\nwagon. There was an undue rattle as the waste fell down the sheer slope\nof the enormous bank.\n\n\"You sit a minute, mother,\" he said, and she took a seat on a bank,\nwhilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, looking\nround at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among their greenness.\n\n\"The world is a wonderful place,\" she said, \"and wonderfully beautiful.\"\n\n\"And so's the pit,\" he said. \"Look how it heaps together, like something\nalive almost--a big creature that you don't know.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"Perhaps!\"\n\n\"And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to be\nfed,\" he said.\n\n\"And very thankful I am they ARE standing,\" she said, \"for that means\nthey'll turn middling time this week.\"\n\n\"But I like the feel of MEN on things, while they're alive. There's a\nfeel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands,\nall of them.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nThey went along under the trees of the highroad. He was constantly\ninforming her, but she was interested. They passed the end of\nNethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly in\nits lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepidation\napproached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman came out to see.\n\n\"Is this the way to Willey Farm?\" Mrs. Morel asked.\n\nPaul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman was\namiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through the wheat\nand oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Peewits, with their\nwhite breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed about them. The lake was\nstill and blue. High overhead a heron floated. Opposite, the wood heaped\non the hill, green and still.\n\n\"It's a wild road, mother,\" said Paul. \"Just like Canada.\"\n\n\"Isn't it beautiful!\" said Mrs. Morel, looking round.\n\n\"See that heron--see--see her legs?\"\n\nHe directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And she was\nquite content.\n\n\"But now,\" she said, \"which way? He told me through the wood.\"\n\nThe wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left.\n\n\"I can feel a bit of a path this road,\" said Paul. \"You've got town\nfeet, somehow or other, you have.\"\n\nThey found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley of the\nwood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an old oak glade\ndipping down on the other. And among the oaks the bluebells stood in\npools of azure, under the new green hazels, upon a pale fawn floor of\noak-leaves. He found flowers for her.\n\n\"Here's a bit of new-mown hay,\" he said; then, again, he brought her\nforget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand,\nused with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She was\nperfectly happy.\n\nBut at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in a\nsecond.\n\n\"Come,\" he said, \"let me help you.\"\n\n\"No, go away. I will do it in my own way.\"\n\nHe stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbed\ncautiously.\n\n\"What a way to climb!\" he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely to\nearth again.\n\n\"Hateful stiles!\" she cried.\n\n\"Duffer of a little woman,\" he replied, \"who can't get over 'em.\"\n\nIn front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farm\nbuildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the apple\norchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deep\nunder a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade.\nThe farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced the\nsunshine towards the wood. It was very still.\n\nMother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scent\nof red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out to\ncool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenly\nappeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, had\na rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, and\ndark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, she\ndisappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman,\nrosy, with great dark brown eyes.\n\n\"Oh!\" she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, \"you've come, then. I\nAM glad to see you.\" Her voice was intimate and rather sad.\n\nThe two women shook hands.\n\n\"Now are you sure we're not a bother to you?\" said Mrs. Morel. \"I know\nwhat a farming life is.\"\n\n\"Oh no! We're only too thankful to see a new face, it's so lost up\nhere.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nThey were taken through into the parlour--a long, low room, with a great\nbunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilst\nPaul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling the\ngillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly to\nthe heap of coal which stood by the fence.\n\n\"I suppose these are cabbage-roses?\" he said to her, pointing to the\nbushes along the fence.\n\nShe looked at him with startled, big brown eyes.\n\n\"I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?\" he said.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she faltered. \"They're white with pink middles.\"\n\n\"Then they're maiden-blush.\"\n\nMiriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said.\n\n\"You don't have MUCH in your garden,\" he said.\n\n\"This is our first year here,\" she answered, in a distant, rather\nsuperior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, but\nwent his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and they\nwent through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted.\n\n\"And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?\"\nsaid Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers.\n\n\"No,\" replied the little woman. \"I can't find time to look after cattle,\nand I'm not used to it. It's as much as I can do to keep going in the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose it is,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nPresently the girl came out.\n\n\"Tea is ready, mother,\" she said in a musical, quiet voice.\n\n\"Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we'll come,\" replied her mother, almost\ningratiatingly. \"Would you CARE to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"Whenever it's ready.\"\n\nPaul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then they\nwent out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while fumy\nforget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were in ecstasy\ntogether.\n\nWhen they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the eldest\nson, were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then Geoffrey and\nMaurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in from school. Mr.\nLeivers was a good-looking man in the prime of life, with a golden-brown\nmoustache, and blue eyes screwed up against the weather.\n\nThe boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. They went\nround for eggs, scrambling into all sorts of places. As they were\nfeeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no notice of her. One\nhen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. Maurice took his hand full\nof corn and let the hen peck from it.\n\n\"Durst you do it?\" he asked of Paul.\n\n\"Let's see,\" said Paul.\n\nHe had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam watched.\nHe held the corn to the hen. The bird eyed it with her hard, bright eye,\nand suddenly made a peck into his hand. He started, and laughed. \"Rap,\nrap, rap!\" went the bird's beak in his palm. He laughed again, and the\nother boys joined.\n\n\"She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts,\" said Paul, when the\nlast corn had gone. \"Now, Miriam,\" said Maurice, \"you come an 'ave a\ngo.\"\n\n\"No,\" she cried, shrinking back.\n\n\"Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!\" said her brothers.\n\n\"It doesn't hurt a bit,\" said Paul. \"It only just nips rather nicely.\"\n\n\"No,\" she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking.\n\n\"She dursn't,\" said Geoffrey. \"She niver durst do anything except recite\npoitry.\"\n\n\"Dursn't jump off a gate, dursn't tweedle, dursn't go on a slide,\ndursn't stop a girl hittin' her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin'\nherself somebody. 'The Lady of the Lake.' Yah!\" cried Maurice.\n\nMiriam was crimson with shame and misery.\n\n\"I dare do more than you,\" she cried. \"You're never anything but cowards\nand bullies.\"\n\n\"Oh, cowards and bullies!\" they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech.\n\n     \"Not such a clown shall anger me,\n     A boor is answered silently,\"\n\nhe quoted against her, shouting with laughter.\n\nShe went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where they\nhad rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was more\nagile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossom\nthat hung low on a swinging bough.\n\n\"I wouldn't get the apple-blossom,\" said Edgar, the eldest brother.\n\"There'll be no apples next year.\"\n\n\"I wasn't going to get it,\" replied Paul, going away.\n\nThe boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their own\npursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his mother. As he\nwent round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in front of the hen-coop,\nsome maize in her hand, biting her lip, and crouching in an intense\nattitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. Very gingerly she put forward\nher hand. The hen bobbed for her. She drew back quickly with a cry, half\nof fear, half of chagrin.\n\n\"It won't hurt you,\" said Paul.\n\nShe flushed crimson and started up.\n\n\"I only wanted to try,\" she said in a low voice.\n\n\"See, it doesn't hurt,\" he said, and, putting only two corns in his\npalm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. \"It only makes\nyou laugh,\" he said.\n\nShe put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and started\nback with a cry. He frowned.\n\n\"Why, I'd let her take corn from my face,\" said Paul, \"only she bumps a\nbit. She's ever so neat. If she wasn't, look how much ground she'd peck\nup every day.\"\n\nHe waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird peck from\nher hand. She gave a little cry--fear, and pain because of fear--rather\npathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again.\n\n\"There, you see,\" said the boy. \"It doesn't hurt, does it?\"\n\nShe looked at him with dilated dark eyes.\n\n\"No,\" she laughed, trembling.\n\nThen she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some way resentful\nof the boy.\n\n\"He thinks I'm only a common girl,\" she thought, and she wanted to prove\nshe was a grand person like the \"Lady of the Lake\".\n\nPaul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her son. He took\nthe great bunch of flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Leivers walked down the fields\nwith them. The hills were golden with evening; deep in the woods showed\nthe darkening purple of bluebells. It was everywhere perfectly stiff,\nsave for the rustling of leaves and birds.\n\n\"But it is a beautiful place,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Mr. Leivers; \"it's a nice little place, if only it\nweren't for the rabbits. The pasture's bitten down to nothing. I dunno\nif ever I s'll get the rent off it.\"\n\nHe clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near the woods,\nbrown rabbits hopping everywhere.\n\n\"Would you believe it!\" exclaimed Mrs. Morel.\n\nShe and Paul went on alone together.\n\n\"Wasn't it lovely, mother?\" he said quietly.\n\nA thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness till it\nhurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted to cry with\nhappiness.\n\n\"Now WOULDN'T I help that man!\" she said. \"WOULDN'T I see to the fowls\nand the young stock! And I'D learn to milk, and I'D talk with him, and\nI'D plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the farm would be run,\nI know! But there, she hasn't the strength--she simply hasn't the\nstrength. She ought never to have been burdened like it, you know. I'm\nsorry for her, and I'm sorry for him too. My word, if I'D had him, I\nshouldn't have thought him a bad husband! Not that she does either; and\nshe's very lovable.\"\n\nWilliam came home again with his sweetheart at the Whitsuntide. He had\none week of his holidays then. It was beautiful weather. As a rule,\nWilliam and Lily and Paul went out in the morning together for a walk.\nWilliam did not talk to his beloved much, except to tell her things from\nhis boyhood. Paul talked endlessly to both of them. They lay down, all\nthree, in a meadow by Minton Church. On one side, by the Castle Farm,\nwas a beautiful quivering screen of poplars. Hawthorn was dropping\nfrom the hedges; penny daisies and ragged robin were in the field, like\nlaughter. William, a big fellow of twenty-three, thinner now and even a\nbit gaunt, lay back in the sunshine and dreamed, while she fingered with\nhis hair. Paul went gathering the big daisies. She had taken off her\nhat; her hair was black as a horse's mane. Paul came back and threaded\ndaisies in her jet-black hair--big spangles of white and yellow, and\njust a pink touch of ragged robin.\n\n\"Now you look like a young witch-woman,\" the boy said to her. \"Doesn't\nshe, William?\"\n\nLily laughed. William opened his eyes and looked at her. In his gaze was\na certain baffled look of misery and fierce appreciation.\n\n\"Has he made a sight of me?\" she asked, laughing down on her lover.\n\n\"That he has!\" said William, smiling.\n\nHe looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glanced at her\nflower-decked head and frowned.\n\n\"You look nice enough, if that's what you want to know,\" he said.\n\nAnd she walked without her hat. In a little while William recovered, and\nwas rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he carved her initials and\nhis in a heart.\n\nL. L. W.\n\nW. M.\n\nShe watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glistening hairs and\nfreckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it.\n\nAll the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and a certain\ntenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were at home. But often\nhe got irritable. She had brought, for an eight-days' stay, five dresses\nand six blouses.\n\n\"Oh, would you mind,\" she said to Annie, \"washing me these two blouses,\nand these things?\"\n\nAnd Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next morning.\nMrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching a glimpse\nof his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister, hated her.\n\nOn Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard, silky\nand sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and in a large cream hat\ncovered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough.\nBut in the evening, when she was going out, she asked again:\n\n\"Chubby, have you got my gloves?\"\n\n\"Which?\" asked William.\n\n\"My new black SUEDE.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThere was a hunt. She had lost them.\n\n\"Look here, mother,\" said William, \"that's the fourth pair she's lost\nsince Christmas--at five shillings a pair!\"\n\n\"You only gave me TWO of them,\" she remonstrated.\n\nAnd in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst she\nsat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had\nleft her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a\nbook. After supper William wanted to write a letter.\n\n\"Here is your book, Lily,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"Would you care to go on\nwith it for a few minutes?\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said the girl. \"I will sit still.\"\n\n\"But it is so dull.\"\n\nWilliam scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope\nhe said:\n\n\"Read a book! Why, she's never read a book in her life.\"\n\n\"Oh, go along!\" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration,\n\n\"It's true, mother--she hasn't,\" he cried, jumping up and taking his old\nposition on the hearthrug. \"She's never read a book in her life.\"\n\n\"'Er's like me,\" chimed in Morel. \"'Er canna see what there is i' books,\nter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I.\"\n\n\"But you shouldn't say these things,\" said Mrs. Morel to her son.\n\n\"But it's true, mother--she CAN'T read. What did you give her?\"\n\n\"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants to read\ndry stuff on Sunday afternoon.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken,\" said his mother.\n\nAll the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly.\n\n\"DID you read any?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, I did,\" she replied.\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"I don't know how many pages.\"\n\n\"Tell me ONE THING you read.\"\n\nShe could not.\n\nShe never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a\nquick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but love-making\nand chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughts sifted through\nhis mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and was asked in\nreply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed.\n\n\"You know, mother,\" he said, when he was alone with her at night, \"she's\nno idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When she's paid, she'll\nsuddenly buy such rot as marrons glaces, and then I have to buy her\nseason ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to\nget married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year.\nBut at this rate--\"\n\n\"A fine mess of a marriage it would be,\" replied his mother. \"I should\nconsider it again, my boy.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now,\" he said, \"and so I shall\nget married as soon as I can.\"\n\n\"Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there's no stopping you;\nbut I tell you, I can't sleep when I think about it.\"\n\n\"Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage.\"\n\n\"And she lets you buy her underclothing?\" asked the mother.\n\n\"Well,\" he began apologetically, \"she didn't ask me; but one\nmorning--and it WAS cold--I found her on the station shivering, not able\nto keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: 'I\nthink so.' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings on?' And she\nsaid: 'No, they were cotton.' I asked her why on earth she hadn't got\nsomething thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she HAD\nnothing. And there she is--a bronchial subject! I HAD to take her and\nget some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn't mind the money if we\nhad any. And, you know, she OUGHT to keep enough to pay for her\nseason-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find\nthe money.\"\n\n\"It's a poor lookout,\" said Mrs. Morel bitterly.\n\nHe was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly careless\nand laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair.\n\n\"But I can't give her up now; it's gone too far,\" he said. \"And,\nbesides, for SOME things I couldn't do without her.\"\n\n\"My boy, remember you're taking your life in your hands,\" said Mrs.\nMorel. \"NOTHING is as bad as a marriage that's a hopeless failure. Mine\nwas bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but it\nmight have been worse by a long chalk.\"\n\nHe leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece, his hands\nin his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who looked as if he would\ngo to the world's end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on his\nface.\n\n\"I couldn't give her up now,\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an\nengagement.\"\n\n\"I can't give her up NOW,\" he said.\n\nThe clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflict\nbetween them; but he would say no more. At last she said:\n\n\"Well, go to bed, my son. You'll feel better in the morning, and perhaps\nyou'll know better.\"\n\nHe kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy now\nas it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to be\nbreaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. Now\nher soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck.\n\nAnd so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed.\nOn the last evening at home he was railing against her.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"if you don't believe me, what she's like, would you\nbelieve she has been confirmed three times?\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" laughed Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Nonsense or not, she HAS! That's what confirmation means for her--a bit\nof a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.\"\n\n\"I haven't, Mrs. Morel!\" cried the girl--\"I haven't! it is not true!\"\n\n\"What!\" he cried, flashing round on her. \"Once in Bromley, once in\nBeckenham, and once somewhere else.\"\n\n\"Nowhere else!\" she said, in tears--\"nowhere else!\"\n\n\"It WAS! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed TWICE?\"\n\n\"Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,\" she pleaded, tears in her eyes.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel; \"I can quite understand it, child. Take no\nnotice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things.\"\n\n\"But it's true. She's religious--she had blue velvet Prayer-Books--and\nshe's not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that\ntable-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, and\nthat's how she is in EVERYTHING--EVERYTHING!\"\n\nThe girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong.\n\n\"As for LOVE!\" he cried, \"you might as well ask a fly to love you! It'll\nlove settling on you--\"\n\n\"Now, say no more,\" commanded Mrs. Morel. \"If you want to say these\nthings, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you,\nWilliam! Why don't you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with\na girl, and then pretend you're engaged to her!\"\n\nMrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation.\n\nWilliam was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted the\ngirl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her.\n\nWhen they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as\nNottingham. It was a long way to Keston station.\n\n\"You know, mother,\" he said to her, \"Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deep\nwith her.\"\n\n\"William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things,\" said Mrs. Morel, very\nuncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her.\n\n\"But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now, but if I\ndied she'd have forgotten me in three months.\"\n\nMrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the quiet\nbitterness of her son's last speech.\n\n\"How do you know?\" she replied. \"You DON'T know, and therefore you've no\nright to say such a thing.\"\n\n\"He's always saying these things!\" cried the girl.\n\n\"In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else, and I\nshould be forgotten,\" he said. \"And that's your love!\"\n\nMrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she returned\nhome.\n\n\"There's one comfort,\" she said to Paul--\"he'll never have any money to\nmarry on, that I AM sure of. And so she'll save him that way.\"\n\nSo she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly\nbelieved William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, and she kept\nPaul near to her.\n\nAll summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemed\nunnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly, usually he\nwas flat and bitter in his letter.\n\n\"Ah,\" his mother said, \"I'm afraid he's ruining himself against that\ncreature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no more than a rag doll.\"\n\nHe wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; it was a long\nwhile to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, saying he could come\nfor Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the first week in October.\n\n\"You are not well, my boy,\" said his mother, when she saw him. She was\nalmost in tears at having him to herself again.\n\n\"No, I've not been well,\" he said. \"I've seemed to have a dragging cold\nall the last month, but it's going, I think.\"\n\nIt was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboy\nescaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than\never, and there was a haggard look in his eyes.\n\n\"You are doing too much,\" said his mother to him.\n\nHe was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on, he said.\nHe only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night; then he was sad\nand tender about his beloved.\n\n\"And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd be\nbroken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. You'd\nsee, she'd never come home here to look at my grave, not even once.\"\n\n\"Why, William,\" said his mother, \"you're not going to die, so why talk\nabout it?\"\n\n\"But whether or not--\" he replied.\n\n\"And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you choose her--well,\nyou can't grumble,\" said his mother.\n\nOn the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:\n\n\"Look,\" he said to his mother, holding up his chin, \"what a rash my\ncollar's made under my chin!\"\n\nJust at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation.\n\n\"It ought not to do that,\" said his mother. \"Here, put a bit of this\nsoothing ointment on. You should wear different collars.\"\n\nHe went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solid for his\ntwo days at home.\n\nOn Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs.\nMorel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram,\ncalled a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign, put\non her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught an express for\nLondon in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottingham nearly an hour. A\nsmall figure in her black bonnet, she was anxiously asking the porters\nif they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She\nsat in her corner in a kind of stupor, never moving. At King's Cross\nstill no one could tell her how to get to Elmers End. Carrying her\nstring bag, that contained her nightdress, a comb and brush, she went\nfrom person to person. At last they sent her underground to Cannon\nStreet.\n\nIt was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The blinds\nwere not down.\n\n\"How is he?\" she asked.\n\n\"No better,\" said the landlady.\n\nShe followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with bloodshot\neyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were tossed about, there\nwas no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood on the stand at his\nbedside. No one had been with him.\n\n\"Why, my son!\" said the mother bravely.\n\nHe did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then he began\nto say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dictation: \"Owing\nto a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and become\nconverted into rock. It needed hacking--\"\n\nHe was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine some such\ncargo of sugar in the Port of London.\n\n\"How long has he been like this?\" the mother asked the landlady.\n\n\"He got home at six o'clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleep\nall day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning he\nasked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor.\"\n\n\"Will you have a fire made?\"\n\nMrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still.\n\nThe doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar erysipelas,\nwhich had started under the chin where the collar chafed, and was\nspreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain.\n\nMrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, prayed that he\nwould recognise her. But the young man's face grew more discoloured.\nIn the night she struggled with him. He raved, and raved, and would not\ncome to consciousness. At two o'clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died.\n\nMrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom; then\nshe roused the household.\n\nAt six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; then\nshe went round the dreary London village to the registrar and the\ndoctor.\n\nAt nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire:\n\n\"William died last night. Let father come, bring money.\"\n\nAnnie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone to work. The\nthree children said not a word. Annie began to whimper with fear; Paul\nset off for his father.\n\nIt was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly in\nthe sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkled\nhigh up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busy\nnoise.\n\n\"I want my father; he's got to go to London,\" said the boy to the first\nman he met on the bank.\n\n\"Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an' tell Joe Ward.\"\n\nPaul went into the little top office.\n\n\"I want my father; he's got to go to London.\"\n\n\"Thy feyther? Is he down? What's his name?\"\n\n\"Mr. Morel.\"\n\n\"What, Walter? Is owt amiss?\"\n\n\"He's got to go to London.\"\n\nThe man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office.\n\n\"Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat's amiss; there's his lad\nhere.\"\n\nThen he turned round to Paul.\n\n\"He'll be up in a few minutes,\" he said.\n\nPaul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up, with its\nwagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest, a full carfle\nwas hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, a bell ting'ed\nsomewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone.\n\nPaul did not realise William was dead; it was impossible, with such\na bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to the\nturn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curving\nlines.\n\n\"And William is dead, and my mother's in London, and what will she be\ndoing?\" the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum.\n\nHe watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last,\nstanding beside a wagon, a man's form! the chair sank on its rests,\nMorel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident.\n\n\"Is it thee, Paul? Is 'e worse?\"\n\n\"You've got to go to London.\"\n\nThe two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. As\nthey came out and went along the railway, with the sunny autumn field on\none side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a frightened\nvoice:\n\n\"'E's niver gone, child?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When wor't?\"\n\n\"Last night. We had a telegram from my mother.\"\n\nMorel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a truck-side,\nhis hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round,\nwaiting. On the weighing machine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saw\neverything, except his father leaning against the truck as if he were\ntired.\n\nMorel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared and\npeaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children were left\nalone in the house. Paul went to work, Arthur went to school, and Annie\nhad in a friend to be with her.\n\nOn Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, coming home from\nKeston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to Sethley Bridge\nStation. They were walking in silence in the dark, tired, straggling\napart. The boy waited.\n\n\"Mother!\" he said, in the darkness.\n\nMrs. Morel's small figure seemed not to observe. He spoke again.\n\n\"Paul!\" she said, uninterestedly.\n\nShe let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him.\n\nIn the house she was the same--small, white, and mute. She noticed\nnothing, she said nothing, only:\n\n\"The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You'd better see about some\nhelp.\" Then, turning to the children: \"We're bringing him home.\"\n\nThen she relapsed into the same mute looking into space, her hands\nfolded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he could not breathe. The\nhouse was dead silent.\n\n\"I went to work, mother,\" he said plaintively.\n\n\"Did you?\" she answered, dully.\n\nAfter half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again.\n\n\"Wheer s'll we ha'e him when he DOES come?\" he asked his wife.\n\n\"In the front-room.\"\n\n\"Then I'd better shift th' table?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"An' ha'e him across th' chairs?\"\n\n\"You know there--Yes, I suppose so.\"\n\nMorel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There was no gas\nthere. The father unscrewed the top of the big mahogany oval table, and\ncleared the middle of the room; then he arranged six chairs opposite\neach other, so that the coffin could stand on their beds.\n\n\"You niver seed such a length as he is!\" said the miner, and watching\nanxiously as he worked.\n\nPaul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-tree stood monstrous\nand black in front of the wide darkness. It was a faintly luminous\nnight. Paul went back to his mother.\n\nAt ten o'clock Morel called:\n\n\"He's here!\"\n\nEveryone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlocking the front\ndoor, which opened straight from the night into the room.\n\n\"Bring another candle,\" called Morel.\n\nAnnie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He stood with his\narm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down the middle of the cleared\nroom waited six chairs, face to face. In the window, against the lace\ncurtains, Arthur held up one candle, and by the open door, against the\nnight, Annie stood leaning forward, her brass candlestick glittering.\n\nThere was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of the street\nbelow Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, and a few\npale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves, seemed to\nstruggle in the obscurity. Presently two men appeared, bowed beneath a\ngreat weight. It was Morel and his neighbour.\n\n\"Steady!\" called Morel, out of breath.\n\nHe and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved into the\ncandlelight with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other men were seen\nstruggling behind. Morel and Burns, in front, staggered; the great dark\nweight swayed.\n\n\"Steady, steady!\" cried Morel, as if in pain.\n\nAll the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding the great\ncoffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door. The yellow lamp\nof the carriage shone alone down the black road.\n\n\"Now then!\" said Morel.\n\nThe coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with their\nload. Annie's candle flickered, and she whimpered as the first men\nappeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men struggled to climb\ninto the room, bearing the coffin that rode like sorrow on their living\nflesh.\n\n\"Oh, my son--my son!\" Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each time the coffin\nswung to the unequal climbing of the men: \"Oh, my son--my son--my son!\"\n\n\"Mother!\" Paul whimpered, his hand round her waist.\n\nShe did not hear.\n\n\"Oh, my son--my son!\" she repeated.\n\nPaul saw drops of sweat fall from his father's brow. Six men were in\nthe room--six coatless men, with yielding, struggling limbs, filling\nthe room and knocking against the furniture. The coffin veered, and was\ngently lowered on to the chairs. The sweat fell from Morel's face on its\nboards.\n\n\"My word, he's a weight!\" said a man, and the five miners sighed, bowed,\nand, trembling with the struggle, descended the steps again, closing the\ndoor behind them.\n\nThe family was alone in the parlour with the great polished box.\nWilliam, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like a monument\nlay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought it would never be\ngot out of the room again. His mother was stroking the polished wood.\n\nThey buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the hillside\nthat looks over the fields at the big church and the houses. It was\nsunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves in the warmth.\n\nMrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take her old\nbright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way home in the\ntrain she had said to herself: \"If only it could have been me!\"\n\nWhen Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting, her day's work\ndone, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse apron. She always\nused to have changed her dress and put on a black apron, before. Now\nAnnie set his supper, and his mother sat looking blankly in front of\nher, her mouth shut tight. Then he beat his brains for news to tell her.\n\n\"Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of a\ncolliery at work was beautiful.\"\n\nBut Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself to\ntell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost insane\nto have her thus. At last:\n\n\"What's a-matter, mother?\" he asked.\n\nShe did not hear.\n\n\"What's a-matter?\" he persisted. \"Mother, what's a-matter?\"\n\n\"You know what's the matter,\" she said irritably, turning away.\n\nThe lad--he was sixteen years old--went to bed drearily. He was cut off\nand wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried,\nbut she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son;\nhe had been let to die so cruelly.\n\nAt last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in his\npocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and her\nheart stood still.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'm badly, mother!\" he replied. \"Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for\na Christmas-box!\"\n\nHe handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the table.\n\n\"You aren't glad!\" he reproached her; but he trembled violently.\n\n\"Where hurts you?\" she said, unbuttoning his overcoat.\n\nIt was the old question.\n\n\"I feel badly, mother.\"\n\nShe undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, the\ndoctor said.\n\n\"Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not let him go to\nNottingham?\" was one of the first things she asked.\n\n\"He might not have been so bad,\" said the doctor.\n\nMrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground.\n\n\"I should have watched the living, not the dead,\" she told herself.\n\nPaul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they could\nnot afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One\nnight he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of\ndissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritability\nto be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle,\nlike madness.\n\n\"I s'll die, mother!\" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow.\n\nShe lifted him up, crying in a small voice:\n\n\"Oh, my son--my son!\"\n\nThat brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up and\narrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for\nlove.\n\n\"For some things,\" said his aunt, \"it was a good thing Paul was ill that\nChristmas. I believe it saved his mother.\"\n\nPaul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His father\nhad bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame in\nthe window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his\nmother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's life\nnow rooted itself in Paul.\n\nWilliam had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a letter\nfrom Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a letter at the New\nYear.\n\n\"I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I\nenjoyed myself thoroughly,\" said the letter. \"I had every dance--did not\nsit out one.\"\n\nMrs. Morel never heard any more of her.\n\nMorel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after the\ndeath of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyed\nand blank across the room. Then he got up suddenly and hurried out to\nthe Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his life\nwould he go for a walk up Shepstone, past the office where his son had\nworked, and he always avoided the cemetery.\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nLAD-AND-GIRL LOVE\n\nPAUL had been many times up to Willey Farm during the autumn. He\nwas friends with the two youngest boys. Edgar the eldest, would not\ncondescend at first. And Miriam also refused to be approached. She was\nafraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers. The girl was\nromantic in her soul. Everywhere was a Walter Scott heroine being\nloved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps. She herself was\nsomething of a princess turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination.\nAnd she was afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked something\nlike a Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knew\nwhat algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every day, might\nconsider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to perceive the princess\nbeneath; so she held aloof.\n\nHer great companion was her mother. They were both brown-eyed, and\ninclined to be mystical, such women as treasure religion inside them,\nbreathe it in their nostrils, and see the whole of life in a mist\nthereof. So to Miriam, Christ and God made one great figure, which she\nloved tremblingly and passionately when a tremendous sunset burned\nout the western sky, and Ediths, and Lucys, and Rowenas, Brian de Bois\nGuilberts, Rob Roys, and Guy Mannerings, rustled the sunny leaves in the\nmorning, or sat in her bedroom aloft, alone, when it snowed. That was\nlife to her. For the rest, she drudged in the house, which work she\nwould not have minded had not her clean red floor been mucked up\nimmediately by the trampling farm-boots of her brothers. She madly\nwanted her little brother of four to let her swathe him and stifle\nhim in her love; she went to church reverently, with bowed head, and\nquivered in anguish from the vulgarity of the other choir-girls and from\nthe common-sounding voice of the curate; she fought with her brothers,\nwhom she considered brutal louts; and she held not her father in too\nhigh esteem because he did not carry any mystical ideals cherished in\nhis heart, but only wanted to have as easy a time as he could, and his\nmeals when he was ready for them.\n\nShe hated her position as swine-girl. She wanted to be considered. She\nwanted to learn, thinking that if she could read, as Paul said he could\nread, \"Colomba\", or the \"Voyage autour de ma Chambre\", the world would\nhave a different face for her and a deepened respect. She could not be\nprincess by wealth or standing. So she was mad to have learning whereon\nto pride herself. For she was different from other folk, and must not\nbe scooped up among the common fry. Learning was the only distinction to\nwhich she thought to aspire.\n\nHer beauty--that of a shy, wild, quiveringly sensitive thing--seemed\nnothing to her. Even her soul, so strong for rhapsody, was not enough.\nShe must have something to reinforce her pride, because she felt\ndifferent from other people. Paul she eyed rather wistfully. On the\nwhole, she scorned the male sex. But here was a new specimen, quick,\nlight, graceful, who could be gentle and who could be sad, and who was\nclever, and who knew a lot, and who had a death in the family. The boy's\npoor morsel of learning exalted him almost sky-high in her esteem.\nYet she tried hard to scorn him, because he would not see in her the\nprincess but only the swine-girl. And he scarcely observed her.\n\nThen he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak. Then she would be\nstronger than he. Then she could love him. If she could be mistress of\nhim in his weakness, take care of him, if he could depend on her, if she\ncould, as it were, have him in her arms, how she would love him!\n\nAs soon as the skies brightened and plum-blossom was out, Paul drove off\nin the milkman's heavy float up to Willey Farm. Mr. Leivers shouted in a\nkindly fashion at the boy, then clicked to the horse as they climbed the\nhill slowly, in the freshness of the morning. White clouds went on\ntheir way, crowding to the back of the hills that were rousing in the\nspringtime. The water of Nethermere lay below, very blue against the\nseared meadows and the thorn-trees.\n\nIt was four and a half miles' drive. Tiny buds on the hedges, vivid\nas copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes called, and\nblackbirds shrieked and scolded. It was a new, glamorous world.\n\nMiriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse walk through\nthe big white gate into the farmyard that was backed by the oak-wood,\nstill bare. Then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbed down. He put up\nhis hands for the whip and the rug that the good-looking, ruddy farmer\nhanded down to him.\n\nMiriam appeared in the doorway. She was nearly sixteen, very beautiful,\nwith her warm colouring, her gravity, her eyes dilating suddenly like an\necstasy.\n\n\"I say,\" said Paul, turning shyly aside, \"your daffodils are nearly out.\nIsn't it early? But don't they look cold?\"\n\n\"Cold!\" said Miriam, in her musical, caressing voice.\n\n\"The green on their buds--\" and he faltered into silence timidly.\n\n\"Let me take the rug,\" said Miriam over-gently.\n\n\"I can carry it,\" he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it to her.\n\nThen Mrs. Leivers appeared.\n\n\"I'm sure you're tired and cold,\" she said. \"Let me take your coat. It\nIS heavy. You mustn't walk far in it.\"\n\nShe helped him off with his coat. He was quite unused to such attention.\nShe was almost smothered under its weight.\n\n\"Why, mother,\" laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen,\nswinging the great milk-churns, \"you've got almost more than you can\nmanage there.\"\n\nShe beat up the sofa cushions for the youth.\n\nThe kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originally\na labourer's cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paul\nloved it--loved the sack-bag that formed the hearthrug, and the funny\nlittle corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner,\nthrough which, bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the back\ngarden and the lovely round hills beyond.\n\n\"Won't you lie down?\" said Mrs. Leivers.\n\n\"Oh no; I'm not tired,\" he said. \"Isn't it lovely coming out, don't you\nthink? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I'm glad\nit's sunny.\"\n\n\"Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"How's your mother?\"\n\n\"I think she's tired now. I think she's had too much to do. Perhaps in a\nlittle while she'll go to Skegness with me. Then she'll be able to rest.\nI s'll be glad if she can.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Mrs. Leivers. \"It's a wonder she isn't ill herself.\"\n\nMiriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched everything that\nhappened. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were quick and bright\nwith life as ever. He watched the strange, almost rhapsodic way in which\nthe girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or looking\nin the saucepan. The atmosphere was different from that of his own home,\nwhere everything seemed so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudly\noutside to the horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushes\nin the garden, the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as if\nsomething had come breaking in on her world. There was a sense of\nsilence inside the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale,\na maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical.\nAnd her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots seemed only\nlike the romantic rags of King Cophetua's beggar-maid.\n\nShe suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her all\nin. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. She\nresented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was not\npulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwards\nher hands trembled slightly at her work. She nearly dropped all she\nhandled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered with\ntrepidation. She resented that he saw so much.\n\nMrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she was\nneeded at her work. She was too polite to leave him. Presently she\nexcused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tin\nsaucepan.\n\n\"Oh DEAR, Miriam,\" she cried, \"these potatoes have boiled dry!\"\n\nMiriam started as if she had been stung.\n\n\"HAVE they, mother?\" she cried.\n\n\"I shouldn't care, Miriam,\" said the mother, \"if I hadn't trusted them\nto you.\" She peered into the pan.\n\nThe girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; she\nremained standing in the same spot.\n\n\"Well,\" she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, \"I'm sure I\nlooked at them five minutes since.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the mother, \"I know it's easily done.\"\n\n\"They're not much burned,\" said Paul. \"It doesn't matter, does it?\"\n\nMrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes.\n\n\"It wouldn't matter but for the boys,\" she said to him. \"Only Miriam\nknows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are 'caught'.\"\n\n\"Then,\" thought Paul to himself, \"you shouldn't let them make a\ntrouble.\"\n\nAfter a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots were\ncovered with earth. He was rather small, rather formal, for a farmer. He\nglanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said:\n\n\"Dinner ready?\"\n\n\"Nearly, Edgar,\" replied the mother apologetically.\n\n\"I'm ready for mine,\" said the young man, taking up the newspaper and\nreading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. Dinner was served.\nThe meal went rather brutally. The over-gentleness and apologetic tone\nof the mother brought out all the brutality of manners in the sons.\nEdgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouth quickly like a rabbit, looked\nindignantly at his mother, and said:\n\n\"These potatoes are burnt, mother.\"\n\n\"Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you'll have bread if\nyou can't eat them.\"\n\nEdgar looked in anger across at Miriam.\n\n\"What was Miriam doing that she couldn't attend to them?\" he said.\n\nMiriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and winced, but\nshe said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her shame, bowing her dark\nhead.\n\n\"I'm sure she was trying hard,\" said the mother.\n\n\"She hasn't got sense even to boil the potatoes,\" said Edgar. \"What is\nshe kept at home for?\"\n\n\"On'y for eating everything that's left in th' pantry,\" said Maurice.\n\n\"They don't forget that potato-pie against our Miriam,\" laughed the\nfather.\n\nShe was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, like\nsome saint out of place at the brutal board.\n\nIt puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feeling\nwent running because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother exalted\neverything--even a bit of housework--to the plane of a religious trust.\nThe sons resented this; they felt themselves cut away underneath, and\nthey answered with brutality and also with a sneering superciliousness.\n\nPaul was just opening out from childhood into manhood. This atmosphere,\nwhere everything took a religious value, came with a subtle fascination\nto him. There was something in the air. His own mother was logical. Here\nthere was something different, something he loved, something that at\ntimes he hated.\n\nMiriam quarrelled with her brothers fiercely. Later in the afternoon,\nwhen they had gone away again, her mother said:\n\n\"You disappointed me at dinner-time, Miriam.\"\n\nThe girl dropped her head.\n\n\"They are such BRUTES!\" she suddenly cried, looking up with flashing\neyes.\n\n\"But hadn't you promised not to answer them?\" said the mother. \"And I\nbelieved in you. I CAN'T stand it when you wrangle.\"\n\n\"But they're so hateful!\" cried Miriam, \"and--and LOW.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear. But how often have I asked you not to answer Edgar back?\nCan't you let him say what he likes?\"\n\n\"But why should he say what he likes?\"\n\n\"Aren't you strong enough to bear it, Miriam, if even for my sake? Are\nyou so weak that you must wrangle with them?\"\n\nMrs. Leivers stuck unflinchingly to this doctrine of \"the other cheek\".\nShe could not instil it at all into the boys. With the girls she\nsucceeded better, and Miriam was the child of her heart. The boys\nloathed the other cheek when it was presented to them. Miriam was often\nsufficiently lofty to turn it. Then they spat on her and hated her. But\nshe walked in her proud humility, living within herself.\n\nThere was always this feeling of jangle and discord in the Leivers\nfamily. Although the boys resented so bitterly this eternal appeal to\ntheir deeper feelings of resignation and proud humility, yet it had\nits effect on them. They could not establish between themselves and an\noutsider just the ordinary human feeling and unexaggerated friendship;\nthey were always restless for the something deeper. Ordinary folk\nseemed shallow to them, trivial and inconsiderable. And so they were\nunaccustomed, painfully uncouth in the simplest social intercourse,\nsuffering, and yet insolent in their superiority. Then beneath was the\nyearning for the soul-intimacy to which they could not attain because\nthey were too dumb, and every approach to close connection was blocked\nby their clumsy contempt of other people. They wanted genuine intimacy,\nbut they could not get even normally near to anyone, because they\nscorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which forms\ncommon human intercourse.\n\nPaul fell under Mrs. Leivers's spell. Everything had a religious\nand intensified meaning when he was with her. His soul, hurt, highly\ndeveloped, sought her as if for nourishment. Together they seemed to\nsift the vital fact from an experience.\n\nMiriam was her mother's daughter. In the sunshine of the afternoon\nmother and daughter went down the fields with him. They looked for\nnests. There was a jenny wren's in the hedge by the orchard.\n\n\"I DO want you to see this,\" said Mrs. Leivers.\n\nHe crouched down and carefully put his finger through the thorns into\nthe round door of the nest.\n\n\"It's almost as if you were feeling inside the live body of the bird,\"\nhe said, \"it's so warm. They say a bird makes its nest round like a cup\nwith pressing its breast on it. Then how did it make the ceiling round,\nI wonder?\"\n\nThe nest seemed to start into life for the two women. After that, Miriam\ncame to see it every day. It seemed so close to her. Again, going\ndown the hedgeside with the girl, he noticed the celandines, scalloped\nsplashes of gold, on the side of the ditch.\n\n\"I like them,\" he said, \"when their petals go flat back with the\nsunshine. They seemed to be pressing themselves at the sun.\"\n\nAnd then the celandines ever after drew her with a little spell.\nAnthropomorphic as she was, she stimulated him into appreciating things\nthus, and then they lived for her. She seemed to need things kindling in\nher imagination or in her soul before she felt she had them. And she\nwas cut off from ordinary life by her religious intensity which made\nthe world for her either a nunnery garden or a paradise, where sin and\nknowledge were not, or else an ugly, cruel thing.\n\nSo it was in this atmosphere of subtle intimacy, this meeting in their\ncommon feeling for something in Nature, that their love started.\n\nPersonally, he was a long time before he realized her. For ten months he\nhad to stay at home after his illness. For a while he went to Skegness\nwith his mother, and was perfectly happy. But even from the seaside he\nwrote long letters to Mrs. Leivers about the shore and the sea. And he\nbrought back his beloved sketches of the flat Lincoln coast, anxious\nfor them to see. Almost they would interest the Leivers more than they\ninterested his mother. It was not his art Mrs. Morel cared about; it\nwas himself and his achievement. But Mrs. Leivers and her children were\nalmost his disciples. They kindled him and made him glow to his work,\nwhereas his mother's influence was to make him quietly determined,\npatient, dogged, unwearied.\n\nHe soon was friends with the boys, whose rudeness was only superficial.\nThey had all, when they could trust themselves, a strange gentleness and\nlovableness.\n\n\"Will you come with me on to the fallow?\" asked Edgar, rather\nhesitatingly.\n\nPaul went joyfully, and spent the afternoon helping to hoe or to single\nturnips with his friend. He used to lie with the three brothers in\nthe hay piled up in the barn and tell them about Nottingham and about\nJordan's. In return, they taught him to milk, and let him do little\njobs--chopping hay or pulping turnips--just as much as he liked. At\nmidsummer he worked all through hay-harvest with them, and then he loved\nthem. The family was so cut off from the world actually. They seemed,\nsomehow, like \"_les derniers fils d'une race epuisee_\". Though the lads\nwere strong and healthy, yet they had all that over-sensitiveness and\nhanging-back which made them so lonely, yet also such close, delicate\nfriends once their intimacy was won. Paul loved them dearly, and they\nhim.\n\nMiriam came later. But he had come into her life before she made any\nmark on his. One dull afternoon, when the men were on the land and the\nrest at school, only Miriam and her mother at home, the girl said to\nhim, after having hesitated for some time:\n\n\"Have you seen the swing?\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered. \"Where?\"\n\n\"In the cowshed,\" she replied.\n\nShe always hesitated to offer or to show him anything. Men have such\ndifferent standards of worth from women, and her dear things--the\nvaluable things to her--her brothers had so often mocked or flouted.\n\n\"Come on, then,\" he replied, jumping up.\n\nThere were two cowsheds, one on either side of the barn. In the lower,\ndarker shed there was standing for four cows. Hens flew scolding over\nthe manger-wall as the youth and girl went forward for the great thick\nrope which hung from the beam in the darkness overhead, and was pushed\nback over a peg in the wall.\n\n\"It's something like a rope!\" he exclaimed appreciatively; and he sat\ndown on it, anxious to try it. Then immediately he rose.\n\n\"Come on, then, and have first go,\" he said to the girl.\n\n\"See,\" she answered, going into the barn, \"we put some bags on the\nseat\"; and she made the swing comfortable for him. That gave her\npleasure. He held the rope.\n\n\"Come on, then,\" he said to her.\n\n\"No, I won't go first,\" she answered.\n\nShe stood aside in her still, aloof fashion.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"You go,\" she pleaded.\n\nAlmost for the first time in her life she had the pleasure of giving up\nto a man, of spoiling him. Paul looked at her.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, sitting down. \"Mind out!\"\n\nHe set off with a spring, and in a moment was flying through the air,\nalmost out of the door of the shed, the upper half of which was open,\nshowing outside the drizzling rain, the filthy yard, the cattle standing\ndisconsolate against the black cartshed, and at the back of all\nthe grey-green wall of the wood. She stood below in her crimson\ntam-o'-shanter and watched. He looked down at her, and she saw his blue\neyes sparkling.\n\n\"It's a treat of a swing,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe was swinging through the air, every bit of him swinging, like a bird\nthat swoops for joy of movement. And he looked down at her. Her crimson\ncap hung over her dark curls, her beautiful warm face, so still in a\nkind of brooding, was lifted towards him. It was dark and rather cold in\nthe shed. Suddenly a swallow came down from the high roof and darted out\nof the door.\n\n\"I didn't know a bird was watching,\" he called.\n\nHe swung negligently. She could feel him falling and lifting through the\nair, as if he were lying on some force.\n\n\"Now I'll die,\" he said, in a detached, dreamy voice, as though he were\nthe dying motion of the swing. She watched him, fascinated. Suddenly he\nput on the brake and jumped out.\n\n\"I've had a long turn,\" he said. \"But it's a treat of a swing--it's a\nreal treat of a swing!\"\n\nMiriam was amused that he took a swing so seriously and felt so warmly\nover it.\n\n\"No; you go on,\" she said.\n\n\"Why, don't you want one?\" he asked, astonished.\n\n\"Well, not much. I'll have just a little.\"\n\nShe sat down, whilst he kept the bags in place for her.\n\n\"It's so ripping!\" he said, setting her in motion. \"Keep your heels up,\nor they'll bang the manger wall.\"\n\nShe felt the accuracy with which he caught her, exactly at the right\nmoment, and the exactly proportionate strength of his thrust, and she\nwas afraid. Down to her bowels went the hot wave of fear. She was in his\nhands. Again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at the right moment.\nShe gripped the rope, almost swooning.\n\n\"Ha!\" she laughed in fear. \"No higher!\"\n\n\"But you're not a BIT high,\" he remonstrated.\n\n\"But no higher.\"\n\nHe heard the fear in her voice, and desisted. Her heart melted in hot\npain when the moment came for him to thrust her forward again. But he\nleft her alone. She began to breathe.\n\n\"Won't you really go any farther?\" he asked. \"Should I keep you there?\"\n\n\"No; let me go by myself,\" she answered.\n\nHe moved aside and watched her.\n\n\"Why, you're scarcely moving,\" he said.\n\nShe laughed slightly with shame, and in a moment got down.\n\n\"They say if you can swing you won't be sea-sick,\" he said, as he\nmounted again. \"I don't believe I should ever be sea-sick.\"\n\nAway he went. There was something fascinating to her in him. For the\nmoment he was nothing but a piece of swinging stuff; not a particle of\nhim that did not swing. She could never lose herself so, nor could her\nbrothers. It roused a warmth in her. It was almost as if he were a flame\nthat had lit a warmth in her whilst he swung in the middle air.\n\nAnd gradually the intimacy with the family concentrated for Paul on\nthree persons--the mother, Edgar, and Miriam. To the mother he went for\nthat sympathy and that appeal which seemed to draw him out. Edgar was\nhis very close friend. And to Miriam he more or less condescended,\nbecause she seemed so humble.\n\nBut the girl gradually sought him out. If he brought up his sketch-book,\nit was she who pondered longest over the last picture. Then she would\nlook up at him. Suddenly, her dark eyes alight like water that shakes\nwith a stream of gold in the dark, she would ask:\n\n\"Why do I like this so?\"\n\nAlways something in his breast shrank from these close, intimate,\ndazzled looks of hers.\n\n\"Why DO you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't know. It seems so true.\"\n\n\"It's because--it's because there is scarcely any shadow in it; it's\nmore shimmery, as if I'd painted the shimmering protoplasm in the leaves\nand everywhere, and not the stiffness of the shape. That seems dead\nto me. Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead\ncrust. The shimmer is inside really.\"\n\nAnd she, with her little finger in her mouth, would ponder these\nsayings. They gave her a feeling of life again, and vivified things\nwhich had meant nothing to her. She managed to find some meaning in his\nstruggling, abstract speeches. And they were the medium through which\nshe came distinctly at her beloved objects.\n\nAnother day she sat at sunset whilst he was painting some pine-trees\nwhich caught the red glare from the west. He had been quiet.\n\n\"There you are!\" he said suddenly. \"I wanted that. Now, look at them and\ntell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals, standing-up pieces\nof fire in that darkness? There's God's burning bush for you, that\nburned not away.\"\n\nMiriam looked, and was frightened. But the pine trunks were wonderful\nto her, and distinct. He packed his box and rose. Suddenly he looked at\nher.\n\n\"Why are you always sad?\" he asked her.\n\n\"Sad!\" she exclaimed, looking up at him with startled, wonderful brown\neyes.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied. \"You are always sad.\"\n\n\"I am not--oh, not a bit!\" she cried.\n\n\"But even your joy is like a flame coming off of sadness,\" he persisted.\n\"You're never jolly, or even just all right.\"\n\n\"No,\" she pondered. \"I wonder--why?\"\n\n\"Because you're not; because you're different inside, like a pine-tree,\nand then you flare up; but you're not just like an ordinary tree, with\nfidgety leaves and jolly--\"\n\nHe got tangled up in his own speech; but she brooded on it, and he had a\nstrange, roused sensation, as if his feelings were new. She got so near\nhim. It was a strange stimulant.\n\nThen sometimes he hated her. Her youngest brother was only five. He was\na frail lad, with immense brown eyes in his quaint fragile face--one of\nReynolds's \"Choir of Angels\", with a touch of elf. Often Miriam kneeled\nto the child and drew him to her.\n\n\"Eh, my Hubert!\" she sang, in a voice heavy and surcharged with love.\n\"Eh, my Hubert!\"\n\nAnd, folding him in her arms, she swayed slightly from side to side with\nlove, her face half lifted, her eyes half closed, her voice drenched\nwith love.\n\n\"Don't!\" said the child, uneasy--\"don't, Miriam!\"\n\n\"Yes; you love me, don't you?\" she murmured deep in her throat, almost\nas if she were in a trance, and swaying also as if she were swooned in\nan ecstasy of love.\n\n\"Don't!\" repeated the child, a frown on his clear brow.\n\n\"You love me, don't you?\" she murmured.\n\n\"What do you make such a FUSS for?\" cried Paul, all in suffering because\nof her extreme emotion. \"Why can't you be ordinary with him?\"\n\nShe let the child go, and rose, and said nothing. Her intensity, which\nwould leave no emotion on a normal plane, irritated the youth into\na frenzy. And this fearful, naked contact of her on small occasions\nshocked him. He was used to his mother's reserve. And on such occasions\nhe was thankful in his heart and soul that he had his mother, so sane\nand wholesome.\n\nAll the life of Miriam's body was in her eyes, which were usually dark\nas a dark church, but could flame with light like a conflagration. Her\nface scarcely ever altered from its look of brooding. She might have\nbeen one of the women who went with Mary when Jesus was dead. Her body\nwas not flexible and living. She walked with a swing, rather heavily,\nher head bowed forward, pondering. She was not clumsy, and yet none of\nher movements seemed quite THE movement. Often, when wiping the dishes,\nshe would stand in bewilderment and chagrin because she had pulled\nin two halves a cup or a tumbler. It was as if, in her fear and\nself-mistrust, she put too much strength into the effort. There was\nno looseness or abandon about her. Everything was gripped stiff with\nintensity, and her effort, overcharged, closed in on itself.\n\nShe rarely varied from her swinging, forward, intense walk. Occasionally\nshe ran with Paul down the fields. Then her eyes blazed naked in a kind\nof ecstasy that frightened him. But she was physically afraid. If\nshe were getting over a stile, she gripped his hands in a little hard\nanguish, and began to lose her presence of mind. And he could not\npersuade her to jump from even a small height. Her eyes dilated, became\nexposed and palpitating.\n\n\"No!\" she cried, half laughing in terror--\"no!\"\n\n\"You shall!\" he cried once, and, jerking her forward, he brought her\nfalling from the fence. But her wild \"Ah!\" of pain, as if she were\nlosing consciousness, cut him. She landed on her feet safely, and\nafterwards had courage in this respect.\n\nShe was very much dissatisfied with her lot.\n\n\"Don't you like being at home?\" Paul asked her, surprised.\n\n\"Who would?\" she answered, low and intense. \"What is it? I'm all day\ncleaning what the boys make just as bad in five minutes. I don't WANT to\nbe at home.\"\n\n\"What do you want, then?\"\n\n\"I want to do something. I want a chance like anybody else. Why should\nI, because I'm a girl, be kept at home and not allowed to be anything?\nWhat chance HAVE I?\"\n\n\"Chance of what?\"\n\n\"Of knowing anything--of learning, of doing anything. It's not fair,\nbecause I'm a woman.\"\n\nShe seemed very bitter. Paul wondered. In his own home Annie was almost\nglad to be a girl. She had not so much responsibility; things were\nlighter for her. She never wanted to be other than a girl. But Miriam\nalmost fiercely wished she were a man. And yet she hated men at the same\ntime.\n\n\"But it's as well to be a woman as a man,\" he said, frowning.\n\n\"Ha! Is it? Men have everything.\"\n\n\"I should think women ought to be as glad to be women as men are to be\nmen,\" he answered.\n\n\"No!\"--she shook her head--\"no! Everything the men have.\"\n\n\"But what do you want?\" he asked.\n\n\"I want to learn. Why SHOULD it be that I know nothing?\"\n\n\"What! such as mathematics and French?\"\n\n\"Why SHOULDN'T I know mathematics? Yes!\" she cried, her eye expanding in\na kind of defiance.\n\n\"Well, you can learn as much as I know,\" he said. \"I'll teach you, if\nyou like.\"\n\nHer eyes dilated. She mistrusted him as teacher.\n\n\"Would you?\" he asked.\n\nHer head had dropped, and she was sucking her finger broodingly.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said hesitatingly.\n\nHe used to tell his mother all these things.\n\n\"I'm going to teach Miriam algebra,\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" replied Mrs. Morel, \"I hope she'll get fat on it.\"\n\nWhen he went up to the farm on the Monday evening, it was drawing\ntwilight. Miriam was just sweeping up the kitchen, and was kneeling at\nthe hearth when he entered. Everyone was out but her. She looked round\nat him, flushed, her dark eyes shining, her fine hair falling about her\nface.\n\n\"Hello!\" she said, soft and musical. \"I knew it was you.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"I knew your step. Nobody treads so quick and firm.\"\n\nHe sat down, sighing.\n\n\"Ready to do some algebra?\" he asked, drawing a little book from his\npocket.\n\n\"But--\"\n\nHe could feel her backing away.\n\n\"You said you wanted,\" he insisted.\n\n\"To-night, though?\" she faltered.\n\n\"But I came on purpose. And if you want to learn it, you must begin.\"\n\nShe took up her ashes in the dustpan and looked at him, half\ntremulously, laughing.\n\n\"Yes, but to-night! You see, I haven't thought of it.\"\n\n\"Well, my goodness! Take the ashes and come.\"\n\nHe went and sat on the stone bench in the back-yard, where the big\nmilk-cans were standing, tipped up, to air. The men were in the\ncowsheds. He could hear the little sing-song of the milk spurting into\nthe pails. Presently she came, bringing some big greenish apples.\n\n\"You know you like them,\" she said.\n\nHe took a bite.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he said, with his mouth full.\n\nShe was short-sighted, and peered over his shoulder. It irritated him.\nHe gave her the book quickly.\n\n\"Here,\" he said. \"It's only letters for figures. You put down 'a'\ninstead of '2' or '6'.\"\n\nThey worked, he talking, she with her head down on the book. He was\nquick and hasty. She never answered. Occasionally, when he demanded\nof her, \"Do you see?\" she looked up at him, her eyes wide with the\nhalf-laugh that comes of fear. \"Don't you?\" he cried.\n\nHe had been too fast. But she said nothing. He questioned her more, then\ngot hot. It made his blood rouse to see her there, as it were, at his\nmercy, her mouth open, her eyes dilated with laughter that was afraid,\napologetic, ashamed. Then Edgar came along with two buckets of milk.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said. \"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Algebra,\" replied Paul.\n\n\"Algebra!\" repeated Edgar curiously. Then he passed on with a laugh.\nPaul took a bite at his forgotten apple, looked at the miserable\ncabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls, and he wanted to\npull them up. Then he glanced at Miriam. She was poring over the book,\nseemed absorbed in it, yet trembling lest she could not get at it. It\nmade him cross. She was ruddy and beautiful. Yet her soul seemed to be\nintensely supplicating. The algebra-book she closed, shrinking, knowing\nhe was angered; and at the same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurt\nbecause she did not understand.\n\nBut things came slowly to her. And when she held herself in a grip,\nseemed so utterly humble before the lesson, it made his blood rouse.\nHe stormed at her, got ashamed, continued the lesson, and grew furious\nagain, abusing her. She listened in silence. Occasionally, very rarely,\nshe defended herself. Her liquid dark eyes blazed at him.\n\n\"You don't give me time to learn it,\" she said.\n\n\"All right,\" he answered, throwing the book on the table and lighting\na cigarette. Then, after a while, he went back to her repentant. So the\nlessons went. He was always either in a rage or very gentle.\n\n\"What do you tremble your SOUL before it for?\" he cried. \"You don't\nlearn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you look at it with your\nclear simple wits?\"\n\nOften, when he went again into the kitchen, Mrs. Leivers would look at\nhim reproachfully, saying:\n\n\"Paul, don't be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick, but I'm sure\nshe tries.\"\n\n\"I can't help it,\" he said rather pitiably. \"I go off like it.\"\n\n\"You don't mind me, Miriam, do you?\" he asked of the girl later.\n\n\"No,\" she reassured him in her beautiful deep tones--\"no, I don't mind.\"\n\n\"Don't mind me; it's my fault.\"\n\nBut, in spite of himself, his blood began to boil with her. It was\nstrange that no one else made him in such fury. He flared against her.\nOnce he threw the pencil in her face. There was a silence. She turned\nher face slightly aside.\n\n\"I didn't--\" he began, but got no farther, feeling weak in all his\nbones. She never reproached him or was angry with him. He was often\ncruelly ashamed. But still again his anger burst like a bubble\nsurcharged; and still, when he saw her eager, silent, as it were, blind\nface, he felt he wanted to throw the pencil in it; and still, when he\nsaw her hand trembling and her mouth parted with suffering, his heart\nwas scalded with pain for her. And because of the intensity to which she\nroused him, he sought her.\n\nThen he often avoided her and went with Edgar. Miriam and her brother\nwere naturally antagonistic. Edgar was a rationalist, who was curious,\nand had a sort of scientific interest in life. It was a great bitterness\nto Miriam to see herself deserted by Paul for Edgar, who seemed so much\nlower. But the youth was very happy with her elder brother. The two men\nspent afternoons together on the land or in the loft doing carpentry,\nwhen it rained. And they talked together, or Paul taught Edgar the songs\nhe himself had learned from Annie at the piano. And often all the men,\nMr. Leivers as well, had bitter debates on the nationalizing of the land\nand similar problems. Paul had already heard his mother's views, and as\nthese were as yet his own, he argued for her. Miriam attended and\ntook part, but was all the time waiting until it should be over and a\npersonal communication might begin.\n\n\"After all,\" she said within herself, \"if the land were nationalized,\nEdgar and Paul and I would be just the same.\" So she waited for the\nyouth to come back to her.\n\nHe was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home, alone with\nhis mother, at night, working and working. She sewed or read. Then,\nlooking up from his task, he would rest his eyes for a moment on her\nface, that was bright with living warmth, and he returned gladly to his\nwork.\n\n\"I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking-chair,\nmother,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm sure!\" she exclaimed, sniffing with mock scepticism. But she felt\nit was so, and her heart quivered with brightness. For many hours she\nsat still, slightly conscious of him labouring away, whilst she worked\nor read her book. And he, with all his soul's intensity directing his\npencil, could feel her warmth inside him like strength. They were both\nvery happy so, and both unconscious of it. These times, that meant so\nmuch, and which were real living, they almost ignored.\n\nHe was conscious only when stimulated. A sketch finished, he always\nwanted to take it to Miriam. Then he was stimulated into knowledge of\nthe work he had produced unconsciously. In contact with Miriam he\ngained insight; his vision went deeper. From his mother he drew the\nlife-warmth, the strength to produce; Miriam urged this warmth into\nintensity like a white light.\n\nWhen he returned to the factory the conditions of work were better.\nHe had Wednesday afternoon off to go to the Art School--Miss Jordan's\nprovision--returning in the evening. Then the factory closed at six\ninstead of eight on Thursday and Friday evenings.\n\nOne evening in the summer Miriam and he went over the fields by Herod's\nFarm on their way from the library home. So it was only three miles\nto Willey Farm. There was a yellow glow over the mowing-grass, and the\nsorrel-heads burned crimson. Gradually, as they walked along the high\nland, the gold in the west sank down to red, the red to crimson, and\nthen the chill blue crept up against the glow.\n\nThey came out upon the high road to Alfreton, which ran white between\nthe darkening fields. There Paul hesitated. It was two miles home for\nhim, one mile forward for Miriam. They both looked up the road that ran\nin shadow right under the glow of the north-west sky. On the crest of\nthe hill, Selby, with its stark houses and the up-pricked headstocks of\nthe pit, stood in black silhouette small against the sky.\n\nHe looked at his watch.\n\n\"Nine o'clock!\" he said.\n\nThe pair stood, loth to part, hugging their books.\n\n\"The wood is so lovely now,\" she said. \"I wanted you to see it.\"\n\nHe followed her slowly across the road to the white gate.\n\n\"They grumble so if I'm late,\" he said.\n\n\"But you're not doing anything wrong,\" she answered impatiently.\n\nHe followed her across the nibbled pasture in the dusk. There was a\ncoolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honeysuckle, and a twilight.\nThe two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully there, among the\nthrong of dark tree-trunks. He looked round, expectant.\n\nShe wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had discovered. She\nknew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, she felt it had\nnot come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She was\ndissatisfied.\n\nDew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mist was rising, and\nhe hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a strand of fog or\nonly campion-flowers pallid in a cloud.\n\nBy the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting very eager\nand very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not be able to find\nit; and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately she wanted to be\nwith him when he stood before the flowers. They were going to have a\ncommunion together--something that thrilled her, something holy. He was\nwalking beside her in silence. They were very near to each other. She\ntrembled, and he listened, vaguely anxious.\n\nComing to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front, like\nmother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on the outermost\nbranches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent.\n\n\"Where?\" he asked.\n\n\"Down the middle path,\" she murmured, quivering.\n\nWhen they turned the corner of the path she stood still. In the wide\nwalk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could distinguish\nnothing for some moments; the greying light robbed things of their\ncolour. Then she saw her bush.\n\n\"Ah!\" she cried, hastening forward.\n\nIt was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown its\nbriers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, right\ndown to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great spilt\nstars, pure white. In bosses of ivory and in large splashed stars the\nroses gleamed on the darkness of foliage and stems and grass. Paul and\nMiriam stood close together, silent, and watched. Point after point the\nsteady roses shone out to them, seeming to kindle something in their\nsouls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out the\nroses.\n\nPaul looked into Miriam's eyes. She was pale and expectant with wonder,\nher lips were parted, and her dark eyes lay open to him. His look seemed\nto travel down into her. Her soul quivered. It was the communion she\nwanted. He turned aside, as if pained. He turned to the bush.\n\n\"They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake themselves,\" he\nsaid.\n\nShe looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, others\nexpanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her\nhand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them in\nworship.\n\n\"Let us go,\" he said.\n\nThere was a cool scent of ivory roses--a white, virgin scent. Something\nmade him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked in silence.\n\n\"Till Sunday,\" he said quietly, and left her; and she walked home\nslowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of the night. He\nstumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood, in the\nfree open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to run as fast as\nhe could. It was like a delicious delirium in his veins.\n\nAlways when he went with Miriam, and it grew rather late, he knew his\nmother was fretting and getting angry about him--why, he could not\nunderstand. As he went into the house, flinging down his cap, his mother\nlooked up at the clock. She had been sitting thinking, because a chill\nto her eyes prevented her reading. She could feel Paul being drawn away\nby this girl. And she did not care for Miriam. \"She is one of those who\nwill want to suck a man's soul out till he has none of his own left,\"\nshe said to herself; \"and he is just such a gaby as to let himself be\nabsorbed. She will never let him become a man; she never will.\" So,\nwhile he was away with Miriam, Mrs. Morel grew more and more worked up.\n\nShe glanced at the clock and said, coldly and rather tired:\n\n\"You have been far enough to-night.\"\n\nHis soul, warm and exposed from contact with the girl, shrank.\n\n\"You must have been right home with her,\" his mother continued.\n\nHe would not answer. Mrs. Morel, looking at him quickly, saw his hair\nwas damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowning in his heavy\nfashion, resentfully.\n\n\"She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can't get away from her,\nbut must go trailing eight miles at this time of night.\"\n\nHe was hurt between the past glamour with Miriam and the knowledge\nthat his mother fretted. He had meant not to say anything, to refuse to\nanswer. But he could not harden his heart to ignore his mother.\n\n\"I DO like to talk to her,\" he answered irritably.\n\n\"Is there nobody else to talk to?\"\n\n\"You wouldn't say anything if I went with Edgar.\"\n\n\"You know I should. You know, whoever you went with, I should say it\nwas too far for you to go trailing, late at night, when you've been\nto Nottingham. Besides\"--her voice suddenly flashed into anger and\ncontempt--\"it is disgusting--bits of lads and girls courting.\"\n\n\"It is NOT courting,\" he cried.\n\n\"I don't know what else you call it.\"\n\n\"It's not! Do you think we SPOON and do? We only talk.\"\n\n\"Till goodness knows what time and distance,\" was the sarcastic\nrejoinder.\n\nPaul snapped at the laces of his boots angrily.\n\n\"What are you so mad about?\" he asked. \"Because you don't like her.\"\n\n\"I don't say I don't like her. But I don't hold with children keeping\ncompany, and never did.\"\n\n\"But you don't mind our Annie going out with Jim Inger.\"\n\n\"They've more sense than you two.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Our Annie's not one of the deep sort.\"\n\nHe failed to see the meaning of this remark. But his mother looked\ntired. She was never so strong after William's death; and her eyes hurt\nher.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"it's so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleath asked about\nyou. He said he'd missed you. Are you a bit better?\"\n\n\"I ought to have been in bed a long time ago,\" she replied.\n\n\"Why, mother, you know you wouldn't have gone before quarter-past ten.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I should!\"\n\n\"Oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeable with me,\nwouldn't you?\"\n\nHe kissed her forehead that he knew so well: the deep marks between the\nbrows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, and the proud setting\nof the temples. His hand lingered on her shoulder after his kiss. Then\nhe went slowly to bed. He had forgotten Miriam; he only saw how his\nmother's hair was lifted back from her warm, broad brow. And somehow,\nshe was hurt.\n\nThen the next time he saw Miriam he said to her:\n\n\"Don't let me be late to-night--not later than ten o'clock. My mother\ngets so upset.\"\n\nMiriam dropped her bead, brooding.\n\n\"Why does she get upset?\" she asked.\n\n\"Because she says I oughtn't to be out late when I have to get up\nearly.\"\n\n\"Very well!\" said Miriam, rather quietly, with just a touch of a sneer.\n\nHe resented that. And he was usually late again.\n\nThat there was any love growing between him and Miriam neither of\nthem would have acknowledged. He thought he was too sane for such\nsentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. They both were late\nin coming to maturity, and psychical ripeness was much behind even the\nphysical. Miriam was exceedingly sensitive, as her mother had always\nbeen. The slightest grossness made her recoil almost in anguish. Her\nbrothers were brutal, but never coarse in speech. The men did all\nthe discussing of farm matters outside. But, perhaps, because of the\ncontinual business of birth and of begetting which goes on upon every\nfarm, Miriam was the more hypersensitive to the matter, and her blood\nwas chastened almost to disgust of the faintest suggestion of such\nintercourse. Paul took his pitch from her, and their intimacy went on in\nan utterly blanched and chaste fashion. It could never be mentioned that\nthe mare was in foal.\n\nWhen he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a week, but\nhe was happy. His painting went well, and life went well enough. On the\nGood Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock Stone. There were three\nlads of his own age, then Annie and Arthur, Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur,\napprenticed as an electrician in Nottingham, was home for the holiday.\nMorel, as usual, was up early, whistling and sawing in the yard. At\nseven o'clock the family heard him buy threepennyworth of hot-cross\nbuns; he talked with gusto to the little girl who brought them, calling\nher \"my darling\". He turned away several boys who came with more buns,\ntelling them they had been \"kested\" by a little lass. Then Mrs. Morel\ngot up, and the family straggled down. It was an immense luxury to\neverybody, this lying in bed just beyond the ordinary time on a weekday.\nAnd Paul and Arthur read before breakfast, and had the meal unwashed,\nsitting in their shirt-sleeves. This was another holiday luxury. The\nroom was warm. Everything felt free of care and anxiety. There was a\nsense of plenty in the house.\n\nWhile the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. They were\nnow in another house, an old one, near the Scargill Street home, which\nhad been left soon after William had died. Directly came an excited cry\nfrom the garden:\n\n\"Paul! Paul! come and look!\"\n\nIt was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went out. There\nwas a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold day, with a\nsharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields away Bestwood began,\nwith a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of which rose the church\ntower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel. And beyond went woods\nand hills, right away to the pale grey heights of the Pennine Chain.\n\nPaul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appeared among the\nyoung currant-bushes.\n\n\"Come here!\" she cried.\n\n\"What for?\" he answered.\n\n\"Come and see.\"\n\nShe had been looking at the buds on the currant trees. Paul went up.\n\n\"To think,\" she said, \"that here I might never have seen them!\"\n\nHer son went to her side. Under the fence, in a little bed, was a ravel\nof poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature bulbs, and three\nscyllas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep blue flowers.\n\n\n\"Now, just see those!\" she exclaimed. \"I was looking at the currant\nbushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's something very blue; is it\na bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories of\nthe snow, and such beauties! But where on earth did they come from?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Well, that's a marvel, now! I THOUGHT I knew every weed and blade in\nthis garden. But HAVEN'T they done well? You see, that gooseberry-bush\njust shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!\"\n\nHe crouched down and turned up the bells of the little blue flowers.\n\n\"They're a glorious colour!\" he said.\n\n\"Aren't they!\" she cried. \"I guess they come from Switzerland, where\nthey say they have such lovely things. Fancy them against the snow! But\nwhere have they come from? They can't have BLOWN here, can they?\"\n\nThen he remembered having set here a lot of little trash of bulbs to\nmature.\n\n\"And you never told me,\" she said.\n\n\"No! I thought I'd leave it till they might flower.\"\n\n\"And now, you see! I might have missed them. And I've never had a glory\nof the snow in my garden in my life.\"\n\nShe was full of excitement and elation. The garden was an endless joy to\nher. Paul was thankful for her sake at last to be in a house with a long\ngarden that went down to a field. Every morning after breakfast she went\nout and was happy pottering about in it. And it was true, she knew every\nweed and blade.\n\nEverybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and they set off,\na merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of the mill-race,\ndropped paper in the water on one side of the tunnel and watched it\nshoot out on the other. They stood on the foot-bridge over Boathouse\nStation and looked at the metals gleaming coldly.\n\n\"You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six!\" said\nLeonard, whose father was a signalman. \"Lad, but she doesn't half buzz!\"\nand the little party looked up the lines one way, to London, and the\nother way, to Scotland, and they felt the touch of these two magical\nplaces.\n\nIn Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for the public-houses to\nopen. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton Gate the iron\nfoundry blazed. Over everything there were great discussions. At Trowell\nthey crossed again from Derbyshire into Nottinghamshire. They came to\nthe Hemlock Stone at dinner-time. Its field was crowded with folk from\nNottingham and Ilkeston.\n\nThey had expected a venerable and dignified monument. They found\na little, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like a decayed\nmushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. Leonard and\nDick immediately proceeded to carve their initials, \"L. W.\" and \"R. P.\",\nin the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted, because he had read in the\nnewspaper satirical remarks about initial-carvers, who could find no\nother road to immortality. Then all the lads climbed to the top of the\nrock to look round.\n\nEverywhere in the field below, factory girls and lads were eating\nlunch or sporting about. Beyond was the garden of an old manor. It had\nyew-hedges and thick clumps and borders of yellow crocuses round the\nlawn.\n\n\"See,\" said Paul to Miriam, \"what a quiet garden!\"\n\nShe saw the dark yews and the golden crocuses, then she looked\ngratefully. He had not seemed to belong to her among all these others;\nhe was different then--not her Paul, who understood the slightest quiver\nof her innermost soul, but something else, speaking another language\nthan hers. How it hurt her, and deadened her very perceptions. Only when\nhe came right back to her, leaving his other, his lesser self, as she\nthought, would she feel alive again. And now he asked her to look at\nthis garden, wanting the contact with her again. Impatient of the set\nin the field, she turned to the quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves of\nshut-up crocuses. A feeling of stillness, almost of ecstasy, came over\nher. It felt almost as if she were alone with him in this garden.\n\nThen he left her again and joined the others. Soon they started home.\nMiriam loitered behind, alone. She did not fit in with the others; she\ncould very rarely get into human relations with anyone: so her friend,\nher companion, her lover, was Nature. She saw the sun declining wanly.\nIn the dusky, cold hedgerows were some red leaves. She lingered to\ngather them, tenderly, passionately. The love in her finger-tips\ncaressed the leaves; the passion in her heart came to a glow upon the\nleaves.\n\nSuddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road, and she hurried\nforward. Turning a corner in the lane, she came upon Paul, who stood\nbent over something, his mind fixed on it, working away steadily,\npatiently, a little hopelessly. She hesitated in her approach, to watch.\n\nHe remained concentrated in the middle of the road. Beyond, one rift of\nrich gold in that colourless grey evening seemed to make him stand out\nin dark relief. She saw him, slender and firm, as if the setting sun had\ngiven him to her. A deep pain took hold of her, and she knew she\nmust love him. And she had discovered him, discovered in him a\nrare potentiality, discovered his loneliness. Quivering as at some\n\"annunciation\", she went slowly forward.\n\nAt last he looked up.\n\n\"Why,\" he exclaimed gratefully, \"have you waited for me!\"\n\nShe saw a deep shadow in his eyes.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked.\n\n\"The spring broken here;\" and he showed her where his umbrella was\ninjured.\n\nInstantly, with some shame, she knew he had not done the damage himself,\nbut that Geoffrey was responsible.\n\n\"It is only an old umbrella, isn't it?\" she asked.\n\nShe wondered why he, who did not usually trouble over trifles, made such\na mountain of this molehill.\n\n\"But it was William's an' my mother can't help but know,\" he said\nquietly, still patiently working at the umbrella.\n\nThe words went through Miriam like a blade. This, then, was the\nconfirmation of her vision of him! She looked at him. But there was\nabout him a certain reserve, and she dared not comfort him, not even\nspeak softly to him.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said. \"I can't do it;\" and they went in silence along the\nroad.\n\nThat same evening they were walking along under the trees by Nether\nGreen. He was talking to her fretfully, seemed to be struggling to\nconvince himself.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, with an effort, \"if one person loves, the other\ndoes.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" she answered. \"Like mother said to me when I was little, 'Love\nbegets love.'\"\n\n\"Yes, something like that, I think it MUST be.\"\n\n\"I hope so, because, if it were not, love might be a very terrible\nthing,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, but it IS--at least with most people,\" he answered.\n\nAnd Miriam, thinking he had assured himself, felt strong in herself. She\nalways regarded that sudden coming upon him in the lane as a revelation.\nAnd this conversation remained graven in her mind as one of the letters\nof the law.\n\nNow she stood with him and for him. When, about this time, he outraged\nthe family feeling at Willey Farm by some overbearing insult, she stuck\nto him, and believed he was right. And at this time she dreamed\ndreams of him, vivid, unforgettable. These dreams came again later on,\ndeveloped to a more subtle psychological stage.\n\nOn the Easter Monday the same party took an excursion to Wingfield\nManor. It was great excitement to Miriam to catch a train at Sethley\nBridge, amid all the bustle of the Bank Holiday crowd. They left the\ntrain at Alfreton. Paul was interested in the street and in the colliers\nwith their dogs. Here was a new race of miners. Miriam did not live till\nthey came to the church. They were all rather timid of entering, with\ntheir bags of food, for fear of being turned out. Leonard, a comic, thin\nfellow, went first; Paul, who would have died rather than be sent back,\nwent last. The place was decorated for Easter. In the font hundreds of\nwhite narcissi seemed to be growing. The air was dim and coloured from\nthe windows and thrilled with a subtle scent of lilies and narcissi. In\nthat atmosphere Miriam's soul came into a glow. Paul was afraid of the\nthings he mustn't do; and he was sensitive to the feel of the place.\nMiriam turned to him. He answered. They were together. He would not go\nbeyond the Communion-rail. She loved him for that. Her soul expanded\ninto prayer beside him. He felt the strange fascination of shadowy\nreligious places. All his latent mysticism quivered into life. She was\ndrawn to him. He was a prayer along with her.\n\nMiriam very rarely talked to the other lads. They at once became awkward\nin conversation with her. So usually she was silent.\n\nIt was past midday when they climbed the steep path to the manor.\nAll things shone softly in the sun, which was wonderfully warm and\nenlivening. Celandines and violets were out. Everybody was tip-top full\nwith happiness. The glitter of the ivy, the soft, atmospheric grey\nof the castle walls, the gentleness of everything near the ruin, was\nperfect.\n\nThe manor is of hard, pale grey stone, and the other walls are blank and\ncalm. The young folk were in raptures. They went in trepidation, almost\nafraid that the delight of exploring this ruin might be denied them. In\nthe first courtyard, within the high broken walls, were farm-carts, with\ntheir shafts lying idle on the ground, the tyres of the wheels brilliant\nwith gold-red rust. It was very still.\n\nAll eagerly paid their sixpences, and went timidly through the fine\nclean arch of the inner courtyard. They were shy. Here on the pavement,\nwhere the hall had been, an old thorn tree was budding. All kinds of\nstrange openings and broken rooms were in the shadow around them.\n\nAfter lunch they set off once more to explore the ruin. This time the\ngirls went with the boys, who could act as guides and expositors. There\nwas one tall tower in a corner, rather tottering, where they say Mary\nQueen of Scots was imprisoned.\n\n\"Think of the Queen going up here!\" said Miriam in a low voice, as she\nclimbed the hollow stairs.\n\n\"If she could get up,\" said Paul, \"for she had rheumatism like anything.\nI reckon they treated her rottenly.\"\n\n\"You don't think she deserved it?\" asked Miriam.\n\n\"No, I don't. She was only lively.\"\n\nThey continued to mount the winding staircase. A high wind, blowing\nthrough the loopholes, went rushing up the shaft, and filled the girl's\nskirts like a balloon, so that she was ashamed, until he took the hem\nof her dress and held it down for her. He did it perfectly simply, as he\nwould have picked up her glove. She remembered this always.\n\nRound the broken top of the tower the ivy bushed out, old and handsome.\nAlso, there were a few chill gillivers, in pale cold bud. Miriam wanted\nto lean over for some ivy, but he would not let her. Instead, she had to\nwait behind him, and take from him each spray as he gathered it and held\nit to her, each one separately, in the purest manner of chivalry. The\ntower seemed to rock in the wind. They looked over miles and miles of\nwooded country, and country with gleams of pasture.\n\nThe crypt underneath the manor was beautiful, and in perfect\npreservation. Paul made a drawing: Miriam stayed with him. She was\nthinking of Mary Queen of Scots looking with her strained, hopeless\neyes, that could not understand misery, over the hills whence no help\ncame, or sitting in this crypt, being told of a God as cold as the place\nshe sat in.\n\nThey set off again gaily, looking round on their beloved manor that\nstood so clean and big on its hill.\n\n\"Supposing you could have THAT farm,\" said Paul to Miriam.\n\n\"Yes!\"\n\n\"Wouldn't it be lovely to come and see you!\"\n\nThey were now in the bare country of stone walls, which he loved, and\nwhich, though only ten miles from home, seemed so foreign to Miriam. The\nparty was straggling. As they were crossing a large meadow that\nsloped away from the sun, along a path embedded with innumerable tiny\nglittering points, Paul, walking alongside, laced his fingers in the\nstrings of the bag Miriam was carrying, and instantly she felt Annie\nbehind, watchful and jealous. But the meadow was bathed in a glory of\nsunshine, and the path was jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave her\nany sign. She held her fingers very still among the strings of the bag,\nhis fingers touching; and the place was golden as a vision.\n\nAt last they came into the straggling grey village of Crich, that lies\nhigh. Beyond the village was the famous Crich Stand that Paul could see\nfrom the garden at home. The party pushed on. Great expanse of country\nspread around and below. The lads were eager to get to the top of the\nhill. It was capped by a round knoll, half of which was by now cut away,\nand on the top of which stood an ancient monument, sturdy and squat, for\nsignalling in old days far down into the level lands of Nottinghamshire\nand Leicestershire.\n\nIt was blowing so hard, high up there in the exposed place, that the\nonly way to be safe was to stand nailed by the wind to the wan of the\ntower. At their feet fell the precipice where the limestone was quarried\naway. Below was a jumble of hills and tiny villages--Mattock, Ambergate,\nStoney Middleton. The lads were eager to spy out the church of Bestwood,\nfar away among the rather crowded country on the left. They were\ndisgusted that it seemed to stand on a plain. They saw the hills of\nDerbyshire fall into the monotony of the Midlands that swept away South.\n\nMiriam was somewhat scared by the wind, but the lads enjoyed it. They\nwent on, miles and miles, to Whatstandwell. All the food was eaten,\neverybody was hungry, and there was very little money to get home with.\nBut they managed to procure a loaf and a currant-loaf, which they hacked\nto pieces with shut-knives, and ate sitting on the wall near the bridge,\nwatching the bright Derwent rushing by, and the brakes from Matlock\npulling up at the inn.\n\nPaul was now pale with weariness. He had been responsible for the party\nall day, and now he was done. Miriam understood, and kept close to him,\nand he left himself in her hands.\n\nThey had an hour to wait at Ambergate Station. Trains came, crowded with\nexcursionists returning to Manchester, Birmingham, and London.\n\n\"We might be going there--folk easily might think we're going that far,\"\nsaid Paul.\n\nThey got back rather late. Miriam, walking home with Geoffrey, watched\nthe moon rise big and red and misty. She felt something was fulfilled in\nher.\n\nShe had an elder sister, Agatha, who was a school-teacher. Between the\ntwo girls was a feud. Miriam considered Agatha worldly. And she wanted\nherself to be a school-teacher.\n\nOne Saturday afternoon Agatha and Miriam were upstairs dressing. Their\nbedroom was over the stable. It was a low room, not very large, and\nbare. Miriam had nailed on the wall a reproduction of Veronese's \"St.\nCatherine\". She loved the woman who sat in the window, dreaming. Her\nown windows were too small to sit in. But the front one was dripped over\nwith honeysuckle and virginia creeper, and looked upon the tree-tops of\nthe oak-wood across the yard, while the little back window, no bigger\nthan a handkerchief, was a loophole to the east, to the dawn beating up\nagainst the beloved round hills.\n\nThe two sisters did not talk much to each other. Agatha, who was fair\nand small and determined, had rebelled against the home atmosphere,\nagainst the doctrine of \"the other cheek\". She was out in the world now,\nin a fair way to be independent. And she insisted on worldly values,\non appearance, on manners, on position, which Miriam would fain have\nignored.\n\nBoth girls liked to be upstairs, out of the way, when Paul came. They\npreferred to come running down, open the stair-foot door, and see him\nwatching, expectant of them. Miriam stood painfully pulling over her\nhead a rosary he had given her. It caught in the fine mesh of her hair.\nBut at last she had it on, and the red-brown wooden beads looked well\nagainst her cool brown neck. She was a well-developed girl, and very\nhandsome. But in the little looking-glass nailed against the whitewashed\nwall she could only see a fragment of herself at a time. Agatha had\nbought a little mirror of her own, which she propped up to suit herself.\nMiriam was near the window. Suddenly she heard the well-known click of\nthe chain, and she saw Paul fling open the gate, push his bicycle into\nthe yard. She saw him look at the house, and she shrank away. He walked\nin a nonchalant fashion, and his bicycle went with him as if it were a\nlive thing.\n\n\"Paul's come!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Aren't you glad?\" said Agatha cuttingly.\n\nMiriam stood still in amazement and bewilderment.\n\n\"Well, aren't you?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, but I'm not going to let him see it, and think I wanted him.\"\n\nMiriam was startled. She heard him putting his bicycle in the stable\nunderneath, and talking to Jimmy, who had been a pit-horse, and who was\nseedy.\n\n\"Well, Jimmy my lad, how are ter? Nobbut sick an' sadly, like? Why,\nthen, it's a shame, my owd lad.\"\n\nShe heard the rope run through the hole as the horse lifted its head\nfrom the lad's caress. How she loved to listen when he thought only\nthe horse could hear. But there was a serpent in her Eden. She searched\nearnestly in herself to see if she wanted Paul Morel. She felt there\nwould be some disgrace in it. Full of twisted feeling, she was afraid\nshe did want him. She stood self-convicted. Then came an agony of new\nshame. She shrank within herself in a coil of torture. Did she want Paul\nMorel, and did he know she wanted him? What a subtle infamy upon her.\nShe felt as if her whole soul coiled into knots of shame.\n\nAgatha was dressed first, and ran downstairs. Miriam heard her greet\nthe lad gaily, knew exactly how brilliant her grey eyes became with that\ntone. She herself would have felt it bold to have greeted him in such\nwise. Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him,\ntied to that stake of torture. In bitter perplexity she kneeled down and\nprayed:\n\n\"O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, if I ought\nnot to love him.\"\n\nSomething anomalous in the prayer arrested her. She lifted her head and\npondered. How could it be wrong to love him? Love was God's gift. And\nyet it caused her shame. That was because of him, Paul Morel. But, then,\nit was not his affair, it was her own, between herself and God. She was\nto be a sacrifice. But it was God's sacrifice, not Paul Morel's or her\nown. After a few minutes she hid her face in the pillow again, and said:\n\n\"But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love\nhim--as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me love him\nsplendidly, because he is Thy son.\"\n\nShe remained kneeling for some time, quite still, and deeply moved, her\nblack hair against the red squares and the lavender-sprigged squares of\nthe patchwork quilt. Prayer was almost essential to her. Then she fell\ninto that rapture of self-sacrifice, identifying herself with a God who\nwas sacrificed, which gives to so many human souls their deepest bliss.\n\nWhen she went downstairs Paul was lying back in an armchair, holding\nforth with much vehemence to Agatha, who was scorning a little painting\nhe had brought to show her. Miriam glanced at the two, and avoided their\nlevity. She went into the parlour to be alone.\n\nIt was tea-time before she was able to speak to Paul, and then her\nmanner was so distant he thought he had offended her.\n\nMiriam discontinued her practice of going each Thursday evening to the\nlibrary in Bestwood. After calling for Paul regularly during the whole\nspring, a number of trifling incidents and tiny insults from his family\nawakened her to their attitude towards her, and she decided to go no\nmore. So she announced to Paul one evening she would not call at his\nhouse again for him on Thursday nights.\n\n\"Why?\" he asked, very short.\n\n\"Nothing. Only I'd rather not.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"But,\" she faltered, \"if you'd care to meet me, we could still go\ntogether.\"\n\n\"Meet you where?\"\n\n\"Somewhere--where you like.\"\n\n\"I shan't meet you anywhere. I don't see why you shouldn't keep calling\nfor me. But if you won't, I don't want to meet you.\"\n\nSo the Thursday evenings which had been so precious to her, and to him,\nwere dropped. He worked instead. Mrs. Morel sniffed with satisfaction at\nthis arrangement.\n\nHe would not have it that they were lovers. The intimacy between them\nhad been kept so abstract, such a matter of the soul, all thought and\nweary struggle into consciousness, that he saw it only as a platonic\nfriendship. He stoutly denied there was anything else between them.\nMiriam was silent, or else she very quietly agreed. He was a fool who\ndid not know what was happening to himself. By tacit agreement they\nignored the remarks and insinuations of their acquaintances.\n\n\"We aren't lovers, we are friends,\" he said to her. \"WE know it. Let\nthem talk. What does it matter what they say.\"\n\nSometimes, as they were walking together, she slipped her arm timidly\ninto his. But he always resented it, and she knew it. It caused a\nviolent conflict in him. With Miriam he was always on the high plane of\nabstraction, when his natural fire of love was transmitted into the fine\nstream of thought. She would have it so. If he were jolly and, as she\nput it, flippant, she waited till he came back to her, till the change\nhad taken place in him again, and he was wrestling with his own soul,\nfrowning, passionate in his desire for understanding. And in this\npassion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to\nherself. But he must be made abstract first.\n\nThen, if she put her arm in his, it caused him almost torture. His\nconsciousness seemed to split. The place where she was touching him ran\nhot with friction. He was one internecine battle, and he became cruel to\nher because of it.\n\nOne evening in midsummer Miriam called at the house, warm from climbing.\nPaul was alone in the kitchen; his mother could be heard moving about\nupstairs.\n\n\"Come and look at the sweet-peas,\" he said to the girl.\n\nThey went into the garden. The sky behind the townlet and the church was\norange-red; the flower-garden was flooded with a strange warm light that\nlifted every leaf into significance. Paul passed along a fine row of\nsweet-peas, gathering a blossom here and there, all cream and pale blue.\nMiriam followed, breathing the fragrance. To her, flowers appealed with\nsuch strength she felt she must make them part of herself. When she bent\nand breathed a flower, it was as if she and the flower were loving each\nother. Paul hated her for it. There seemed a sort of exposure about the\naction, something too intimate.\n\n\nWhen he had got a fair bunch, they returned to the house. He listened\nfor a moment to his mother's quiet movement upstairs, then he said:\n\n\"Come here, and let me pin them in for you.\" He arranged them two or\nthree at a time in the bosom of her dress, stepping back now and then to\nsee the effect. \"You know,\" he said, taking the pin out of his mouth, \"a\nwoman ought always to arrange her flowers before her glass.\"\n\nMiriam laughed. She thought flowers ought to be pinned in one's dress\nwithout any care. That Paul should take pains to fix her flowers for her\nwas his whim.\n\nHe was rather offended at her laughter.\n\n\"Some women do--those who look decent,\" he said.\n\nMiriam laughed again, but mirthlessly, to hear him thus mix her up with\nwomen in a general way. From most men she would have ignored it. But\nfrom him it hurt her.\n\nHe had nearly finished arranging the flowers when he heard his mother's\nfootstep on the stairs. Hurriedly he pushed in the last pin and turned\naway.\n\n\"Don't let mater know,\" he said.\n\nMiriam picked up her books and stood in the doorway looking with chagrin\nat the beautiful sunset. She would call for Paul no more, she said.\n\n\"Good-evening, Mrs. Morel,\" she said, in a deferential way. She sounded\nas if she felt she had no right to be there.\n\n\"Oh, is it you, Miriam?\" replied Mrs. Morel coolly.\n\nBut Paul insisted on everybody's accepting his friendship with the girl,\nand Mrs. Morel was too wise to have any open rupture.\n\nIt was not till he was twenty years old that the family could ever\nafford to go away for a holiday. Mrs. Morel had never been away for a\nholiday, except to see her sister, since she had been married. Now at\nlast Paul had saved enough money, and they were all going. There was to\nbe a party: some of Annie's friends, one friend of Paul's, a young man\nin the same office where William had previously been, and Miriam.\n\nIt was great excitement writing for rooms. Paul and his mother debated\nit endlessly between them. They wanted a furnished cottage for two\nweeks. She thought one week would be enough, but he insisted on two.\n\nAt last they got an answer from Mablethorpe, a cottage such as they\nwished for thirty shillings a week. There was immense jubilation. Paul\nwas wild with joy for his mother's sake. She would have a real holiday\nnow. He and she sat at evening picturing what it would be like. Annie\ncame in, and Leonard, and Alice, and Kitty. There was wild rejoicing and\nanticipation. Paul told Miriam. She seemed to brood with joy over it.\nBut the Morel's house rang with excitement.\n\nThey were to go on Saturday morning by the seven train. Paul suggested\nthat Miriam should sleep at his house, because it was so far for her\nto walk. She came down for supper. Everybody was so excited that even\nMiriam was accepted with warmth. But almost as soon as she entered the\nfeeling in the family became close and tight. He had discovered a poem\nby Jean Ingelow which mentioned Mablethorpe, and so he must read it\nto Miriam. He would never have got so far in the direction of\nsentimentality as to read poetry to his own family. But now they\ncondescended to listen. Miriam sat on the sofa absorbed in him. She\nalways seemed absorbed in him, and by him, when he was present. Mrs.\nMorel sat jealously in her own chair. She was going to hear also. And\neven Annie and the father attended, Morel with his head cocked on one\nside, like somebody listening to a sermon and feeling conscious of\nthe fact. Paul ducked his head over the book. He had got now all the\naudience he cared for. And Mrs. Morel and Annie almost contested with\nMiriam who should listen best and win his favour. He was in very high\nfeather.\n\n\"But,\" interrupted Mrs. Morel, \"what IS the 'Bride of Enderby' that the\nbells are supposed to ring?\"\n\n\"It's an old tune they used to play on the bells for a warning against\nwater. I suppose the Bride of Enderby was drowned in a flood,\" he\nreplied. He had not the faintest knowledge what it really was, but he\nwould never have sunk so low as to confess that to his womenfolk. They\nlistened and believed him. He believed himself.\n\n\"And the people knew what that tune meant?\" said his mother.\n\n\"Yes--just like the Scotch when they heard 'The Flowers o' the\nForest'--and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm.\"\n\n\"How?\" said Annie. \"A bell sounds the same whether it's rung backwards\nor forwards.\"\n\n\"But,\" he said, \"if you start with the deep bell and ring up to the high\none--der--der--der--der--der--der--der--der!\"\n\nHe ran up the scale. Everybody thought it clever. He thought so too.\nThen, waiting a minute, he continued the poem.\n\n\"Hm!\" said Mrs. Morel curiously, when he finished. \"But I wish\neverything that's written weren't so sad.\"\n\n\"I canna see what they want drownin' theirselves for,\" said Morel.\n\nThere was a pause. Annie got up to clear the table.\n\nMiriam rose to help with the pots.\n\n\"Let ME help to wash up,\" she said.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" cried Annie. \"You sit down again. There aren't many.\"\n\nAnd Miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat down again to look\nat the book with Paul.\n\nHe was master of the party; his father was no good. And great tortures\nhe suffered lest the tin box should be put out at Firsby instead of at\nMablethorpe. And he wasn't equal to getting a carriage. His bold little\nmother did that.\n\n\"Here!\" she cried to a man. \"Here!\"\n\nPaul and Annie got behind the rest, convulsed with shamed laughter.\n\n\"How much will it be to drive to Brook Cottage?\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Two shillings.\"\n\n\"Why, how far is it?\"\n\n\"A good way.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" she said.\n\nBut she scrambled in. There were eight crowded in one old seaside\ncarriage.\n\n\"You see,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"it's only threepence each, and if it were a\ntramcar--\"\n\nThey drove along. Each cottage they came to, Mrs. Morel cried:\n\n\"Is it this? Now, this is it!\"\n\nEverybody sat breathless. They drove past. There was a universal sigh.\n\n\"I'm thankful it wasn't that brute,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"I WAS\nfrightened.\" They drove on and on.\n\nAt last they descended at a house that stood alone over the dyke by the\nhighroad. There was wild excitement because they had to cross a little\nbridge to get into the front garden. But they loved the house that lay\nso solitary, with a sea-meadow on one side, and immense expanse of land\npatched in white barley, yellow oats, red wheat, and green root-crops,\nflat and stretching level to the sky.\n\nPaul kept accounts. He and his mother ran the show. The total\nexpenses--lodging, food, everything--was sixteen shillings a week per\nperson. He and Leonard went bathing in the mornings. Morel was wandering\nabroad quite early.\n\n\"You, Paul,\" his mother called from the bedroom, \"eat a piece of\nbread-and-butter.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he answered.\n\nAnd when he got back he saw his mother presiding in state at the\nbreakfast-table. The woman of the house was young. Her husband was\nblind, and she did laundry work. So Mrs. Morel always washed the pots in\nthe kitchen and made the beds.\n\n\"But you said you'd have a real holiday,\" said Paul, \"and now you work.\"\n\n\"Work!\" she exclaimed. \"What are you talking about!\"\n\nHe loved to go with her across the fields to the village and the sea.\nShe was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused her for being a baby.\nOn the whole he stuck to her as if he were HER man.\n\nMiriam did not get much of him, except, perhaps, when all the others\nwent to the \"Coons\". Coons were insufferably stupid to Miriam, so he\nthought they were to himself also, and he preached priggishly to Annie\nabout the fatuity of listening to them. Yet he, too, knew all their\nsongs, and sang them along the roads roisterously. And if he found\nhimself listening, the stupidity pleased him very much. Yet to Annie he\nsaid:\n\n\"Such rot! there isn't a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody with more\ngumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and listen.\" And to Miriam\nhe said, with much scorn of Annie and the others: \"I suppose they're at\nthe 'Coons'.\"\n\nIt was queer to see Miriam singing coon songs. She had a straight chin\nthat went in a perpendicular line from the lower lip to the turn. She\nalways reminded Paul of some sad Botticelli angel when she sang, even\nwhen it was:\n\n     \"Come down lover's lane\n     For a walk with me, talk with me.\"\n\nOnly when he sketched, or at evening when the others were at the\n\"Coons\", she had him to herself. He talked to her endlessly about his\nlove of horizontals: how they, the great levels of sky and land in\nLincolnshire, meant to him the eternality of the will, just as the bowed\nNorman arches of the church, repeating themselves, meant the dogged\nleaping forward of the persistent human soul, on and on, nobody knows\nwhere; in contradiction to the perpendicular lines and to the Gothic\narch, which, he said, leapt up at heaven and touched the ecstasy and\nlost itself in the divine. Himself, he said, was Norman, Miriam was\nGothic. She bowed in consent even to that.\n\nOne evening he and she went up the great sweeping shore of sand towards\nTheddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ran in a hiss of foam along\nthe coast. It was a warm evening. There was not a figure but themselves\non the far reaches of sand, no noise but the sound of the sea. Paul\nloved to see it clanging at the land. He loved to feel himself between\nthe noise of it and the silence of the sandy shore. Miriam was with him.\nEverything grew very intense. It was quite dark when they turned again.\nThe way home was through a gap in the sandhills, and then along a raised\ngrass road between two dykes. The country was black and still. From\nbehind the sandhills came the whisper of the sea. Paul and Miriam walked\nin silence. Suddenly he started. The whole of his blood seemed to burst\ninto flame, and he could scarcely breathe. An enormous orange moon was\nstaring at them from the rim of the sandhills. He stood still, looking\nat it.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Miriam, when she saw it.\n\nHe remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddy moon, the\nonly thing in the far-reaching darkness of the level. His heart beat\nheavily, the muscles of his arms contracted.\n\n\"What is it?\" murmured Miriam, waiting for him.\n\nHe turned and looked at her. She stood beside him, for ever in shadow.\nHer face, covered with the darkness of her hat, was watching him\nunseen. But she was brooding. She was slightly afraid--deeply moved\nand religious. That was her best state. He was impotent against it. His\nblood was concentrated like a flame in his chest. But he could not get\nacross to her. There were flashes in his blood. But somehow she ignored\nthem. She was expecting some religious state in him. Still yearning, she\nwas half aware of his passion, and gazed at him, troubled.\n\n\"What is it?\" she murmured again.\n\n\"It's the moon,\" he answered, frowning.\n\n\"Yes,\" she assented. \"Isn't it wonderful?\" She was curious about him.\nThe crisis was past.\n\nHe did not know himself what was the matter. He was naturally so young,\nand their intimacy was so abstract, he did not know he wanted to crush\nher on to his breast to ease the ache there. He was afraid of her.\nThe fact that he might want her as a man wants a woman had in him\nbeen suppressed into a shame. When she shrank in her convulsed, coiled\ntorture from the thought of such a thing, he had winced to the depths of\nhis soul. And now this \"purity\" prevented even their first love-kiss.\nIt was as if she could scarcely stand the shock of physical love, even a\npassionate kiss, and then he was too shrinking and sensitive to give it.\n\nAs they walked along the dark fen-meadow he watched the moon and did not\nspeak. She plodded beside him. He hated her, for she seemed in some way\nto make him despise himself. Looking ahead--he saw the one light in the\ndarkness, the window of their lamp-lit cottage.\n\nHe loved to think of his mother, and the other jolly people.\n\n\"Well, everybody else has been in long ago!\" said his mother as they\nentered.\n\n\"What does that matter!\" he cried irritably. \"I can go a walk if I like,\ncan't I?\"\n\n\"And I should have thought you could get in to supper with the rest,\"\nsaid Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"I shall please myself,\" he retorted. \"It's not LATE. I shall do as I\nlike.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said his mother cuttingly, \"then DO as you like.\" And she\ntook no further notice of him that evening. Which he pretended neither\nto notice nor to care about, but sat reading. Miriam read also,\nobliterating herself. Mrs. Morel hated her for making her son like this.\nShe watched Paul growing irritable, priggish, and melancholic. For this\nshe put the blame on Miriam. Annie and all her friends joined against\nthe girl. Miriam had no friend of her own, only Paul. But she did not\nsuffer so much, because she despised the triviality of these other\npeople.\n\nAnd Paul hated her because, somehow, she spoilt his ease and\nnaturalness. And he writhed himself with a feeling of humiliation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nSTRIFE IN LOVE\n\nARTHUR finished his apprenticeship, and got a job on the electrical\nplant at Minton Pit. He earned very little, but had a good chance of\ngetting on. But he was wild and restless. He did not drink nor gamble.\nYet he somehow contrived to get into endless scrapes, always through\nsome hot-headed thoughtlessness. Either he went rabbiting in the woods,\nlike a poacher, or he stayed in Nottingham all night instead of coming\nhome, or he miscalculated his dive into the canal at Bestwood, and\nscored his chest into one mass of wounds on the raw stones and tins at\nthe bottom.\n\nHe had not been at his work many months when again he did not come home\none night.\n\n\"Do you know where Arthur is?\" asked Paul at breakfast.\n\n\"I do not,\" replied his mother.\n\n\"He is a fool,\" said Paul. \"And if he DID anything I shouldn't mind. But\nno, he simply can't come away from a game of whist, or else he must see\na girl home from the skating-rink--quite proprietously--and so can't get\nhome. He's a fool.\"\n\n\"I don't know that it would make it any better if he did something to\nmake us all ashamed,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Well, I should respect him more,\" said Paul.\n\n\"I very much doubt it,\" said his mother coldly.\n\nThey went on with breakfast.\n\n\"Are you fearfully fond of him?\" Paul asked his mother.\n\n\"What do you ask that for?\"\n\n\"Because they say a woman always like the youngest best.\"\n\n\"She may do--but I don't. No, he wearies me.\"\n\n\"And you'd actually rather he was good?\"\n\n\"I'd rather he showed some of a man's common sense.\"\n\nPaul was raw and irritable. He also wearied his mother very often. She\nsaw the sunshine going out of him, and she resented it.\n\nAs they were finishing breakfast came the postman with a letter from\nDerby. Mrs. Morel screwed up her eyes to look at the address.\n\n\"Give it here, blind eye!\" exclaimed her son, snatching it away from\nher.\n\nShe started, and almost boxed his ears.\n\n\"It's from your son, Arthur,\" he said.\n\n\"What now--!\" cried Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"'My dearest Mother,'\" Paul read, \"'I don't know what made me such a\nfool. I want you to come and fetch me back from here. I came with Jack\nBredon yesterday, instead of going to work, and enlisted. He said he was\nsick of wearing the seat of a stool out, and, like the idiot you know I\nam, I came away with him.\n\n\"'I have taken the King's shilling, but perhaps if you came for me they\nwould let me go back with you. I was a fool when I did it. I don't want\nto be in the army. My dear mother, I am nothing but a trouble to you.\nBut if you get me out of this, I promise I will have more sense and\nconsideration. . . .'\"\n\nMrs. Morel sat down in her rocking-chair.\n\n\"Well, NOW,\" she cried, \"let him stop!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Paul, \"let him stop.\"\n\nThere was silence. The mother sat with her hands folded in her apron,\nher face set, thinking.\n\n\"If I'm not SICK!\" she cried suddenly. \"Sick!\"\n\n\"Now,\" said Paul, beginning to frown, \"you're not going to worry your\nsoul out about this, do you hear.\"\n\n\"I suppose I'm to take it as a blessing,\" she flashed, turning on her\nson.\n\n\"You're not going to mount it up to a tragedy, so there,\" he retorted.\n\n\"The FOOL!--the young fool!\" she cried.\n\n\"He'll look well in uniform,\" said Paul irritatingly.\n\nHis mother turned on him like a fury.\n\n\"Oh, will he!\" she cried. \"Not in my eyes!\"\n\n\"He should get in a cavalry regiment; he'll have the time of his life,\nand will look an awful swell.\"\n\n\"Swell!--SWELL!--a mighty swell idea indeed!--a common soldier!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Paul, \"what am I but a common clerk?\"\n\n\"A good deal, my boy!\" cried his mother, stung.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"At any rate, a MAN, and not a thing in a red coat.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't mind being in a red coat--or dark blue, that would suit me\nbetter--if they didn't boss me about too much.\"\n\nBut his mother had ceased to listen.\n\n\"Just as he was getting on, or might have been getting on, at his job--a\nyoung nuisance--here he goes and ruins himself for life. What good will\nhe be, do you think, after THIS?\"\n\n\"It may lick him into shape beautifully,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Lick him into shape!--lick what marrow there WAS out of his bones. A\nSOLDIER!--a common SOLDIER!--nothing but a body that makes movements\nwhen it hears a shout! It's a fine thing!\"\n\n\"I can't understand why it upsets you,\" said Paul.\n\n\"No, perhaps you can't. But I understand\"; and she sat back in her\nchair, her chin in one hand, holding her elbow with the other, brimmed\nup with wrath and chagrin.\n\n\"And shall you go to Derby?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"It's no good.\"\n\n\"I'll see for myself.\"\n\n\"And why on earth don't you let him stop. It's just what he wants.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" cried the mother, \"YOU know what he wants!\"\n\nShe got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where she saw her\nson and the sergeant. It was, however, no good.\n\nWhen Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she said suddenly:\n\n\"I've had to go to Derby to-day.\"\n\nThe miner turned up his eyes, showing the whites in his black face.\n\n\"Has ter, lass. What took thee there?\"\n\n\"That Arthur!\"\n\n\"Oh--an' what's agate now?\"\n\n\"He's only enlisted.\"\n\nMorel put down his knife and leaned back in his chair.\n\n\"Nay,\" he said, \"that he niver 'as!\"\n\n\"And is going down to Aldershot tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Well!\" exclaimed the miner. \"That's a winder.\" He considered it a\nmoment, said \"H'm!\" and proceeded with his dinner. Suddenly his face\ncontracted with wrath. \"I hope he may never set foot i' my house again,\"\nhe said.\n\n\"The idea!\" cried Mrs. Morel. \"Saying such a thing!\"\n\n\"I do,\" repeated Morel. \"A fool as runs away for a soldier, let 'im look\nafter 'issen; I s'll do no more for 'im.\"\n\n\"A fat sight you have done as it is,\" she said.\n\nAnd Morel was almost ashamed to go to his public-house that evening.\n\n\"Well, did you go?\" said Paul to his mother when he came home.\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"And could you see him?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And what did he say?\"\n\n\"He blubbered when I came away.\"\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\n\"And so did I, so you needn't 'h'm'!\"\n\nMrs. Morel fretted after her son. She knew he would not like the army.\nHe did not. The discipline was intolerable to him.\n\n\"But the doctor,\" she said with some pride to Paul, \"said he was\nperfectly proportioned--almost exactly; all his measurements were\ncorrect. He IS good-looking, you know.\"\n\n\"He's awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girls like William,\ndoes he?\"\n\n\"No; it's a different character. He's a good deal like his father,\nirresponsible.\"\n\nTo console his mother, Paul did not go much to Willey Farm at this time.\nAnd in the autumn exhibition of students' work in the Castle he had two\nstudies, a landscape in water-colour and a still life in oil, both of\nwhich had first-prize awards. He was highly excited.\n\n\"What do you think I've got for my pictures, mother?\" he asked, coming\nhome one evening. She saw by his eyes he was glad. Her face flushed.\n\n\"Now, how should I know, my boy!\"\n\n\"A first prize for those glass jars--\"\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\n\"And a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm.\"\n\n\"Both first?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nThere was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said nothing.\n\n\"It's nice,\" he said, \"isn't it?\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"Why don't you praise me up to the skies?\"\n\nShe laughed.\n\n\"I should have the trouble of dragging you down again,\" she said.\n\nBut she was full of joy, nevertheless. William had brought her his\nsporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive his\ndeath. Arthur was handsome--at least, a good specimen--and warm and\ngenerous, and probably would do well in the end. But Paul was going to\ndistinguish himself. She had a great belief in him, the more because\nhe was unaware of his own powers. There was so much to come out of him.\nLife for her was rich with promise. She was to see herself fulfilled.\nNot for nothing had been her struggle.\n\nSeveral times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the Castle\nunknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room looking at the other\nexhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not in them a certain\nsomething which she demanded for her satisfaction. Some made her\njealous, they were so good. She looked at them a long time trying to\nfind fault with them. Then suddenly she had a shock that made her heart\nbeat. There hung Paul's picture! She knew it as if it were printed on\nher heart.\n\n\"Name--Paul Morel--First Prize.\"\n\nIt looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castle\ngallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And she\nglanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front of the\nsame sketch.\n\nBut she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies going home\nto the Park, she thought to herself:\n\n\"Yes, you look very well--but I wonder if YOUR son has two first prizes\nin the Castle.\"\n\nAnd she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Nottingham. And\nPaul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle. All his work\nwas hers.\n\nOne day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He had seen her\non the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in town. She was walking\nwith a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullen expression, and a\ndefiant carriage. It was strange how Miriam, in her bowed, meditative\nbearing, looked dwarfed beside this woman with the handsome shoulders.\nMiriam watched Paul searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, who\nignored him. The girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said, \"you didn't tell me you were coming to town.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Miriam, half apologetically. \"I drove in to Cattle Market\nwith father.\"\n\nHe looked at her companion.\n\n\"I've told you about Mrs. Dawes,\" said Miriam huskily; she was nervous.\n\"Clara, do you know Paul?\"\n\n\"I think I've seen him before,\" replied Mrs. Dawes indifferently, as\nshe shook hands with him. She had scornful grey eyes, a skin like white\nhoney, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upper lip that did not\nknow whether it was raised in scorn of all men or out of eagerness to be\nkissed, but which believed the former. She carried her head back, as if\nshe had drawn away in contempt, perhaps from men also. She wore a large,\ndowdy hat of black beaver, and a sort of slightly affected simple dress\nthat made her look rather sack-like. She was evidently poor, and had not\nmuch taste. Miriam usually looked nice.\n\n\"Where have you seen me?\" Paul asked of the woman.\n\nShe looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then:\n\n\"Walking with Louie Travers,\" she said.\n\nLouie was one of the \"Spiral\" girls.\n\n\"Why, do you know her?\" he asked.\n\nShe did not answer. He turned to Miriam.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" he asked.\n\n\"To the Castle.\"\n\n\"What train are you going home by?\"\n\n\"I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time are you\nfree?\"\n\n\"You know not till eight to-night, damn it!\"\n\nAnd directly the two women moved on.\n\nPaul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend of\nMrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because she had once been Spiral\noverseer at Jordan's, and because her husband, Baxter Dawes, was smith\nfor the factory, making the irons for cripple instruments, and so on.\nThrough her Miriam felt she got into direct contact with Jordan's, and\ncould estimate better Paul's position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated from\nher husband, and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to be\nclever. It interested Paul.\n\nBaxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of thirty-one or\nthirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul's corner--a big, well-set\nman, also striking to look at, and handsome. There was a peculiar\nsimilarity between himself and his wife. He had the same white skin,\nwith a clear, golden tinge. His hair was of soft brown, his moustache\nwas golden. And he had a similar defiance in his bearing and manner. But\nthen came the difference. His eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, were\ndissolute. They protruded very slightly, and his eyelids hung over them\nin a way that was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His whole\nmanner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybody\ndown who disapproved of him--perhaps because he really disapproved of\nhimself.\n\nFrom the first day he had hated Paul. Finding the lad's impersonal,\ndeliberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got into a fury.\n\n\"What are yer lookin' at?\" he sneered, bullying.\n\nThe boy glanced away. But the smith used to stand behind the counter\nand talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with a kind of\nrottenness. Again he found the youth with his cool, critical gaze fixed\non his face. The smith started round as if he had been stung.\n\n\"What'r yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?\" he snarled.\n\nThe boy shrugged his shoulders slightly.\n\n\"Why yer--!\" shouted Dawes.\n\n\"Leave him alone,\" said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuating voice which\nmeans, \"He's only one of your good little sops who can't help it.\"\n\nSince that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came\nthrough with the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the\nsmith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence.\n\nClara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband the home had\nbeen broken up, and she had gone to live with her mother. Dawes lodged\nwith his sister. In the same house was a sister-in-law, and somehow Paul\nknew that this girl, Louie Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She was a\nhandsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if he\nwalked along to the station with her as she went home.\n\nThe next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. She had\na fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him. The others, except her\nfather and mother and the young children, had gone out, so the two had\nthe parlour together. It was a long, low, warm room. There were three of\nPaul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the mantelpiece.\nOn the table and on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured\nleaves. He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his\nfeet. The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled\nthere like a devotee.\n\n\"What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?\" she asked quietly.\n\n\"She doesn't look very amiable,\" he replied.\n\n\"No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?\" she said, in a deep tone,\n\n\"Yes--in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some\nthings. IS she disagreeable?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied.\"\n\n\"What with?\"\n\n\"Well--how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?\"\n\n\"Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?\"\n\n\"Ay, why did she!\" repeated Miriam bitterly.\n\n\"And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him,\" he\nsaid.\n\nMiriam bowed her head.\n\n\"Ay?\" she queried satirically. \"What makes you think so?\"\n\n\"Look at her mouth--made for passion--and the very setback of her\nthroat--\" He threw his head back in Clara's defiant manner.\n\nMiriam bowed a little lower.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\nThere was a silence for some moments, while he thought of Clara.\n\n\"And what were the things you liked about her?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know--her skin and the texture of her--and her--I don't\nknow--there's a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciate her as\nan artist, that's all.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe wondered why Miriam crouched there brooding in that strange way. It\nirritated him.\n\n\"You don't really like her, do you?\" he asked the girl.\n\nShe looked at him with her great, dazzled dark eyes.\n\n\"I do,\" she said.\n\n\"You don't--you can't--not really.\"\n\n\"Then what?\" she asked slowly.\n\n\"Eh, I don't know--perhaps you like her because she's got a grudge\nagainst men.\"\n\nThat was more probably one of his own reasons for liking Mrs. Dawes,\nbut this did not occur to him. They were silent. There had come into his\nforehead a knitting of the brows which was becoming habitual with him,\nparticularly when he was with Miriam. She longed to smooth it away, and\nshe was afraid of it. It seemed the stamp of a man who was not her man\nin Paul Morel.\n\nThere were some crimson berries among the leaves in the bowl. He reached\nover and pulled out a bunch.\n\n\"If you put red berries in your hair,\" he said, \"why would you look like\nsome witch or priestess, and never like a reveller?\"\n\nShe laughed with a naked, painful sound.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said.\n\nHis vigorous warm hands were playing excitedly with the berries.\n\n\"Why can't you laugh?\" he said. \"You never laugh laughter. You only\nlaugh when something is odd or incongruous, and then it almost seems to\nhurt you.\"\n\nShe bowed her head as if he were scolding her.\n\n\"I wish you could laugh at me just for one minute--just for one minute.\nI feel as if it would set something free.\"\n\n\"But\"--and she looked up at him with eyes frightened and struggling--\"I\ndo laugh at you--I DO.\"\n\n\"Never! There's always a kind of intensity. When you laugh I could\nalways cry; it seems as if it shows up your suffering. Oh, you make me\nknit the brows of my very soul and cogitate.\"\n\nSlowly she shook her head despairingly.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't want to,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm so damned spiritual with YOU always!\" he cried.\n\nShe remained silent, thinking, \"Then why don't you be otherwise.\" But he\nsaw her crouching, brooding figure, and it seemed to tear him in two.\n\n\"But, there, it's autumn,\" he said, \"and everybody feels like a\ndisembodied spirit then.\"\n\nThere was still another silence. This peculiar sadness between them\nthrilled her soul. He seemed so beautiful with his eyes gone dark, and\nlooking as if they were deep as the deepest well.\n\n\"You make me so spiritual!\" he lamented. \"And I don't want to be\nspiritual.\"\n\nShe took her finger from her mouth with a little pop, and looked up at\nhim almost challenging. But still her soul was naked in her great dark\neyes, and there was the same yearning appeal upon her. If he could have\nkissed her in abstract purity he would have done so. But he could not\nkiss her thus--and she seemed to leave no other way. And she yearned to\nhim.\n\nHe gave a brief laugh.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"get that French and we'll do some--some Verlaine.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said in a deep tone, almost of resignation. And she rose and\ngot the books. And her rather red, nervous hands looked so pitiful, he\nwas mad to comfort her and kiss her. But then be dared not--or could\nnot. There was something prevented him. His kisses were wrong for her.\nThey continued the reading till ten o'clock, when they went into the\nkitchen, and Paul was natural and jolly again with the father and\nmother. His eyes were dark and shining; there was a kind of fascination\nabout him.\n\nWhen he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the front wheel\npunctured.\n\n\"Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl,\" he said to her. \"I shall be late,\nand then I s'll catch it.\"\n\nHe lighted the hurricane lamp, took off his coat, turned up the bicycle,\nand set speedily to work. Miriam came with the bowl of water and stood\nclose to him, watching. She loved to see his hands doing things. He\nwas slim and vigorous, with a kind of easiness even in his most hasty\nmovements. And busy at his work he seemed to forget her. She loved\nhim absorbedly. She wanted to run her hands down his sides. She always\nwanted to embrace him, so long as he did not want her.\n\n\"There!\" he said, rising suddenly. \"Now, could you have done it\nquicker?\"\n\n\"No!\" she laughed.\n\nHe straightened himself. His back was towards her. She put her two hands\non his sides, and ran them quickly down.\n\n\"You are so FINE!\" she said.\n\nHe laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a wave of flame\nby her hands. She did not seem to realise HIM in all this. He might have\nbeen an object. She never realised the male he was.\n\nHe lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the barn floor to\nsee that the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat.\n\n\"That's all right!\" he said.\n\nShe was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken.\n\n\"Did you have them mended?\" she asked.\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"But why didn't you?\"\n\n\"The back one goes on a bit.\"\n\n\"But it's not safe.\"\n\n\"I can use my toe.\"\n\n\"I wish you'd had them mended,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Don't worry--come to tea tomorrow, with Edgar.\"\n\n\"Shall we?\"\n\n\"Do--about four. I'll come to meet you.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nShe was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. Looking\nacross, he saw through the uncurtained window of the kitchen the heads\nof Mr. and Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow. It looked very cosy. The road,\nwith pine trees, was quite black in front.\n\n\"Till tomorrow,\" he said, jumping on his bicycle.\n\n\"You'll take care, won't you?\" she pleaded.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHis voice already came out of the darkness. She stood a moment watching\nthe light from his lamp race into obscurity along the ground. She\nturned very slowly indoors. Orion was wheeling up over the wood, his dog\ntwinkling after him, half smothered. For the rest the world was full of\ndarkness, and silent, save for the breathing of cattle in their stalls.\nShe prayed earnestly for his safety that night. When he left her, she\noften lay in anxiety, wondering if he had got home safely.\n\nHe dropped down the hills on his bicycle. The roads were greasy, so he\nhad to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plunged over the\nsecond, steeper drop in the hill. \"Here goes!\" he said. It was risky,\nbecause of the curve in the darkness at the bottom, and because of the\nbrewers' waggons with drunken waggoners asleep. His bicycle seemed\nto fall beneath him, and he loved it. Recklessness is almost a man's\nrevenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk\ndestroying himself to deprive her altogether.\n\nThe stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers, silver upon the\nblackness, as he spun past. Then there was the long climb home.\n\n\"See, mother!\" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaves on to the\ntable.\n\n\"H'm!\" she said, glancing at them, then away again. She sat reading,\nalone, as she always did.\n\n\"Aren't they pretty?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe knew she was cross with him. After a few minutes he said:\n\n\"Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea tomorrow.\"\n\nShe did not answer.\n\n\"You don't mind?\"\n\nStill she did not answer.\n\n\"Do you?\" he asked.\n\n\"You know whether I mind or not.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should. I have plenty of meals there.\"\n\n\"You do.\"\n\n\"Then why do you begrudge them tea?\"\n\n\"I begrudge whom tea?\"\n\n\"What are you so horrid for?\"\n\n\"Oh, say no more! You've asked her to tea, it's quite sufficient. She'll\ncome.\"\n\nHe was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merely Miriam she\nobjected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed.\n\nPaul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was glad to see\nthem coming. They arrived home at about four o'clock. Everywhere was\nclean and still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Morel sat in her black dress\nand black apron. She rose to meet the visitors. With Edgar she was\ncordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging. Yet Paul thought the\ngirl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock.\n\nHe helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would have gladly\nproffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. There was\nabout it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The chairs were only\nwooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrug and cushions were\ncosy; the pictures were prints in good taste; there was a simplicity in\neverything, and plenty of books. He was never ashamed in the least of\nhis home, nor was Miriam of hers, because both were what they should be,\nand warm. And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty, the\ncloth was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were not silver nor\nthe knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managed\nwonderfully while her children were growing up, so that nothing was out\nof place.\n\nMiriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But Mrs.\nMorel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar.\n\nAt first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew. Morel never\nwent to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs. Morel, like a little\nchampion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul at the other end; and at\nfirst Miriam sat next to him. Then the chapel was like home. It was a\npretty place, with dark pews and slim, elegant pillars, and flowers. And\nthe same people had sat in the same places ever since he was a boy. It\nwas wonderfully sweet and soothing to sit there for an hour and a half,\nnext to Miriam, and near to his mother, uniting his two loves under the\nspell of the place of worship. Then he felt warm and happy and religious\nat once. And after chapel he walked home with Miriam, whilst Mrs. Morel\nspent the rest of the evening with her old friend, Mrs. Burns. He was\nkeenly alive on his walks on Sunday nights with Edgar and Miriam. He\nnever went past the pits at night, by the lighted lamp-house, the tall\nblack headstocks and lines of trucks, past the fans spinning slowly like\nshadows, without the feeling of Miriam returning to him, keen and almost\nunbearable.\n\nShe did not very long occupy the Morels' pew. Her father took one for\nthemselves once more. It was under the little gallery, opposite the\nMorels'. When Paul and his mother came in the chapel the Leivers's pew\nwas always empty. He was anxious for fear she would not come: it was so\nfar, and there were so many rainy Sundays. Then, often very late indeed,\nshe came in, with her long stride, her head bowed, her face hidden under\nher hat of dark green velvet. Her face, as she sat opposite, was always\nin shadow. But it gave him a very keen feeling, as if all his soul\nstirred within him, to see her there. It was not the same glow,\nhappiness, and pride, that he felt in having his mother in charge:\nsomething more wonderful, less human, and tinged to intensity by a pain,\nas if there were something he could not get to.\n\nAt this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed. He was\ntwenty-one, and she was twenty. She was beginning to dread the spring:\nhe became so wild, and hurt her so much. All the way he went cruelly\nsmashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. He was by nature critical and\nrather dispassionate. But Miriam suffered exquisite pain, as, with an\nintellect like a knife, the man she loved examined her religion in which\nshe lived and moved and had her being. But he did not spare her. He was\ncruel. And when they went alone he was even more fierce, as if he would\nkill her soul. He bled her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness.\n\n\"She exults--she exults as she carries him off from me,\" Mrs. Morel\ncried in her heart when Paul had gone. \"She's not like an ordinary\nwoman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She\nwants to draw him out and absorb him till there is nothing left of him,\neven for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet--she will suck\nhim up.\" So the mother sat, and battled and brooded bitterly.\n\nAnd he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wild with torture.\nHe walked biting his lips and with clenched fists, going at a great\nrate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood for some minutes, and\ndid not move. There was a great hollow of darkness fronting him, and on\nthe black upslopes patches of tiny lights, and in the lowest trough of\nthe night, a flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful. Why was he\ntorn so, almost bewildered, and unable to move? Why did his mother sit\nat home and suffer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And\nwhy did he hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thought\nof his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then he hated\nher--and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feel as if he were\nuncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing, as if he had not\nsufficient sheathing to prevent the night and the space breaking into\nhim? How he hated her! And then, what a rush of tenderness and humility!\n\nSuddenly he plunged on again, running home. His mother saw on him the\nmarks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had to make her talk\nto him. Then she was angry with him for going so far with Miriam.\n\n\"Why don't you like her, mother?\" he cried in despair.\n\n\"I don't know, my boy,\" she replied piteously. \"I'm sure I've tried to\nlike her. I've tried and tried, but I can't--I can't!\"\n\nAnd he felt dreary and hopeless between the two.\n\nSpring was the worst time. He was changeable, and intense and cruel.\nSo he decided to stay away from her. Then came the hours when he knew\nMiriam was expecting him. His mother watched him growing restless.\nHe could not go on with his work. He could do nothing. It was as if\nsomething were drawing his soul out towards Willey Farm. Then he put on\nhis hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. And\nas soon as he was on the way he sighed with relief. And when he was with\nher he was cruel again.\n\nOne day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriam sitting\nbeside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, so\nbrilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stole along on the water. The\nclear spaces in the sky were of clean, cold blue. Paul lay on his back\nin the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. She\nseemed to want him, and he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted\nnow to give her passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that\nshe wanted the soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and\nenergy she drew into herself through some channel which united them. She\ndid not want to meet him, so that there were two of them, man and woman\ntogether. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an\nintensity like madness, which fascinated him, as drug-taking might.\n\nHe was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she were\nfingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life, as\nshe heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the end it\nfrightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search,\nand his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was, almost\ninhuman, as if in a trance.\n\n\"Don't talk any more,\" she pleaded softly, laying her hand on his\nforehead.\n\nHe lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body was somewhere\ndiscarded.\n\n\"Why not? Are you tired?\"\n\n\"Yes, and it wears you out.\"\n\nHe laughed shortly, realising.\n\n\"Yet you always make me like it,\" he said.\n\n\"I don't wish to,\" she said, very low.\n\n\"Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it. But your\nunconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose I want it.\"\n\nHe went on, in his dead fashion:\n\n\"If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel off for you!\"\n\n\n\"I!\" she cried bitterly--\"I! Why, when would you let me take you?\"\n\n\"Then it's my fault,\" he said, and, gathering himself together, he got\nup and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague way\nhe hated her for it. And he knew he was as much to blame himself. This,\nhowever, did not prevent his hating her.\n\nOne evening about this time he had walked along the home road with her.\nThey stood by the pasture leading down to the wood, unable to part. As\nthe stars came out the clouds closed. They had glimpses of their own\nconstellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a\nmoment, his dog ran low, struggling with difficulty through the spume of\ncloud.\n\nOrion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. They\nhad gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling, until\nthey seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This evening\nPaul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed just an ordinary\nconstellation to him. He had fought against his glamour and fascination.\nMiriam was watching her lover's mood carefully. But he said nothing\nthat gave him away, till the moment came to part, when he stood frowning\ngloomily at the gathered clouds, behind which the great constellation\nmust be striding still.\n\nThere was to be a little party at his house the next day, at which she\nwas to attend.\n\n\"I shan't come and meet you,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, very well; it's not very nice out,\" she replied slowly.\n\n\"It's not that--only they don't like me to. They say I care more for\nyou than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's only\nfriendship.\"\n\nMiriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him an effort. She\nleft him, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blew\nin her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down; and\nshe despised him for being blown about by any wind of authority. And in\nher heart of hearts, unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to get\naway from her. This she would never have acknowledged. She pitied him.\n\nAt this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's warehouse. Mr.\nPappleworth left to set up a business of his own, and Paul remained with\nMr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages were to be raised to thirty\nshillings at the year-end, if things went well.\n\nStill on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French lesson. Paul\ndid not go so frequently to Willey Farm, and she grieved at the thought\nof her education's coming to end; moreover, they both loved to\nbe together, in spite of discords. So they read Balzac, and did\ncompositions, and felt highly cultured.\n\nFriday night was reckoning night for the miners. Morel\n\"reckoned\"--shared up the money of the stall--either in the New Inn\nat Bretty or in his own house, according as his fellow-butties wished.\nBarker had turned a non-drinker, so now the men reckoned at Morel's\nhouse.\n\nAnnie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still a\ntomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design.\n\nMorel was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless the week's\nearnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner, prepared\nto get washed. It was decorum for the women to absent themselves while\nthe men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spy into such a masculine\nprivacy as the butties' reckoning, nor were they to know the exact\namount of the week's earnings. So, whilst her father was spluttering\nin the scullery, Annie went out to spend an hour with a neighbour. Mrs.\nMorel attended to her baking.\n\n\"Shut that doo-er!\" bawled Morel furiously.\n\nAnnie banged it behind her, and was gone.\n\n\"If tha oppens it again while I'm weshin' me, I'll ma'e thy jaw rattle,\"\nhe threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Paul and the mother\nfrowned to hear him.\n\nPresently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy water\ndripping from him, dithering with cold.\n\n\"Oh, my sirs!\" he said. \"Wheer's my towel?\"\n\nIt was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise he would\nhave bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before the hot\nbaking-fire to dry himself.\n\n\"F-ff-f!\" he went, pretending to shudder with cold.\n\n\"Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!\" said Mrs. Morel. \"It's NOT cold.\"\n\n\"Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery,\" said\nthe miner, as he rubbed his hair; \"nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!\"\n\n\"And I shouldn't make that fuss,\" replied his wife.\n\n\"No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi' thy nesh sides.\"\n\n\"Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?\" asked Paul, curious.\n\n\"Eh, I dunno; that's what they say,\" replied his father. \"But there's\nthat much draught i' yon scullery, as it blows through your ribs like\nthrough a five-barred gate.\"\n\n\"It would have some difficulty in blowing through yours,\" said Mrs.\nMorel.\n\nMorel looked down ruefully at his sides.\n\n\"Me!\" he exclaimed. \"I'm nowt b'r a skinned rabbit. My bones fair juts\nout on me.\"\n\n\"I should like to know where,\" retorted his wife.\n\n\"Iv'ry-wheer! I'm nobbut a sack o' faggots.\"\n\nMrs. Morel laughed. He had still a wonderfully young body, muscular,\nwithout any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It might have been the\nbody of a man of twenty-eight, except that there were, perhaps, too many\nblue scars, like tattoo-marks, where the coal-dust remained under the\nskin, and that his chest was too hairy. But he put his hand on his side\nruefully. It was his fixed belief that, because he did not get fat,\nhe was as thin as a starved rat. Paul looked at his father's thick,\nbrownish hands all scarred, with broken nails, rubbing the fine\nsmoothness of his sides, and the incongruity struck him. It seemed\nstrange they were the same flesh.\n\n\"I suppose,\" he said to his father, \"you had a good figure once.\"\n\n\"Eh!\" exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid, like a\nchild.\n\n\"He had,\" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, \"if he didn't hurtle himself up as if he\nwas trying to get in the smallest space he could.\"\n\n\"Me!\" exclaimed Morel--\"me a good figure! I wor niver much more n'r a\nskeleton.\"\n\n\"Man!\" cried his wife, \"don't be such a pulamiter!\"\n\n\"'Strewth!\" he said. \"Tha's niver knowed me but what I looked as if I\nwor goin' off in a rapid decline.\"\n\nShe sat and laughed.\n\n\"You've had a constitution like iron,\" she said; \"and never a man had a\nbetter start, if it was body that counted. You should have seen him as\na young man,\" she cried suddenly to Paul, drawing herself up to imitate\nher husband's once handsome bearing.\n\nMorel watched her shyly. He saw again the passion she had had for him.\nIt blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy, rather scared, and humble.\nYet again he felt his old glow. And then immediately he felt the ruin he\nhad made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away from\nit.\n\n\"Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh,\" he asked her.\n\nHis wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped it on his shoulders.\nHe gave a jump.\n\n\"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!\" he cried. \"Cowd as death!\"\n\n\"You ought to have been a salamander,\" she laughed, washing his back. It\nwas very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The children\ndid those things.\n\n\"The next world won't be half hot enough for you,\" she added.\n\n\"No,\" he said; \"tha'lt see as it's draughty for me.\"\n\nBut she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion, and went\nupstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. When he was\ndried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair on\nend, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood\nwarming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled\nthem inside out, he scorched them.\n\n\"Goodness, man!\" cried Mrs. Morel, \"get dressed!\"\n\n\"Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o'\nwater?\" he said.\n\nAt last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black. He did all\nthis on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiar\nfriends had been present.\n\nMrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red earthenware\npanchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of\npaste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As she\nwas doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little\nman, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hair\nwas cropped short, his head was bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but\nhealthy and taut.\n\n\"Evenin', missis,\" he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seated himself with a\nsigh.\n\n\"Good-evening,\" she replied cordially.\n\n\"Tha's made thy heels crack,\" said Morel.\n\n\"I dunno as I have,\" said Barker.\n\nHe sat, as the men always did in Morel's kitchen, effacing himself\nrather.\n\n\"How's missis?\" she asked of him.\n\nHe had told her some time back:\n\n\"We're expectin' us third just now, you see.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he answered, rubbing his head, \"she keeps pretty middlin', I\nthink.\"\n\n\"Let's see--when?\" asked Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now.\"\n\n\"Ah! And she's kept fairly?\"\n\n\"Yes, tidy.\"\n\n\"That's a blessing, for she's none too strong.\"\n\n\"No. An' I've done another silly trick.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\nMrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly.\n\n\"I'm come be-out th' market-bag.\"\n\n\"You can have mine.\"\n\n\"Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself.\"\n\n\"I shan't. I take a string bag always.\"\n\nShe saw the determined little collier buying in the week's groceries and\nmeat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. \"Barker's little, but\nhe's ten times the man you are,\" she said to her husband.\n\nJust then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a\nboyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven\nchildren. But his wife was a passionate woman.\n\n\"I see you've kested me,\" he said, smiling rather vapidly.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Barker.\n\nThe newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muffler. His nose was\npointed and red.\n\n\"I'm afraid you're cold, Mr. Wesson,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"It's a bit nippy,\" he replied.\n\n\"Then come to the fire.\"\n\n\"Nay, I s'll do where I am.\"\n\nBoth colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to the\nhearth. The hearth is sacred to the family.\n\n\"Go thy ways i' th' armchair,\" cried Morel cheerily.\n\n\"Nay, thank yer; I'm very nicely here.\"\n\n\"Yes, come, of course,\" insisted Mrs. Morel.\n\nHe rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morel's armchair awkwardly. It was\ntoo great a familiarity. But the fire made him blissfully happy.\n\n\"And how's that chest of yours?\" demanded Mrs. Morel.\n\nHe smiled again, with his blue eyes rather sunny.\n\n\"Oh, it's very middlin',\" he said.\n\n\"Wi' a rattle in it like a kettle-drum,\" said Barker shortly.\n\n\"T-t-t-t!\" went Mrs. Morel rapidly with her tongue. \"Did you have that\nflannel singlet made?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" he smiled.\n\n\"Then, why didn't you?\" she cried.\n\n\"It'll come,\" he smiled.\n\n\"Ah, an' Doomsday!\" exclaimed Barker.\n\nBarker and Morel were both impatient of Wesson. But, then, they were\nboth as hard as nails, physically.\n\nWhen Morel was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to Paul.\n\n\"Count it, boy,\" he asked humbly.\n\nPaul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the bag upside\ndown on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns and\nloose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks--the written\npapers giving amount of coal--put the money in order. Then Barker\nglanced at the checks.\n\nMrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. Morel, as\nmaster of the house, sat in his armchair, with his back to the hot fire.\nThe two butties had cooler seats. None of them counted the money.\n\n\"What did we say Simpson's was?\" asked Morel; and the butties cavilled\nfor a minute over the dayman's earnings. Then the amount was put aside.\n\n\"An' Bill Naylor's?\"\n\nThis money also was taken from the pack.\n\nThen, because Wesson lived in one of the company's houses, and his rent\nhad been deducted, Morel and Barker took four-and-six each. And because\nMorel's coals had come, and the leading was stopped, Barker and Wesson\ntook four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morel gave each of\nthem a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns; each half a crown\ntill there were no more half-crowns; each a shilling till there were no\nmore shillings. If there was anything at the end that wouldn't split,\nMorel took it and stood drinks.\n\nThen the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the house before\nhis wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She looked\nhastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing on the table, she saw\nher money lying. Paul had been working all the time. But now he felt his\nmother counting the week's money, and her wrath rising,\n\n\"T-t-t-t-t!\" went her tongue.\n\nHe frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted again.\n\n\"A measly twenty-five shillings!\" she exclaimed. \"How much was the\ncheque?\"\n\n\"Ten pounds eleven,\" said Paul irritably. He dreaded what was coming.\n\n\"And he gives me a scrattlin' twenty-five, an' his club this week! But I\nknow him. He thinks because YOU'RE earning he needn't keep the house any\nlonger. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I'll\nshow him!\"\n\n\"Oh, mother, don't!\" cried Paul.\n\n\"Don't what, I should like to know?\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Don't carry on again. I can't work.\"\n\nShe went very quiet.\n\n\"Yes, it's all very well,\" she said; \"but how do you think I'm going to\nmanage?\"\n\n\"Well, it won't make it any better to whittle about it.\"\n\n\"I should like to know what you'd do if you had it to put up with.\"\n\n\"It won't be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell.\"\n\nHe went back to his work, and she tied her bonnet-strings grimly. When\nshe was fretted he could not bear it. But now he began to insist on her\nrecognizing him.\n\n\"The two loaves at the top,\" she said, \"will be done in twenty minutes.\nDon't forget them.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he answered; and she went to market.\n\nHe remained alone working. But his usual intense concentration became\nunsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past seven came a\nlow knock, and Miriam entered.\n\n\"All alone?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAs if at home, she took off her tam-o'-shanter and her long coat,\nhanging them up. It gave him a thrill. This might be their own house,\nhis and hers. Then she came back and peered over his work.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery.\"\n\nShe bent short-sightedly over the drawings.\n\nIt irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his,\nsearching him out. He went into the parlour and returned with a bundle\nof brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on the floor. It\nproved to be a curtain or portiere, beautifully stencilled with a design\non roses.\n\n\"Ah, how beautiful!\" she cried.\n\nThe spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green stems,\nall so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay at her feet. She went\non her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched\nvoluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she\nlooked up at him.\n\n\"Why does it seem cruel?\" she asked.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"There seems a feeling of cruelty about it,\" she said.\n\n\"It's jolly good, whether or not,\" he replied, folding up his work with\na lover's hands.\n\nShe rose slowly, pondering.\n\n\"And what will you do with it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd rather\nhave the money.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam\nsympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER.\n\nHe took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to\nMiriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design.\n\n\"I did that for you,\" he said.\n\nShe fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became\nembarrassed.\n\n\"By Jove, the bread!\" he cried.\n\nHe took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He\nput them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his\nhands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it\nin a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood\nrubbing the bits of dough from his hands.\n\n\"You do like it?\" he asked.\n\nShe looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed\nuncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him\nthe most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his\npassion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her,\nwhen he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his\nimaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands\nwhen she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and\nfor him.\n\nWhile they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and\npale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the\nroom. She was a friend at the Morel's.\n\n\"Take your things off,\" said Paul.\n\n\"No, I'm not stopping.\"\n\nShe sat down in the armchair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on the\nsofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a\nscent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth.\n\n\"I shouldn't have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers,\"\nsaid Beatrice wickedly.\n\n\"Why not?\" murmured Miriam huskily.\n\n\"Why, let's look at your shoes.\"\n\nMiriam remained uncomfortably still.\n\n\"If tha doesna tha durs'na,\" laughed Beatrice.\n\nMiriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer,\nirresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed how\nself-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with\nmud.\n\n\"Glory! You're a positive muck-heap,\" exclaimed Beatrice. \"Who cleans\nyour boots?\"\n\n\"I clean them myself.\"\n\n\"Then you wanted a job,\" said Beatrice. \"It would ha' taken a lot of men\nto ha' brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge, doesn't\nit, 'Postle my duck?\"\n\n\"Inter alia,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean,\nMiriam?\"\n\nThere was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not see\nit.\n\n\"'Among other things,' I believe,\" she said humbly.\n\nBeatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly.\n\n\"'Among other things,' 'Postle?\" she repeated. \"Do you mean love laughs\nat mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends, and\nlady friends, and even at the b'loved himself?\"\n\nShe affected a great innocence.\n\n\"In fact, it's one big smile,\" he replied.\n\n\"Up its sleeve, 'Postle Morel--you believe me,\" she said; and she went\noff into another burst of wicked, silent laughter.\n\nMiriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul's\nfriends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the\nlurch--seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then.\n\n\"Are you still at school?\" asked Miriam of Beatrice.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You've not had your notice, then?\"\n\n\"I expect it at Easter.\"\n\n\"Isn't it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you didn't pass\nthe exam?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Beatrice coldly.\n\n\"Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me\nridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass.\"\n\n\"Short of brains, eh, 'Postle?\" said Beatrice briefly.\n\n\"Only brains to bite with,\" replied Paul, laughing.\n\n\"Nuisance!\" she cried; and, springing from her seat, she rushed and\nboxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while\nshe wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and seized two handfuls\nof his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook.\n\n\"Beat!\" he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. \"I\nhate you!\"\n\nShe laughed with glee.\n\n\"Mind!\" she said. \"I want to sit next to you.\"\n\n\"I'd as lief be neighbours with a vixen,\" he said, nevertheless making\nplace for her between him and Miriam.\n\n\"Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!\" she cried; and, with her\nhair-comb, she combed him straight. \"And his nice little moustache!\"\nshe exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache.\n\"It's a wicked moustache, 'Postle,\" she said. \"It's a red for danger.\nHave you got any of those cigarettes?\"\n\nHe pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside it.\n\n\"And fancy me having Connie's last cig.,\" said Beatrice, putting the\nthing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed\ndaintily.\n\n\"Thanks so much, darling,\" she said mockingly.\n\nIt gave her a wicked delight.\n\n\"Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, very!\" said Miriam.\n\nHe took a cigarette for himself.\n\n\"Light, old boy?\" said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him.\n\nHe bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winking\nat him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, and\nhis full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she\ncould not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him; she\nmight as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his\nfull red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on his\nforehead.\n\n\"Sweet boy!\" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a little\nkiss on the cheek.\n\n\"I s'll kiss thee back, Beat,\" he said.\n\n\"Tha wunna!\" she giggled, jumping up and going away. \"Isn't he\nshameless, Miriam?\"\n\n\"Quite,\" said Miriam. \"By the way, aren't you forgetting the bread?\"\n\n\"By Jove!\" he cried, flinging open the oven door.\n\nOut puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.\n\n\"Oh, golly!\" cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouched before the\noven, she peered over his shoulder. \"This is what comes of the oblivion\nof love, my boy.\"\n\nPaul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hot\nside; another was hard as a brick.\n\n\"Poor mater!\" said Paul.\n\n\"You want to grate it,\" said Beatrice. \"Fetch me the nutmeg-grater.\"\n\nShe arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and she\ngrated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open\nto blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing\nher cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf.\n\n\"My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time,\" said Beatrice.\n\n\"I!\" exclaimed Miriam in amazement.\n\n\"You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. I know why King Alfred\nburned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postle would fix up a tale about his\nwork making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman\nhad come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed the brazen thing's ears who\nmade the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred's.\"\n\nShe giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in spite of\nherself. Paul mended the fire ruefully.\n\nThe garden gate was heard to bang.\n\n\"Quick!\" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. \"Wrap it up in a\ndamp towel.\"\n\nPaul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapings\ninto the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was\nan abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light.\n\n\"Smell of burning!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"It's the cigarettes,\" replied Beatrice demurely.\n\n\"Where's Paul?\"\n\nLeonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes, very\nsad.\n\n\"I suppose he's left you to settle it between you,\" he said. He nodded\nsympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice.\n\n\"No,\" said Beatrice, \"he's gone off with number nine.\"\n\n\"I just met number five inquiring for him,\" said Leonard.\n\n\"Yes--we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby,\" said Beatrice.\n\nAnnie laughed.\n\n\"Oh, ay,\" said Leonard. \"And which bit should you have?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Beatrice. \"I'll let all the others pick first.\"\n\n\"An' you'd have the leavings, like?\" said Leonard, twisting up a comic\nface.\n\nAnnie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.\n\n\"This bread's a fine sight, our Paul,\" said Annie.\n\n\"Then you should stop an' look after it,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You mean YOU should do what you're reckoning to do,\" replied Annie.\n\n\"He should, shouldn't he!\" cried Beatrice.\n\n\"I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand,\" said Leonard.\n\n\"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?\" said Annie.\n\n\"Yes--but I'd been in all week--\"\n\n\"And you wanted a bit of a change, like,\" insinuated Leonard kindly.\n\n\"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever,\" Annie agreed. She was\nquite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard\nand Annie. She would meet her own boy.\n\n\"Don't forget that bread, our Paul,\" cried Annie. \"Good-night, Miriam. I\ndon't think it will rain.\"\n\nWhen they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and\nsurveyed it sadly.\n\n\"It's a mess!\" he said.\n\n\"But,\" answered Miriam impatiently, \"what is it, after all--twopence,\nha'penny.\"\n\n\"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to\nheart. However, it's no good bothering.\"\n\nHe took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance\nbetween him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments\nconsidering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty\ninside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served\nMiriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was\nthinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his\nforehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks\nof Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands.\nIt looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,\nwhy not her?\n\nSuddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror as\nhe quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her.\n\n\"Half-past eight!\" he said. \"We'd better buck up. Where's your French?\"\n\nMiriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every week\nshe wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French.\nHe had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions. And\nher diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as\nif her soul's history were going to be desecrated by him in his present\nmood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously\nscoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that\nwas there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence,\nmotionless. She quivered.\n\n\"'_Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille,'\" he read. \"'Il faisait encore un\ncrepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme, et puis,\njaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chanson vif et\nresonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ce\nque vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presque tous les\nmatins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des\ngrives. Il est si clair_--'\"\n\nMiriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying to\nunderstand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love for\nhim. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was\nat fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above\nher words.\n\n\"Look,\" he said quietly, \"the past participle conjugated with _avoir_\nagrees with the direct object when it precedes.\"\n\nShe bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine curls\ntickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shuddering. He\nsaw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted piteously, the\nblack hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She\nwas coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as\nhe watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked\nwith their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and\nthey hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control,\nwas exposed in fear. And he knew, before he could kiss her, he must\ndrive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back\nagain into his heart. He returned to her exercise.\n\nSuddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap,\nturning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently,\nand it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched before the oven\nhurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel in\nthe swift way he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again.\nIf only he had been gentle in his movements she would have felt so rich\nand warm. As it was, she was hurt.\n\nHe returned and finished the exercise.\n\n\"You've done well this week,\" he said.\n\nShe saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her entirely.\n\n\"You really do blossom out sometimes,\" he said. \"You ought to write\npoetry.\"\n\nShe lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.\n\n\"I don't trust myself,\" she said.\n\n\"You should try!\"\n\nAgain she shook her head.\n\n\"Shall we read, or is it too late?\" he asked.\n\n\"It is late--but we can read just a little,\" she pleaded.\n\nShe was really getting now the food for her life during the next week.\nHe made her copy Baudelaire's \"Le Balcon\". Then he read it for her. His\nvoice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of\nlifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when\nhe was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were\ntrampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head\nbowed. She could not understand why he got into such a tumult and fury.\nIt made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole--nor\nVerlaine.\n\n     \"Behold her singing in the field\n     Yon solitary highland lass.\"\n\nThat nourished her heart. So did \"Fair Ines\". And--\n\n     \"It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure,\n     And breathing holy quiet like a nun.\"\n\nThese were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat\nbitterly:\n\n\"_Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses_.\"\n\nThe poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the\nburnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top.\nThe desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery.\n\n\"Mater needn't know till morning,\" he said. \"It won't upset her so much\nthen as at night.\"\n\nMiriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had\nreceived, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested\nhim. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble to\nlock the door.\n\nHe was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated\nin the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back,\nremained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on her\nknees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul\nentered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the\nlittle local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down on\nthe sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke.\nHe was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a\npiece of paper he found on the table. Then--\n\n\"I forgot that bread, mother,\" he said.\n\nThere was no answer from either woman.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"it's only twopence ha'penny. I can pay you for that.\"\n\nBeing angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid them towards his\nmother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Annie, \"you don't know how badly my mother is!\"\n\nThe girl sat staring glumly into the fire.\n\n\"Why is she badly?\" asked Paul, in his overbearing way.\n\n\"Well!\" said Annie. \"She could scarcely get home.\"\n\nHe looked closely at his mother. She looked ill.\n\n\"WHY could you scarcely get home?\" he asked her, still sharply. She\nwould not answer.\n\n\"I found her as white as a sheet sitting here,\" said Annie, with a\nsuggestion of tears in her voice.\n\n\"Well, WHY?\" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilating\npassionately.\n\n\"It was enough to upset anybody,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"hugging those\nparcels--meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains--\"\n\n\"Well, why DID you hug them; you needn't have done.\"\n\n\"Then who would?\"\n\n\"Let Annie fetch the meat.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I WOULD fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off\nwith Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came.\"\n\n\"And what was the matter with you?\" asked Paul of his mother.\n\n\"I suppose it's my heart,\" she replied. Certainly she looked bluish\nround the mouth.\n\n\"And have you felt it before?\"\n\n\"Yes--often enough.\"\n\n\"Then why haven't you told me?--and why haven't you seen a doctor?\"\n\nMrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring.\n\n\"You'd never notice anything,\" said Annie. \"You're too eager to be off\nwith Miriam.\"\n\n\"Oh, am I--and any worse than you with Leonard?\"\n\n\"I was in at a quarter to ten.\"\n\nThere was silence in the room for a time.\n\n\"I should have thought,\" said Mrs. Morel bitterly, \"that she wouldn't\nhave occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful of bread.\"\n\n\"Beatrice was here as well as she.\"\n\n\"Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt.\"\n\n\"Why?\" he flashed.\n\n\"Because you were engrossed with Miriam,\" replied Mrs. Morel hotly.\n\n\"Oh, very well--then it was NOT!\" he replied angrily.\n\nHe was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he began to read.\nAnnie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twisted into a\nplait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night.\n\nPaul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wanted to upbraid him.\nHe also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he was troubled. So,\ninstead of running away to bed, as he would have liked to do, he sat and\nwaited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly.\n\n\"You'd better go to bed before your father comes in,\" said the mother\nharshly. \"And if you're going to have anything to eat, you'd better get\nit.\"\n\n\"I don't want anything.\"\n\nIt was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Friday\nnight, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and\nfind it in the pantry this night. This insulted her.\n\n\"If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the\nscene,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"But you're never too tired to go if SHE will\ncome for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then.\"\n\n\"I can't let her go alone.\"\n\n\"Can't you? And why does she come?\"\n\n\"Not because I ask her.\"\n\n\"She doesn't come without you want her--\"\n\n\"Well, what if I DO want her--\" he replied.\n\n\"Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go trapseing up\nthere miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go\nto Nottingham in the morning--\"\n\n\"If I hadn't, you'd be just the same.\"\n\n\"Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating\nthat you must follow her all that way?\" Mrs. Morel was bitterly\nsarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic,\njerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that\nhurt Paul to see.\n\n\"I do like her,\" he said, \"but--\"\n\n\"LIKE her!\" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. \"It seems to me\nyou like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor\nanyone now for you.\"\n\n\"What nonsense, mother--you know I don't love her--I--I tell you I DON'T\nlove her--she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her\nto.\"\n\n\"Then why do you fly to her so often?\"\n\n\"I DO like to talk to her--I never said I didn't. But I DON'T love her.\"\n\n\"Is there nobody else to talk to?\"\n\n\"Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that you're\nnot interested in, that--\"\n\n\"What things?\"\n\nMrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.\n\n\"Why--painting--and books. YOU don't care about Herbert Spencer.\"\n\n\"No,\" was the sad reply. \"And YOU won't at my age.\"\n\n\"Well, but I do now--and Miriam does--\"\n\n\"And how do you know,\" Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, \"that I shouldn't.\nDo you ever try me!\"\n\n\"But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a picture's\ndecorative or not; you don't care what MANNER it is in.\"\n\n\"How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to\nme about these things, to try?\"\n\n\"But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know t's not.\"\n\n\"What is it, then--what is it, then, that matters to me?\" she flashed.\nHe knitted his brows with pain.\n\n\"You're old, mother, and we're young.\"\n\nHe only meant that the interests of HER age were not the interests of\nhis. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrong\nthing.\n\n\"Yes, I know it well--I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I have\nnothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you--the rest\nis for Miriam.\"\n\nHe could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that he was life to her.\nAnd, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only supreme thing.\n\n\"You know it isn't, mother, you know it isn't!\"\n\nShe was moved to pity by his cry.\n\n\"It looks a great deal like it,\" she said, half putting aside her\ndespair.\n\n\"No, mother--I really DON'T love her. I talk to her, but I want to come\nhome to you.\"\n\nHe had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to go\nto bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round his\nneck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whimpering voice, so\nunlike her own that he writhed in agony:\n\n\"I can't bear it. I could let another woman--but not her. She'd leave me\nno room, not a bit of room--\"\n\nAnd immediately he hated Miriam bitterly.\n\n\"And I've never--you know, Paul--I've never had a husband--not really--\"\n\nHe stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat.\n\n\"And she exults so in taking you from me--she's not like ordinary\ngirls.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't love her, mother,\" he murmured, bowing his head and\nhiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed him a long,\nfervent kiss.\n\n\"My boy!\" she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love.\n\nWithout knowing, he gently stroked her face.\n\n\"There,\" said his mother, \"now go to bed. You'll be so tired in the\nmorning.\" As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. \"There's\nyour father--now go.\" Suddenly she looked at him almost as if in fear.\n\"Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy.\"\n\nHis mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling.\n\n\"Ha--mother!\" he said softly.\n\nMorel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one corner of his eye.\nHe balanced in the doorway.\n\n\"At your mischief again?\" he said venomously.\n\nMrs. Morel's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard who had\ncome in thus upon her.\n\n\"At any rate, it is sober,\" she said.\n\n\"H'm--h'm! h'm--h'm!\" he sneered. He went into the passage, hung up his\nhat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps to the pantry. He\nreturned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morel\nhad bought for her son.\n\n\"Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than\ntwenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork-pie to\nstuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer.\"\n\n\"Wha-at--wha-at!\" snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. \"Wha-at--not\nfor me?\" He looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in a\nvicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire.\n\nPaul started to his feet.\n\n\"Waste your own stuff!\" he cried.\n\n\"What--what!\" suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clenching his fist.\n\"I'll show yer, yer young jockey!\"\n\n\"All right!\" said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. \"Show\nme!\"\n\nHe would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at something.\nMorel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. The young man\nstood, smiling with his lips.\n\n\"Ussha!\" hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just past\nhis son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really touch the\nyoung man, but swerved an inch away.\n\n\"Right!\" said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, where\nin another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke.\nBut he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale and\ndark at the mouth. Morel was dancing up to deliver another blow.\n\n\"Father!\" said Paul, so that the word rang.\n\nMorel started, and stood at attention.\n\n\"Mother!\" moaned the boy. \"Mother!\"\n\nShe began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him, although\nshe could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. He laid her\ndown on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky, which at last\nshe could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he kneeled in\nfront of her he did not cry, but the tears ran down his face quickly.\nMorel, on the opposite side of the room, sat with his elbows on his\nknees glaring across.\n\n\"What's a-matter with 'er?\" he asked.\n\n\"Faint!\" replied Paul.\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nThe elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled off to bed. His\nlast fight was fought in that home.\n\nPaul kneeled there, stroking his mother's hand.\n\n\"Don't be poorly, mother--don't be poorly!\" he said time after time.\n\n\"It's nothing, my boy,\" she murmured.\n\nAt last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and raked the fire.\nThen he cleared the room, put everything straight, laid the things for\nbreakfast, and brought his mother's candle.\n\n\"Can you go to bed, mother?\"\n\n\"Yes, I'll come.\"\n\n\"Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him.\"\n\n\"No. I'll sleep in my own bed.\"\n\n\"Don't sleep with him, mother.\"\n\n\"I'll sleep in my own bed.\"\n\nShe rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her closely upstairs,\ncarrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close.\n\n\"Good-night, mother.\"\n\n\"Good-night!\" she said.\n\nHe pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery. And yet,\nsomewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he still loved his mother\nbest. It was the bitter peace of resignation.\n\nThe efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a great\nhumiliation to him.\n\nEverybody tried to forget the scene.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nDEFEAT OF MIRIAM\n\nPAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest\nof his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, or\nwounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and\nthere was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal\nagainst her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old feeling that she was\nto be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had when she prayed, was\nmingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she\never would have him. She did not believe in herself primarily: doubted\nwhether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly she\nnever saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She saw\ntragedy, sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud,\nin renunciation she was strong, for she did not trust herself to support\neveryday life. She was prepared for the big things and the deep things,\nlike tragedy. It was the sufficiency of the small day-life she could not\ntrust.\n\nThe Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she\nfelt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroom\nwindow, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood, in whose branches a\ntwilight was tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon. Grey-green\nrosettes of honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, she\nfancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded.\n\nHearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright\ngrey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glittered\nas he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughed towards the house.\nTo-day he walked with shut lips and cold, cruel bearing, that had\nsomething of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and\ncould tell from that keen-looking, aloof young body of his what was\nhappening inside him. There was a cold correctness in the way he put his\nbicycle in its place, that made her heart sink.\n\nShe came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she\nthought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding her\nof Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully\na woman, and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously\nformed. Her face was still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. But\nher eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would\nnotice her new blouse.\n\nHe, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to\na description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel,\nconducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at\nthe head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be so\nbeautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now taking\non one expression and then another, in imitation of various people he\nwas mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality.\nHe was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this,\nhard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else.\nBut Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers,\njust awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement.\nThe three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in their\nshirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved\na \"take-off\" more than anything.\n\nHe took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse,\nsaw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth.\nShe was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups from the shelves.\n\nWhen the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally.\n\n\"You were late,\" she said.\n\n\"Was I?\" he answered.\n\nThere was silence for a while.\n\n\"Was it rough riding?\" she asked.\n\n\"I didn't notice it.\" She continued quickly to lay the table. When she\nhad finished--\n\n\"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the\ndaffodils?\" she said.\n\nHe rose without answering. They went out into the back garden under\nthe budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold.\nEverything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was\npale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows,\nwhich she loved, could look so hurting.\n\n\"Has the wind made you tired?\" she asked. She detected an underneath\nfeeling of weariness about him.\n\n\"No, I think not,\" he answered.\n\n\"It must be rough on the road--the wood moans so.\"\n\n\"You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helps me here.\"\n\n\"You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Is there need to cycle to know that!\" he said.\n\nShe thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forward in silence.\nRound the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house was a thorn\nhedge, under which daffodils were craning forward from among their\nsheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowers were greenish\nwith cold. But still some had burst, and their gold ruffled and glowed.\nMiriam went on her knees before one cluster, took a wild-looking\ndaffodil between her hands, turned up its face of gold to her, and bowed\ndown, caressing it with her mouth and cheeks and brow. He stood aside,\nwith his hands in his pockets, watching her. One after another she\nturned up to him the faces of the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly,\nfondling them lavishly all the while.\n\n\"Aren't they magnificent?\" she murmured.\n\n\"Magnificent! It's a bit thick--they're pretty!\"\n\nShe bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched\nher crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses.\n\n\"Why must you always be fondling things?\" he said irritably.\n\n\"But I love to touch them,\" she replied, hurt.\n\n\"Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to\npull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit more restraint, or\nreserve, or something?\"\n\nShe looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke her\nlips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was so\nmuch kinder than he; it almost made her cry.\n\n\"You wheedle the soul out of things,\" he said. \"I would never\nwheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight.\"\n\nHe scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from him\nmechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm and\nhard against her.\n\n\"You're always begging things to love you,\" he said, \"as if you were a\nbeggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--\"\n\nRhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth,\ninhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to her\nnostrils.\n\n\"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal craving is to be\nloved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as\nif you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage\nsomewhere.\"\n\nShe was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not the\nfaintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted,\ntortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings\nlike sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. She\nonly sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She never\nrealised in a flash. Over everything she brooded and brooded.\n\nAfter tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no notice of\nMiriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday, waited for\nhim. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track\nthis mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a\nmood.\n\n\"Shall we go through the wood a little way?\" she asked him, knowing he\nnever refused a direct request.\n\nThey went down to the warren. On the middle path they passed a trap, a\nnarrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs, baited with the guts of a\nrabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye.\n\n\"Isn't it dreadful?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rabbit's\nthroat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!\"\n\nHe was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry for\nhim.\n\n\"We will go back to the house,\" he said. \"I don't want to walk out.\"\n\nThey went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds were coming\nunfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monument squared\nand brown, like a pillar of stone. There was a little bed of hay from\nthe last cutting.\n\n\"Let us sit here a minute,\" said Miriam.\n\nHe sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard wall of\nhay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowed with sunset,\ntiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the woods dark and\nyet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops, distinct in the distance.\nThe evening had cleared, and the east was tender with a magenta flush\nunder which the land lay still and rich.\n\n\"Isn't it beautiful?\" she pleaded.\n\nBut he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then.\n\nAt that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed, pranced\nhis two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back,\nlaughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but\nit came leaping back.\n\n\"Get out,\" said the lad, \"or I'll dot thee one.\"\n\nBut the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little battle\nwith the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, however,\nonly floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought\ntogether, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning all over. Miriam\nwatched them. There was something pathetic about the man. He wanted so\nbadly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was\nreally loving. Bill got up, panting with happiness, his brown eyes\nrolling in his white face, and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The\nlad frowned.\n\n\"Bill, I've had enough o' thee,\" he said.\n\nBut the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love,\nupon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back.\n\n\"No,\" he said--\"no--I've had enough.\"\n\nAnd in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun.\n\nHe remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beauty\nhe begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the\ncourage to leave Miriam.\n\n\"Why are you sad?\" she asked humbly.\n\n\"I'm not sad; why should I be,\" he answered. \"I'm only normal.\"\n\nShe wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was\ndisagreeable.\n\n\"But what is the matter?\" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly.\n\n\"Nothing!\"\n\n\"Nay!\" she murmured.\n\nHe picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it.\n\n\"You'd far better not talk,\" he said.\n\n\"But I wish to know--\" she replied.\n\nHe laughed resentfully.\n\n\"You always do,\" he said.\n\n\"It's not fair to me,\" she murmured.\n\nHe thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, digging\nup little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She\ngently and firmly laid her band on his wrist.\n\n\"Don't!\" she said. \"Put it away.\"\n\nHe flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was\nbottled up.\n\n\"What is it?\" she pleaded softly.\n\nHe lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they full of torment.\n\n\"You know,\" he said at length, rather wearily--\"you know--we'd better\nbreak off.\"\n\nIt was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before her\neyes.\n\n\"Why!\" she murmured. \"What has happened?\"\n\n\"Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no good--\"\n\nShe waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatient\nwith him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him.\n\n\"We agreed on friendship,\" he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. \"How\noften HAVE we agreed for friendship! And yet--it neither stops there,\nnor gets anywhere else.\"\n\nHe was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying.\nThere was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with\nhim.\n\n\"I can only give friendship--it's all I'm capable of--it's a flaw in my\nmake-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hate a toppling balance.\nLet us have done.\"\n\nThere was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him\nmore than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not\nin herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her\nsoul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor\nacknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame,\nit kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She\nwould never let herself want him. She would merely see.\n\n\"But what has happened?\" she said.\n\n\"Nothing--it's all in myself--it only comes out just now. We're always\nlike this towards Easter-time.\"\n\nHe grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she never\nfloundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chiefly\nhumiliated.\n\n\"What do you want?\" she asked him.\n\n\"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopolise you when\nI'm not--You see, I'm deficient in something with regard to you--\"\n\nHe was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her a\nchance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy he\nwas! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he,\nah! she loved his soul. Was HE deficient in something? Perhaps he was.\n\n\"But I don't understand,\" she said huskily. \"Yesterday--\"\n\nThe night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded.\nAnd she bowed under her suffering.\n\n\"I know,\" he cried, \"you never will! You'll never believe that I\ncan't--can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark--\"\n\n\"What?\" she murmured. Now she dreaded.\n\n\"Love you.\"\n\nHe hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love\nher! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not\nloving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part,\nbecause he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belonged\nto her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencing\nhim. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreignness of another\ninfluence.\n\n\"What have they been saying at home?\" she asked.\n\n\"It's not that,\" he answered.\n\nAnd then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness, his\npeople. They did not know what things were really worth.\n\nHe and she talked very little more that night. After all he left her to\ncycle with Edgar.\n\nHe had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie in his life.\nWhen he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unreal\nfeel about her. And nobody else mattered. There was one place in the\nworld that stood solid and did not melt into unreality: the place where\nhis mother was. Everybody else could grow shadowy, almost non-existent\nto him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life,\nfrom which he could not escape, was his mother.\n\nAnd in the same way she waited for him. In him was established her life\nnow. After all, the life beyond offered very little to Mrs. Morel. She\nsaw that our chance for DOING is here, and doing counted with her. Paul\nwas going to prove that she had been right; he was going to make a man\nwhom nothing should shift off his feet; he was going to alter the face\nof the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt her\nsoul went with him. Whatever he did she felt her soul stood by him,\nready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when he\nwas with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul.\n\nAnd he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of the\nsatisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She loved\nhim first; he loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His new young\nlife, so strong and imperious, was urged towards something else. It made\nhim mad with restlessness. She saw this, and wished bitterly that Miriam\nhad been a woman who could take this new life of his, and leave her the\nroots. He fought against his mother almost as he fought against Miriam.\n\nIt was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam had suffered\na great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endure\nthe ignominy of his abandoning her? That would only be superficial\nand temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. But\nmeanwhile, how he would torture her with his battle against her. She\nshrank from it.\n\nHowever, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leivers was glad\nto see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that he found\nthings hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was good\nto him. She did him that great kindness of treating him almost with\nreverence.\n\nHe met her with the young children in the front garden.\n\n\"I'm glad you've come,\" said the mother, looking at him with her great\nappealing brown eyes. \"It is such a sunny day. I was just going down the\nfields for the first time this year.\"\n\nHe felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went, talking\nsimply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitude that she\nwas deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated.\n\nAt the bottom of the Mow Close they found a thrush's nest.\n\n\"Shall I show you the eggs?\" he said.\n\n\"Do!\" replied Mrs. Leivers. \"They seem SUCH a sign of spring, and so\nhopeful.\"\n\nHe put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding them in the palm\nof his hand.\n\n\"They are quite hot--I think we frightened her off them,\" he said.\n\n\"Ay, poor thing!\" said Mrs. Leivers.\n\nMiriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed\nto her, cradled them so well.\n\n\"Isn't it a strange warmth!\" she murmured, to get near him.\n\n\"Blood heat,\" he answered.\n\nShe watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge,\nhis arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully\nover the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved\nhim; he seemed so simple and sufficient to himself. And she could not\nget to him.\n\nAfter tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took \"Tartarin de\nTarascon\". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the stack.\nHe read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dog\ncame racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzle\nin the man's chest. Paul fingered his ear for a moment. Then he pushed\nhim away.\n\n\"Go away, Bill,\" he said. \"I don't want you.\"\n\nBill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. There\nwas a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. It\nwas not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared.\n\nTurning his face a little to one side, so that she could not see him, he\nbegan, speaking slowly and painfully:\n\n\"Do you think--if I didn't come up so much--you might get to like\nsomebody else--another man?\"\n\nSo this was what he was still harping on.\n\n\"But I don't know any other men. Why do you ask?\" she replied, in a low\ntone that should have been a reproach to him.\n\n\"Why,\" he blurted, \"because they say I've no right to come up like\nthis--without we mean to marry--\"\n\nMiriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. She\nhad been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly,\nthat he knew why he came so much.\n\n\"Who says?\" she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with\nit. They had not.\n\n\"Mother--and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider\nme engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it's not fair to\nyou. And I've tried to find out--and I don't think I love you as a man\nought to love his wife. What do you think about it?\"\n\nMiriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle.\nPeople should leave him and her alone.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?\" he asked definitely.\nIt made her tremble.\n\n\"No,\" she answered truthfully. \"I don't think so--we're too young.\"\n\n\"I thought perhaps,\" he went on miserably, \"that you, with your\nintensity in things, might have given me more--than I could ever make up\nto you. And even now--if you think it better--we'll be engaged.\"\n\nNow Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such a\nchild for people to do as they liked with.\n\n\"No, I don't think so,\" she said firmly.\n\nHe pondered a minute.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, \"with me--I don't think one person would ever\nmonopolize me--be everything to me--I think never.\"\n\nThis she did not consider.\n\n\"No,\" she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her dark\neyes flashed.\n\n\"This is your mother,\" she said. \"I know she never liked me.\"\n\n\"No, no, it isn't,\" he said hastily. \"It was for your sake she spoke\nthis time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself\nengaged.\" There was a silence. \"And if I ask you to come down any time,\nyou won't stop away, will you?\"\n\nShe did not answer. By this time she was very angry.\n\n\"Well, what shall we do?\" she said shortly. \"I suppose I'd better drop\nFrench. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go\non alone.\"\n\n\"I don't see that we need,\" he said. \"I can give you a French lesson,\nsurely.\"\n\n\"Well--and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop coming to chapel,\nbecause I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've no\nneed to come home with me. I can go alone.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he answered, rather taken aback. \"But if I ask Edgar, he'll\nalways come with us, and then they can say nothing.\"\n\nThere was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all\ntheir talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She\nwished they would mind their own business.\n\n\"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"Oh no,\" replied Miriam, without looking at him.\n\nHe was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no\nanchor of righteousness that held him.\n\n\"Because,\" he continued, \"a man gets across his bicycle--and goes to\nwork--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods.\"\n\n\"No, I shan't bother,\" said Miriam. And she meant it.\n\nIt had gone rather chilly. They went indoors.\n\n\"How white Paul looks!\" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. \"Miriam, you shouldn't\nhave let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken cold, Paul?\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" he laughed.\n\nBut he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam\npitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he rose to go.\n\n\"You're not going home, are you?\" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied. \"I said I'd be early.\" He was very awkward.\n\n\"But this IS early,\" said Mrs. Leivers.\n\nMiriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated,\nexpecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his\nbicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss.\n\n\"Well--good-night, all!\" he faltered.\n\nShe spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past\nthe window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a\nway that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain.\n\nShe rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passed\nthrough the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur and\na miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random.\nHe thought it would be a relief to break one's neck.\n\nTwo days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her to\nread and be busy.\n\nAt this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family\nso much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest place on earth to\nhim. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would\nhave been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he\nloved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots\ntramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden\non; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was\nso silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of\nromance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the\ngardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the\nnaked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness,\nthe wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of\nthe other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him.\nHe loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism;\nhe loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar, who\nlit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill--even the\nsow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides\nMiriam. He could not give it up.\n\nSo he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only all the family,\nincluding the father, joined in charades and games at evening. And\nlater, Miriam drew them together, and they read Macbeth out of penny\nbooks, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs.\nLeivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learned\nsongs together from tonic sol-fa, singing in a circle round the fire.\nBut now Paul was very rarely alone with Miriam. She waited. When she\nand Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literary\nsociety in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox\nnowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with\nPaul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Friday\nnights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone,\nwalking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting.\nAnd he wrote to her frequently.\n\nOne Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had\nstayed to Communion--he wondered what it was like--with Mrs. Morel. So\nPaul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He was more or less under\nher spell again. As usual, they were discussing the sermon. He was\nsetting now full sail towards Agnosticism, but such a religious\nAgnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the Renan\nVie de Jesus stage. Miriam was the threshing-floor on which he threshed\nout all his beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, the\ntruth came out for him. She alone was his threshing-floor. She alone\nhelped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to\nhis argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he gradually\nrealized where he was wrong. And what he realized, she realized. She\nfelt he could not do without her.\n\nThey came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullery\nwindow, and they entered. All the time he went on with his discussion.\nHe lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes from the\npantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore\na large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but\nhe liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown and\nruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him.\n\nShe liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed the lithe\nmovement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him.\nHe went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible.\nMiriam liked the way he reached up--so sharp, straight to the mark. He\nturned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John. As he sat\nin the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking, she felt as if\nhe were using her unconsciously as a man uses his tools at some work he\nis bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulness of his voice was like a\nreaching to something, and it was as if she were what he reached with.\nShe sat back on the sofa away from him, and yet feeling herself the very\ninstrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure.\n\nThen he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when he came to\nthe verse, \"A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrow because\nher hour is come\", he missed it out. Miriam had felt him growing\nuncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words did not follow. He\nwent on reading, but she did not hear. A grief and shame made her bend\nher head. Six months ago he would have read it simply. Now there was a\nscotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something\nhostile between them, something of which they were ashamed.\n\nShe ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument, but\ncould not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel had\ngone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey Farm.\n\nMiriam brooded over his split with her. There was something else he\nwanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There was\nbetween them now always a ground for strife. She wanted to prove him.\nShe believed that his chief need in life was herself. If she could prove\nit, both to herself and to him, the rest might go; she could simply\ntrust to the future.\n\nSo in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meet Mrs. Dawes.\nThere was something he hankered after. She saw him, whenever they spoke\nof Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like\nher. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to\nthe test. She believed that there were in him desires for higher things,\nand desires for lower, and that the desire for the higher would conquer.\nAt any rate, he should try. She forgot that her \"higher\" and \"lower\"\nwere arbitrary.\n\nHe was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. Mrs.\nDawes came for the day. Her heavy, dun-coloured hair was coiled on\ntop of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt, and somehow,\nwherever she was, seemed to make things look paltry and insignificant.\nWhen she was in the room, the kitchen seemed too small and mean\naltogether. Miriam's beautiful twilighty parlour looked stiff and\nstupid. All the Leivers were eclipsed like candles. They found\nher rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but\nindifferent, and rather hard.\n\nPaul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swung off his\nbicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be\ndisappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went out to meet him,\nbowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming out\ncrimson under the cool green shadow of their leaves. The girl stood,\ndark-haired, glad to see him.\n\n\"Hasn't Clara come?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Miriam in her musical tone. \"She's reading.\"\n\nHe wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had put on a handsome tie, of\nwhich he was rather proud, and socks to match.\n\n\"She came this morning?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. \"You said you'd bring\nme that letter from the man at Liberty's. Have you remembered?\"\n\n\"Oh, dash, no!\" he said. \"But nag at me till you get it.\"\n\n\"I don't like to nag at you.\"\n\n\"Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?\" he continued.\n\n\"You know I always think she is quite agreeable.\"\n\nHe was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-day had been the\nnewcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together towards the\nhouse. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush the\ndust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and tie.\n\nClara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her white\nneck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at him\nindifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in a\nmanner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to fling\nsomething to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse,\nand how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin muslin at the top\nof her arm.\n\n\"You have chosen a fine day,\" he said.\n\n\"It happens so,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"I am glad.\"\n\nShe sat down, not thanking him for his politeness.\n\n\"What have you been doing all morning?\" asked Paul of Miriam.\n\n\"Well, you see,\" said Miriam, coughing huskily, \"Clara only came with\nfather--and so--she's not been here very long.\"\n\nClara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands were\nlarge, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque,\nand white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed her\nhands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the\ntable. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her\nface slightly averted.\n\n\"You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening,\" he said to\nher.\n\nMiriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\n\"Why,\" asked Miriam, \"how do you know?\"\n\n\"I went in for a few minutes before the train came,\" he answered.\n\nClara turned away again rather disdainfully.\n\n\"I think she's a lovable little woman,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Margaret Bonford!\" exclaimed Clara. \"She's a great deal cleverer than\nmost men.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't say she wasn't,\" he said, deprecating. \"She's lovable\nfor all that.\"\n\n\"And, of course, that is all that matters,\" said Clara witheringly.\n\nHe rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed.\n\n\"I suppose it matters more than her cleverness,\" he said; \"which, after\nall, would never get her to heaven.\"\n\n\"It's not heaven she wants to get--it's her fair share on earth,\"\nretorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some deprivation\nwhich Miss Bonford suffered.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I thought she was warm, and awfully nice--only too\nfrail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace--\"\n\n\"'Darning her husband's stockings,'\" said Clara scathingly.\n\n\"I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings,\" he said. \"And\nI'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blacking her boots\nif she wanted me to.\"\n\nBut Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for a\nlittle while. The other woman held aloof.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said Miriam, \"he's gone for a load of coal. He should be\nback directly.\"\n\n\"Then,\" he said, \"I'll go and meet him.\"\n\nMiriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and\nleft them.\n\nOn the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking lazily\nbeside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she dragged\nthe clanking load of coal. The young farmer's face lighted up as he saw\nhis friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, warm eyes. His clothes\nwere old and rather disreputable, and he walked with considerable pride.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore.'\"\n\nEdgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement.\n\n\"Who is 'Nevermore'?\" he asked.\n\n\"The lady--Mrs. Dawes--it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed\n'Nevermore.'\"\n\nEdgar laughed with glee.\n\n\"Don't you like her?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not a fat lot,\" said Paul. \"Why, do you?\"\n\n\"No!\" The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. \"No!\" Edgar pursed\nup his lips. \"I can't say she's much in my line.\" He mused a little.\nThen: \"But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well,\" said Paul, \"if she looks at a man she says haughtily\n'Nevermore,' and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says\ndisdainfully 'Nevermore,' and if she thinks back she says it in disgust,\nand if she looks forward she says it cynically.\"\n\nEdgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, and said,\nlaughing:\n\n\"You think she's a man-hater?\"\n\n\"SHE thinks she is,\" replied Paul.\n\n\"But you don't think so?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Paul.\n\n\"Wasn't she nice with you, then?\"\n\n\"Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?\" asked the young man.\n\nEdgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was\nrather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked out\nof the window. She didn't look.\n\nOn Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul\nand Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the\npelts of Jimmy and Flower.\n\n\"Do you know a new song to teach me?\" said Edgar.\n\nHe continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red\nwhen he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul\nwatched him sometimes.\n\n\"'Mary Morrison'?\" suggested the younger.\n\nEdgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the\nsongs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was\ncarting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear.\nHowever, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a\nclear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then\nthe other, abused his horse.\n\nMiriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them--even Paul.\nShe thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed\nin a triviality.\n\nIt was tea-time when they had finished.\n\n\"What song was that?\" asked Miriam.\n\nEdgar told her. The conversation turned to singing.\n\n\"We have such jolly times,\" Miriam said to Clara.\n\nMrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were\npresent she grew distant.\n\n\"Do you like singing?\" Miriam asked her.\n\n\"If it is good,\" she said.\n\nPaul, of course, coloured.\n\n\"You mean if it is high-class and trained?\" he said.\n\n\"I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"You might as well insist on having people's voices trained before you\nallowed them to talk,\" he replied. \"Really, people sing for their own\npleasure, as a rule.\"\n\n\"And it may be for other people's discomfort.\"\n\n\"Then the other people should have flaps to their ears,\" he replied.\n\nThe boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply, and ate in\nsilence.\n\nAfter tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leivers said to\nClara:\n\n\"And you find life happier now?\"\n\n\"Infinitely.\"\n\n\"And you are satisfied?\"\n\n\"So long as I can be free and independent.\"\n\n\"And you don't MISS anything in your life?\" asked Mrs. Leivers gently.\n\n\"I've put all that behind me.\"\n\nPaul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up.\n\n\"You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've put behind\nyou,\" he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he\nhad been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he went\ndown the brick track.\n\nMiriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara and\nher for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were\ngoing beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, looking through the\nbrake at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a few\nsunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes,\na man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beast\nseemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift,\naway there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among\nthe fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult.\n\nThe three stood charmed.\n\n\"What a treat to be a knight,\" he said, \"and to have a pavilion here.\"\n\n\"And to have us shut up safely?\" replied Clara.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, \"singing with your maids at your broidery. I would\ncarry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have\n'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt,\" said Clara, \"that you would much rather fight for a\nwoman than let her fight for herself.\"\n\n\"I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a\nlooking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow.\"\n\n\"And YOU are the looking-glass?\" she asked, with a curl of the lip.\n\n\"Or the shadow,\" he replied.\n\n\"I am afraid,\" she said, \"that you are too clever.\"\n\n\"Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD,\" he retorted, laughing. \"Be good,\nsweet maid, and just let ME be clever.\"\n\nBut Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he saw\nthat the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart\ngrew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom he\nhad neglected till then.\n\nAt the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenant\nof Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the\nhalter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he were tired. The\nthree stood to let him pass over the stepping-stones of the first brook.\nPaul admired that so large an animal should walk on such springy toes,\nwith an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them.\n\n\"Tell your father, Miss Leivers,\" he said, in a peculiar piping voice,\n\"that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fence three days an'\nrunnin'.\"\n\n\"Which?\" asked Miriam, tremulous.\n\nThe great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks, and\nlooking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from under its\nlowered head and falling mane.\n\n\"Come along a bit,\" replied Limb, \"an' I'll show you.\"\n\nThe man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways, shaking its\nwhite fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself in the brook.\n\n\"No hanky-pankyin',\" said the man affectionately to the beast.\n\nIt went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely through the\nsecond brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon, watched it\nhalf-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped and pointed to the\nfence under some willows.\n\n\"There, you see where they got through,\" he said. \"My man's druv 'em\nback three times.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault.\n\n\"Are you comin' in?\" asked the man.\n\n\"No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond.\"\n\n\"Well, just as you've a mind,\" he said.\n\nThe horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home.\n\n\"He is glad to be back,\" said Clara, who was interested in the creature.\n\n\"Yes--'e's been a tidy step to-day.\"\n\nThey went through the gate, and saw approaching them from the\nbig farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of about\nthirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes looked wild.\nShe walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As\nit saw her, the big bay stallion whinneyed again. She came up excitedly.\n\n\"Are you home again, my boy!\" she said tenderly to the horse, not to\nthe man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She\nsmuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she had been hiding\nbehind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh\nof pleasure. She held his head in her arms against her breast.\n\n\"Isn't he splendid!\" said Miriam to her.\n\nMiss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul.\n\n\"Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers,\" she said. \"It's ages since you've been\ndown.\"\n\nMiriam introduced her friends.\n\n\"Your horse IS a fine fellow!\" said Clara.\n\n\"Isn't he!\" Again she kissed him. \"As loving as any man!\"\n\n\"More loving than most men, I should think,\" replied Clara.\n\n\"He's a nice boy!\" cried the woman, again embracing the horse.\n\nClara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck.\n\n\"He's quite gentle,\" said Miss Limb. \"Don't you think big fellows are?\"\n\n\"He's a beauty!\" replied Clara.\n\nShe wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her.\n\n\"It's a pity he can't talk,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, but he can--all but,\" replied the other woman.\n\nThen her brother moved on with the horse.\n\n\"Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr.--I didn't catch it.\"\n\n\"Morel,\" said Miriam. \"No, we won't come in, but we should like to go by\nthe mill-pond.\"\n\n\"Yes--yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Because if you do you might come and fish any time,\" said Miss Limb.\n\"We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I should be\nthankful.\"\n\n\"What fish are there in the pond?\" he asked.\n\nThey went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steep\nbank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paul\nwalked with Miss Limb.\n\n\"I shouldn't mind swimming here,\" he said.\n\n\"Do,\" she replied. \"Come when you like. My brother will be awfully\npleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to\ntalk to. Do come and swim.\"\n\nClara came up.\n\n\"It's a fine depth,\" she said, \"and so clear.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miss Limb.\n\n\"Do you swim?\" said Paul. \"Miss Limb was just saying we could come when\nwe liked.\"\n\n\"Of course there's the farm-hands,\" said Miss Limb.\n\nThey talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill, leaving the\nlonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank.\n\nThe hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky, given\nover to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then:\n\n\"She makes me feel uncomfortable,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You mean Miss Limb?\" asked Miriam. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"What's a matter with her? Is she going dotty with being too lonely?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miriam. \"It's not the right sort of life for her. I think\nit's cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her more.\nBut--she upsets me.\"\n\n\"She makes me feel sorry for her--yes, and she bothers me,\" he said.\n\n\"I suppose,\" blurted Clara suddenly, \"she wants a man.\"\n\nThe other two were silent for a few moments.\n\n\"But it's the loneliness sends her cracked,\" said Paul.\n\nClara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walking with her\nhand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked through the dead thistles\nand the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, her\nhandsome body seemed to be blundering up the hill. A hot wave went over\nPaul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. He\nforgot Miriam, who was walking beside him talking to him. She glanced at\nhim, finding he did not answer her. His eyes were fixed ahead on Clara.\n\n\"Do you still think she is disagreeable?\" she asked.\n\nHe did not notice that the question was sudden. It ran with his\nthoughts.\n\n\"Something's the matter with her,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Miriam.\n\nThey found at the top of the hill a hidden wild field, two sides of\nwhich were backed by the wood, the other sides by high loose hedges of\nhawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrown bushes were gaps\nthat the cattle might have walked through had there been any cattle now.\nThere the turf was smooth as velveteen, padded and holed by the rabbits.\nThe field itself was coarse, and crowded with tall, big cowslips that\nhad never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above the\ncoarse tussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan, fairy\nshipping.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. He\nsmiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara, a little way\noff, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayed\nclose together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee,\nquickly gathering the best blossoms, moving from tuft to tuft\nrestlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers\nlovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and\nalmost scientific. Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers.\nHe loved them, but as if they were his and he had a right to them. She\nhad more reverence for them: they held something she had not.\n\nThe flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As\nhe gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still\nwandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he said:\n\n\"Why don't you get some?\"\n\n\"I don't believe in it. They look better growing.\"\n\n\"But you'd like some?\"\n\n\"They want to be left.\"\n\n\"I don't believe they do.\"\n\n\"I don't want the corpses of flowers about me,\" she said.\n\n\"That's a stiff, artificial notion,\" he said. \"They don't die any\nquicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice in\na bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it\nlooks corpse-like.\"\n\n\"Whether it is one or not?\" she argued.\n\n\"It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower.\"\n\nClara now ignored him.\n\n\"And even so--what right have you to pull them?\" she asked.\n\n\"Because I like them, and want them--and there's plenty of them.\"\n\n\"And that is sufficient?\"\n\n\"Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your room in Nottingham.\"\n\n\"And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.\"\n\n\"But then--it does not matter if they do die.\"\n\nWhereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled\nflowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous\nfoam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some\nscent from the cowslips.\n\n\"I think,\" said Miriam, \"if you treat them with reverence you don't do\nthem any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"But no, you get 'em because you want 'em, and that's\nall.\" He held out his bunch.\n\nMiriam was silent. He picked some more.\n\n\"Look at these!\" he continued; \"sturdy and lusty like little trees and\nlike boys with fat legs.\"\n\nClara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending\nforward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such\na beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung\nslightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and\nstrong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering\na handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:\n\n     \"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,\n     If the Lord won't have you the devil must.\"\n\nThe chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost\npitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on\nher face, and she shut her eyes.\n\nSuddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.\n\n\"I thought you wanted a funeral,\" he said, ill at ease.\n\nClara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips from her hair.\nShe took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled in\nher hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he\nhad sprinkled over her.\n\nAt the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and\nstood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up\nto them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him.\n\n\"Look how they've come out of the wood!\" he said.\n\nThen she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.\n\n\"Yes,\" she smiled.\n\nHis blood beat up.\n\n\"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they\nwould be when they got breast to breast with the open space.\"\n\n\"Do you think they were?\" she asked.\n\n\"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes--those bursting out\nof their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from\nthe open tiptoeing into the forests.\"\n\n\"I should think the second,\" she answered.\n\n\"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force\nyourself into the dark, don't you?\"\n\n\"How should I know?\" she answered queerly.\n\nThe conversation ended there.\n\nThe evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley was full of\nshadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank Farm.\nBrightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly,\nher face in her big, loose bunch of flowers, walking ankle-deep through\nthe scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming\ninto shape, all shadow.\n\n\"Shall we go?\" she asked.\n\nAnd the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path\nthey could see the light of home right across, and on the ridge of the\nhill a thin dark outline with little lights, where the colliery village\ntouched the sky.\n\n\"It has been nice, hasn't it?\" he asked.\n\nMiriam murmured assent. Clara was silent.\n\n\"Don't you think so?\" he persisted.\n\nBut she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell\nby the way she moved, as if she didn't care, that she suffered.\n\nAt this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright and\nenthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railway\ncarriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as if\nshe were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, to\nfasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with\nhis hand.\n\nThey drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for the\ncathedral.\n\n\"There she is, mother!\" he cried.\n\nThey saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain.\n\n\"Ah!\" she exclaimed. \"So she is!\"\n\nHe looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the cathedral\nquietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternal\nrepose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, was\nreflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his\nyoung will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh\nand pink and downy, but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady,\nsinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there\nwas on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat\nagainst it with all the strength of his soul.\n\n\"Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streets\nand streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether.\"\n\n\"So she does!\" exclaimed his mother, breaking bright into life again.\nBut he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the window at the\ncathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the relentlessness of\nlife. And the crow's-feet near her eyes, and her mouth shut so hard,\nmade him feel he would go mad.\n\nThey ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant.\n\n\"Don't imagine I like it,\" she said, as she ate her cutlet. \"I DON'T\nlike it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!\"\n\n\"You never mind my money,\" he said. \"You forget I'm a fellow taking his\ngirl for an outing.\"\n\nAnd he bought her some blue violets.\n\n\"Stop it at once, sir!\" she commanded. \"How can I do it?\"\n\n\"You've got nothing to do. Stand still!\"\n\nAnd in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her coat.\n\n\"An old thing like me!\" she said, sniffing.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, \"I want people to think we're awful swells. So look\nikey.\"\n\n\"I'll jowl your head,\" she laughed.\n\n\"Strut!\" he commanded. \"Be a fantail pigeon.\"\n\nIt took him an hour to get her through the street. She stood above Glory\nHole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood everywhere, and exclaimed.\n\nA man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her.\n\n\"Can I show you the town, madam?\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" she answered. \"I've got my son.\"\n\nThen Paul was cross with her for not answering with more dignity.\n\n\"You go away with you!\" she exclaimed. \"Ha! that's the Jew's House. Now,\ndo you remember that lecture, Paul--?\"\n\nBut she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not notice.\nThen suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little\npublic-house, where she rested.\n\n\"It's nothing,\" she said. \"My heart is only a bit old; one must expect\nit.\"\n\nHe did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart was crushed in a\nhot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash things in fury.\n\nThey set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And every step seemed like\na weight on his chest. He felt as if his heart would burst. At last\nthey came to the top. She stood enchanted, looking at the castle gate,\nlooking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself.\n\n\"Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!\" she cried.\n\nBut he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together\nin the cathedral. They attended a little service in the choir. She was\ntimid.\n\n\"I suppose it is open to anybody?\" she asked him.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied. \"Do you think they'd have the damned cheek to send us\naway.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sure,\" she exclaimed, \"they would if they heard your\nlanguage.\"\n\nHer face seemed to shine again with joy and peace during the service.\nAnd all the time he was wanting to rage and smash things and cry.\n\nAfterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking at the town\nbelow, he blurted suddenly:\n\n\"Why can't a man have a YOUNG mother? What is she old for?\"\n\n\"Well,\" his mother laughed, \"she can scarcely help it.\"\n\n\"And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look--they say the young ones have the\nadvantage--but look, THEY had the young mother. You should have had me\nfor your eldest son.\"\n\n\"I didn't arrange it,\" she remonstrated. \"Come to consider, you're as\nmuch to blame as me.\"\n\nHe turned on her, white, his eyes furious.\n\n\"What are you old for!\" he said, mad with his impotence. \"WHY can't you\nwalk? WHY can't you come with me to places?\"\n\n\"At one time,\" she replied, \"I could have run up that hill a good deal\nbetter than you.\"\n\n\"What's the good of that to ME?\" he cried, hitting his fist on the wall.\nThen he became plaintive. \"It's too bad of you to be ill. Little, it\nis--\"\n\n\"Ill!\" she cried. \"I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it,\nthat's all.\"\n\nThey were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They got jolly\nagain over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats, he told her\nabout Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions.\n\n\"Then who does she live with?\"\n\n\"With her mother, on Bluebell Hill.\"\n\n\"And have they enough to keep them?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. I think they do lace work.\"\n\n\"And wherein lies her charm, my boy?\"\n\n\"I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seems\nstraight, you know--not a bit deep, not a bit.\"\n\n\"But she's a good deal older than you.\"\n\n\"She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three.\"\n\n\"You haven't told me what you like her for.\"\n\n\"Because I don't know--a sort of defiant way she's got--a sort of angry\nway.\"\n\nMrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her son to fall\nin love with some woman who would--she did not know what. But he fretted\nso, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished he\nknew some nice woman--She did not know what she wished, but left it\nvague. At any rate, she was not hostile to the idea of Clara.\n\nAnnie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to work in\nBirmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him:\n\n\"You don't look very well, my lad.\"\n\n\"I dunno,\" he said. \"I feel anyhow or nohow, ma.\"\n\nHe called her \"ma\" already in his boyish fashion.\n\n\"Are you sure they're good lodgings?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes--yes. Only--it's a winder when you have to pour your own tea\nout--an' nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and sup it up.\nIt somehow takes a' the taste out of it.\"\n\nMrs. Morel laughed.\n\n\"And so it knocks you up?\" she said.\n\n\"I dunno. I want to get married,\" he blurted, twisting his fingers and\nlooking down at his boots. There was a silence.\n\n\"But,\" she exclaimed, \"I thought you said you'd wait another year.\"\n\n\"Yes, I did say so,\" he replied stubbornly.\n\nAgain she considered.\n\n\"And you know,\" she said, \"Annie's a bit of a spendthrift. She's saved\nno more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you haven't had much\nchance.\"\n\nHe coloured up to the ears.\n\n\"I've got thirty-three quid,\" he said.\n\n\"It doesn't go far,\" she answered.\n\nHe said nothing, but twisted his fingers.\n\n\"And you know,\" she said, \"I've nothing--\"\n\n\"I didn't want, ma!\" he cried, very red, suffering and remonstrating.\n\n\"No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take away five pounds\nfor the wedding and things--it leaves twenty-nine pounds. You won't do\nmuch on that.\"\n\nHe twisted still, impotent, stubborn, not looking up.\n\n\"But do you really want to get married?\" she asked. \"Do you feel as if\nyou ought?\"\n\nHe gave her one straight look from his blue eyes.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\n\"Then,\" she replied, \"we must all do the best we can for it, lad.\"\n\nThe next time he looked up there were tears in his eyes.\n\n\"I don't want Annie to feel handicapped,\" he said, struggling.\n\n\"My lad,\" she said, \"you're steady--you've got a decent place. If a man\nhad NEEDED me I'd have married him on his last week's wages. She may\nfind it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls ARE like that. They look\nforward to the fine home they think they'll have. But I had expensive\nfurniture. It's not everything.\"\n\nSo the wedding took place almost immediately. Arthur came home, and was\nsplendid in uniform. Annie looked nice in a dove-grey dress that she\ncould take for Sundays. Morel called her a fool for getting married, and\nwas cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Morel had white tips in her bonnet,\nand some white on her blouse, and was teased by both her sons for\nfancying herself so grand. Leonard was jolly and cordial, and felt a\nfearful fool. Paul could not quite see what Annie wanted to get\nmarried for. He was fond of her, and she of him. Still, he hoped rather\nlugubriously that it would turn out all right. Arthur was astonishingly\nhandsome in his scarlet and yellow, and he knew it well, but was\nsecretly ashamed of the uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen,\non leaving her mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on the\nback and said:\n\n\"But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you.\"\n\nMorel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonard\nlooked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him:\n\n\"I s'll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsible for her.\"\n\n\"You can,\" he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And it was all over.\n\nWhen Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as he often did,\nwith his mother.\n\n\"You're not sorry she's married, mother, are you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm not sorry she's married--but--it seems strange that she should go\nfrom me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer to go with her\nLeonard. That's how mothers are--I know it's silly.\"\n\n\"And shall you be miserable about her?\"\n\n\"When I think of my own wedding day,\" his mother answered, \"I can only\nhope her life will be different.\"\n\n\"But you can trust him to be good to her?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes. They say he's not good enough for her. But I say if a man\nis GENUINE, as he is, and a girl is fond of him--then--it should be all\nright. He's as good as she.\"\n\n\"So you don't mind?\"\n\n\"I would NEVER have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn't FEEL to\nbe genuine through and through. And yet, there's a gap now she's gone.\"\n\nThey were both miserable, and wanted her back again. It seemed to Paul\nhis mother looked lonely, in her new black silk blouse with its bit of\nwhite trimming.\n\n\"At any rate, mother, I s'll never marry,\" he said.\n\n\"Ay, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet. Only wait a\nyear or two.\"\n\n\"But I shan't marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we'll have a\nservant.\"\n\n\"Ay, my lad, it's easy to talk. We'll see when the time comes.\"\n\n\"What time? I'm nearly twenty-three.\"\n\n\"Yes, you're not one that would marry young. But in three years' time--\"\n\n\"I shall be with you just the same.\"\n\n\"We'll see, my boy, we'll see.\"\n\n\"But you don't want me to marry?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't like to think of you going through your life without\nanybody to care for you and do--no.\"\n\n\"And you think I ought to marry?\"\n\n\"Sooner or later every man ought.\"\n\n\"But you'd rather it were later.\"\n\n\"It would be hard--and very hard. It's as they say:\n\n     \"'A son's my son till he takes him a wife,\n     But my daughter's my daughter the whole of her life.'\"\n\n\"And you think I'd let a wife take me from you?\"\n\n\"Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as you,\" Mrs.\nMorel smiled.\n\n\"She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere.\"\n\n\"She wouldn't--till she'd got you--and then you'd see.\"\n\n\"I never will see. I'll never marry while I've got you--I won't.\"\n\n\"But I shouldn't like to leave you with nobody, my boy,\" she cried.\n\n\"You're not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'll give\nyou till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four. Then I'll\nmarry a staid body. See!\"\n\nHis mother sat and laughed.\n\n\"Go to bed,\" she said--\"go to bed.\"\n\n\"And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it'll be\njust all right. I s'll perhaps be rich with my painting.\"\n\n\"Will you go to bed!\"\n\n\"And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself--a little Queen\nVictoria trotting round.\"\n\n\"I tell you to go to bed,\" she laughed.\n\nHe kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always the same.\n\nMrs. Morel sat brooding--about her daughter, about Paul, about Arthur.\nShe fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely bound. And she\nfelt she MUST live now, to be with her children. Life was so rich for\nher. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply he\nloved her. He was a creature of the moment. Never yet had he been forced\nto realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul.\nHe was in perfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat\nclose to his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose,\nsomething almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the fun\nred mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong.\nIt was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother's\npeople--good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxious about\nhim. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how far would he\ngo?\n\nThe army had not really done him any good. He resented bitterly the\nauthority of the officers. He hated having to obey as if he were an\nanimal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attention\nto getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion.\nOften he got into scrapes, but they were the manly scrapes that\nare easily condoned. So he made a good time out of it, whilst his\nself-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks and\nhandsome figure, his refinement, his decent education to get him most\nof what he wanted, and he was not disappointed. Yet he was restless.\nSomething seemed to gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was never\nalone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and loved\nand despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despised him\nslightly.\n\nMrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and she\ndecided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was\nlike a lad taking a holiday.\n\nHe had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough he\npicked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. The\ntwo often went long walks together, Arthur taking her arm in soldier's\nfashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play the piano whilst he sang.\nThen Arthur would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyes\nwere bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat together on\nthe sofa. He seemed to flaunt his body: she was aware of him so--the\nstrong chest, the sides, the thighs in their close-fitting trousers.\n\nHe liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She would\nsometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she would only take a few whiffs\nat his cigarette.\n\n\"Nay,\" he said to her one evening, when she reached for his cigarette.\n\"Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss if ter's a mind.\"\n\n\"I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all,\" she answered.\n\n\"Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff,\" he said, \"along wi' t' kiss.\"\n\n\"I want a draw at thy fag,\" she cried, snatching for the cigarette\nbetween his lips.\n\nHe was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was small and quick\nas lightning. He just escaped.\n\n\"I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss,\" he said.\n\n\"Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel,\" she said, sitting back.\n\n\"Ha'e a smoke kiss?\"\n\nThe soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near hers.\n\n\"Shonna!\" she replied, turning away her head.\n\nHe took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth, and put his\nlips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustache stood out like a\nbrush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips, then suddenly snatched\nthe cigarette from his fingers and darted away. He, leaping after her,\nseized the comb from her back hair. She turned, threw the cigarette at\nhim. He picked it up, put it in his mouth, and sat down.\n\n\"Nuisance!\" she cried. \"Give me my comb!\"\n\nShe was afraid that her hair, specially done for him, would come down.\nShe stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb between his knees.\n\n\"I've non got it,\" he said.\n\nThe cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke.\n\n\"Liar!\" she said.\n\n\"'S true as I'm here!\" he laughed, showing his hands.\n\n\"You brazen imp!\" she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the comb,\nwhich he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him, pulling at his\nsmooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till he lay back on the sofa\nshaking with laughter. The cigarette fell from his mouth almost singeing\nhis throat. Under his delicate tan the blood flushed up, and he laughed\ntill his blue eyes were blinded, his throat swollen almost to choking.\nThen he sat up. Beatrice was putting in her comb.\n\n\"Tha tickled me, Beat,\" he said thickly.\n\nLike a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his face. He\nstarted up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. Slowly the flush\nmounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then her head. He sat down\nsulkily. She went into the scullery to adjust her hair. In private there\nshe shed a few tears, she did not know what for.\n\nWhen she returned she was pursed up close. But it was only a film over\nher fire. He, with ruffled hair, was sulking upon the sofa. She sat down\nopposite, in the armchair, and neither spoke. The clock ticked in the\nsilence like blows.\n\n\"You are a little cat, Beat,\" he said at length, half apologetically.\n\n\"Well, you shouldn't be brazen,\" she replied.\n\nThere was again a long silence. He whistled to himself like a man much\nagitated but defiant. Suddenly she went across to him and kissed him.\n\n\"Did it, pore fing!\" she mocked.\n\nHe lifted his face, smiling curiously.\n\n\"Kiss?\" he invited her.\n\n\"Daren't I?\" she asked.\n\n\"Go on!\" he challenged, his mouth lifted to her.\n\nDeliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile that seemed to\noverspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immediately his\narms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss was finished she drew\nback her head from him, put her delicate fingers on his neck, through\nthe open collar. Then she closed her eyes, giving herself up again in a\nkiss.\n\nShe acted of her own free will. What she would do she did, and made\nnobody responsible.\n\n\nPaul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youth were gone.\nNow it was a home of grown-up people. Annie was a married woman, Arthur\nwas following his own pleasure in a way unknown to his folk. For so long\nthey had all lived at home, and gone out to pass their time. But now,\nfor Annie and Arthur, life lay outside their mother's house. They came\nhome for holiday and for rest. So there was that strange, half-empty\nfeeling about the house, as if the birds had flown. Paul became more and\nmore unsettled. Annie and Arthur had gone. He was restless to follow.\nYet home was for him beside his mother. And still there was something\nelse, something outside, something he wanted.\n\nHe grew more and more restless. Miriam did not satisfy him. His old mad\ndesire to be with her grew weaker. Sometimes he met Clara in Nottingham,\nsometimes he went to meetings with her, sometimes he saw her at Willey\nFarm. But on these last occasions the situation became strained. There\nwas a triangle of antagonism between Paul and Clara and Miriam. With\nClara he took on a smart, worldly, mocking tone very antagonistic to\nMiriam. It did not matter what went before. She might be intimate and\nsad with him. Then as soon as Clara appeared, it all vanished, and he\nplayed to the newcomer.\n\nMiriam had one beautiful evening with him in the hay. He had been on\nthe horse-rake, and having finished, came to help her to put the hay in\ncocks. Then he talked to her of his hopes and despairs, and his whole\nsoul seemed to lie bare before her. She felt as if she watched the very\nquivering stuff of life in him. The moon came out: they walked home\ntogether: he seemed to have come to her because he needed her so badly,\nand she listened to him, gave him all her love and her faith. It seemed\nto her he brought her the best of himself to keep, and that she would\nguard it all her life. Nay, the sky did not cherish the stars more\nsurely and eternally than she would guard the good in the soul of Paul\nMorel. She went on home alone, feeling exalted, glad in her faith.\n\nAnd then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have tea in the\nhayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to gold and shadow. And all\nthe time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made higher and higher heaps\nof hay that they were jumping over. Miriam did not care for the game,\nand stood aside. Edgar and Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Paul\njumped. Paul won, because he was light. Clara's blood was roused. She\ncould run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed at\nthe hay-cock and leaped, landed on the other side, her breasts shaken,\nher thick hair come undone.\n\n\"You touched!\" he cried. \"You touched!\"\n\n\"No!\" she flashed, turning to Edgar. \"I didn't touch, did I? Wasn't I\nclear?\"\n\n\"I couldn't say,\" laughed Edgar.\n\nNone of them could say.\n\n\"But you touched,\" said Paul. \"You're beaten.\"\n\n\"I did NOT touch!\" she cried.\n\n\"As plain as anything,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Box his ears for me!\" she cried to Edgar.\n\n\"Nay,\" Edgar laughed. \"I daren't. You must do it yourself.\"\n\n\"And nothing can alter the fact that you touched,\" laughed Paul.\n\nShe was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads and men\nwas gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he was to humble\nher.\n\n\"I think you are despicable!\" she said.\n\nAnd again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam.\n\n\"And I KNEW you couldn't jump that heap,\" he teased.\n\nShe turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the only person\nshe listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he of her. It pleased\nthe men to see this battle between them. But Miriam was tortured.\n\nPaul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. He could\nbe unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul Morel.\nThere was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his running after his\nsatisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitter\nto think that he should throw away his soul for this flippant traffic of\ntriviality with Clara. She walked in bitterness and silence, while the\nother two rallied each other, and Paul sported.\n\nAnd afterwards, he would not own it, but he was rather ashamed of\nhimself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled.\n\n\"It's not religious to be religious,\" he said. \"I reckon a crow is\nreligious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because it\nfeels itself carried to where it's going, not because it thinks it is\nbeing eternal.\"\n\nBut Miriam knew that one should be religious in everything, have God,\nwhatever God might be, present in everything.\n\n\"I don't believe God knows such a lot about Himself,\" he cried. \"God\ndoesn't KNOW things, He IS things. And I'm sure He's not soulful.\"\n\nAnd then it seemed to her that Paul was arguing God on to his own side,\nbecause he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a long\nbattle between him and her. He was utterly unfaithful to her even in her\nown presence; then he was ashamed, then repentant; then he hated her,\nand went off again. Those were the ever-recurring conditions.\n\nShe fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained--sad,\npensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time he\ngrieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience; and\nhe felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. He\ncould not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He\ncould not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which\nwas three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her.\n\nWhen she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been\nwritten to her.\n\n\n\"May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, is\nchanging, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and left\nyou its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I have\ngiven it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you\nare a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun--as a mystic\nmonk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret--no,\nhave regretted--the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not\ntalk to you through the senses--rather through the spirit. That is why\nwe cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection.\nAs yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be\ndreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know,\nto be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people\nmarry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be\ncommonplace with each other without feeling awkward--not as two souls.\nSo I feel it.\n\n\"Ought I to send this letter?--I doubt it. But there--it is best to\nunderstand. Au revoir.\"\n\n\nMiriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A year\nlater she broke the seal to show her mother the letter.\n\n\"You are a nun--you are a nun.\" The words went into her heart again and\nagain. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so deeply, fixedly,\nlike a mortal wound.\n\nShe answered him two days after the party.\n\n\"'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little\nmistake,'\" she quoted. \"Was the mistake mine?\"\n\nAlmost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her at the\nsame time a little \"Omar Khayyam.\"\n\n\n\"I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put me\nto shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympathy. But in\nfundamentals we may always be together I think.\n\n\"I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many a\nsketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which,\nto my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovely\njoke, that. Au revoir.\"\n\n\nThis was the end of the first phase of Paul's love affair. He was now\nabout twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex instinct\nthat Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew particularly strong.\nOften, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that thickening and quickening\nof his blood, that peculiar concentration in the breast, as if something\nwere alive there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning\nhim that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But\nhe belonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed\nher right.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nCLARA\n\nWHEN he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to the\nwinter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a good\ndeal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he met\nother artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious.\n\nOne morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery.\nSuddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the\nkitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly waving a\nletter and crying \"Hurrah!\" as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and\nfrightened.\n\n\"Why, mother!\" he exclaimed.\n\nShe flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved the\nletter, crying:\n\n\"Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!\"\n\nHe was afraid of her--the small, severe woman with graying hair suddenly\nbursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraid\nsomething had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains.\nMrs. Morel rushed to the door.\n\n\"His picture's got first prize, Fred,\" she cried, \"and is sold for\ntwenty guineas.\"\n\n\"My word, that's something like!\" said the young postman, whom they had\nknown all his life.\n\n\"And Major Moreton has bought it!\" she cried.\n\n\"It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel,\" said the\npostman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky\nletter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid\nlest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after\nall. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was\ntrue. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.\n\n\"Mother!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Didn't I SAY we should do it!\" she said, pretending she was not crying.\n\nHe took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea.\n\n\"You didn't think, mother--\" he began tentatively.\n\n\"No, my son--not so much--but I expected a good deal.\"\n\n\"But not so much,\" he said.\n\n\"No--no--but I knew we should do it.\"\n\nAnd then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with\nhis shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl's,\nand the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet.\n\n\"Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy Arthur out.\nNow you needn't borrow any. It'll just do.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I shan't take it all,\" she said.\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"Because I shan't.\"\n\n\"Well--you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine.\"\n\nThey cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to take only\nthe five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got over\nthe stress of emotion by quarrelling.\n\nMorel came home at night from the pit, saying:\n\n\"They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold it to\nLord Henry Bentley for fifty pound.\"\n\n\"Oh, what stories people do tell!\" she cried.\n\n\"Ha!\" he answered. \"I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha'd\ntold Fred Hodgkisson.\"\n\n\"As if I would tell him such stuff!\"\n\n\"Ha!\" assented the miner.\n\nBut he was disappointed nevertheless.\n\n\"It's true he has got the first prize,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nThe miner sat heavily in his chair.\n\n\"Has he, beguy!\" he exclaimed.\n\nHe stared across the room fixedly.\n\n\"But as for fifty pounds--such nonsense!\" She was silent awhile. \"Major\nMoreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true.\"\n\n\"Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!\" exclaimed Morel.\n\n\"Yes, and it was worth it.\"\n\n\"Ay!\" he said. \"I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a\npaintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!\"\n\nHe was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed, as if it were\nnothing.\n\n\"And when does he handle th' money?\" asked the collier.\n\n\"That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home, I suppose.\"\n\nThere was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead of eating his\ndinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarled with work lay on the\ntable. His wife pretended not to see him rub the back of his hand across\nhis eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust on his black face.\n\n\"Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadna ha' killed\n'im,\" he said quietly.\n\nThe thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade. It\nleft her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest.\n\nPaul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said:\n\n\"Mother, I want an evening suit.\"\n\n\"Yes, I was afraid you would,\" she said. She was glad. There was\na moment or two of silence. \"There's that one of William's,\" she\ncontinued, \"that I know cost four pounds ten and which he'd only worn\nthree times.\"\n\n\"Should you like me to wear it, mother?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes. I think it would fit you--at least the coat. The trousers would\nwant shortening.\"\n\nHe went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, he looked\nstrange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with an evening\ncoat and vest. It was rather large.\n\n\"The tailor can make it right,\" she said, smoothing her hand over his\nshoulder. \"It's beautiful stuff. I never could find in my heart to let\nyour father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now.\"\n\nAnd as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought of her\neldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She\npassed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The\nother was dead.\n\nHe went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had been\nWilliam's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with pride and joy. He\nwas started now. The studs she and the children had bought for William\nwere in his shirt-front; he wore one of William's dress shirts. But he\nhad an elegant figure. His face was rough, but warm-looking and rather\npleasing. He did not look particularly a gentleman, but she thought he\nlooked quite a man.\n\nHe told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was\nas if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her to these new\nfriends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening.\n\n\"Go along with you!\" she said. \"What do they want to know me for?\"\n\n\"They do!\" he cried indignantly. \"If they want to know me--and they say\nthey do--then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever as\nI am.\"\n\n\"Go along with you, child!\" she laughed.\n\nBut she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The\nskin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But\nshe began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regretted what\nthey had been--so small and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on her\nhaving more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even\nwent so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair.\nThen she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and was sure she looked a\nsight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. Major\nMoreton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morel\nremained unchanged, or rather, lapsed slowly.\n\nPaul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was\nfading into the background. He had shovelled away all the beliefs that\nwould hamper him, had cleared the ground, and come more or less to the\nbedrock of belief that one should feel inside oneself for right and\nwrong, and should have the patience to gradually realise one's God. Now\nlife interested him more.\n\n\"You know,\" he said to his mother, \"I don't want to belong to the\nwell-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the\ncommon people.\"\n\n\"But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn't you be in a tear. YOU know\nyou consider yourself equal to any gentleman.\"\n\n\"In myself,\" he answered, \"not in my class or my education or my\nmanners. But in myself I am.\"\n\n\"Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?\"\n\n\"Because--the difference between people isn't in their class, but in\nthemselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas, and from the\ncommon people--life itself, warmth. You feel their hates and loves.\"\n\n\"It's all very well, my boy. But, then, why don't you go and talk to\nyour father's pals?\"\n\n\"But they're rather different.\"\n\n\"Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do you mix with\nnow--among the common people? Those that exchange ideas, like the middle\nclasses. The rest don't interest you.\"\n\n\"But--there's the life--\"\n\n\"I don't believe there's a jot more life from Miriam than you could get\nfrom any educated girl--say Miss Moreton. It is YOU who are snobbish\nabout class.\"\n\nShe frankly WANTED him to climb into the middle classes, a thing not\nvery difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the end to marry a lady.\n\nNow she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up\nhis connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor go the whole\nlength of engagement. And this indecision seemed to bleed him of his\nenergy. Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognised leaning\ntowards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman, she wished he\nwould fall in love with one of the girls in a better station of life.\nBut he was stupid, and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl\nmuch, just because she was his social superior.\n\n\"My boy,\" said his mother to him, \"all your cleverness, your breaking\naway from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn't seem to\nbring you much happiness.\"\n\n\"What is happiness!\" he cried. \"It's nothing to me! How AM I to be\nhappy?\"\n\nThe plump question disturbed her.\n\n\"That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some GOOD\nwoman who would MAKE you happy--and you began to think of settling your\nlife--when you have the means--so that you could work without all this\nfretting--it would be much better for you.\"\n\nHe frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound of Miriam.\nHe pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyes full of pain and\nfire.\n\n\"You mean easy, mother,\" he cried. \"That's a woman's whole doctrine for\nlife--ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you!\" replied his mother. \"And do you call yours a divine\ndiscontent?\"\n\n\"Yes. I don't care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So long\nas life's full, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. I'm afraid\nyour happiness would bore me.\"\n\n\"You never give it a chance,\" she said. Then suddenly all her passion\nof grief over him broke out. \"But it does matter!\" she cried. \"And you\nOUGHT to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy.\nHow could I bear to think your life wouldn't be a happy one!\"\n\n\"Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left you so much worse\noff than the folk who've been happier. I reckon you've done well. And I\nam the same. Aren't I well enough off?\"\n\n\"You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's about all you do,\nas far as I can see.\"\n\n\"But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best--\"\n\n\"It isn't. And one OUGHT to be happy, one OUGHT.\"\n\nBy this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of this kind\noften took place between her and her son, when she seemed to fight for\nhis very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She\nwas ill and pitiful.\n\n\"Never mind, Little,\" he murmured. \"So long as you don't feel life's\npaltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or\nunhappiness.\"\n\nShe pressed him to her.\n\n\"But I want you to be happy,\" she said pathetically.\n\n\"Eh, my dear--say rather you want me to live.\"\n\nMrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate she\nknew he would not live. He had that poignant carelessness about himself,\nhis own suffering, his own life, which is a form of slow suicide. It\nalmost broke her heart. With all the passion of her strong nature she\nhated Miriam for having in this subtle way undermined his joy. It did\nnot matter to her that Miriam could not help it. Miriam did it, and she\nhated her.\n\nShe wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equal to be his\nmate--educated and strong. But he would not look at anybody above him\nin station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate that feeling was\nwholesome. His mother prayed and prayed for him, that he might not be\nwasted. That was all her prayer--not for his soul or his righteousness,\nbut that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours\nshe thought and prayed for him.\n\nHe drifted away from Miriam imperceptibly, without knowing he was going.\nArthur only left the army to be married. The baby was born six months\nafter his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job under the firm again, at\ntwenty-one shillings a week. She furnished for him, with the help of\nBeatrice's mother, a little cottage of two rooms. He was caught now. It\ndid not matter how he kicked and struggled, he was fast. For a time he\nchafed, was irritable with his young wife, who loved him; he went almost\ndistracted when the baby, which was delicate, cried or gave trouble. He\ngrumbled for hours to his mother. She only said: \"Well, my lad, you did\nit yourself, now you must make the best of it.\" And then the grit\ncame out in him. He buckled to work, undertook his responsibilities,\nacknowledged that he belonged to his wife and child, and did make a good\nbest of it. He had never been very closely inbound into the family. Now\nhe was gone altogether.\n\nThe months went slowly along. Paul had more or less got into connection\nwith the Socialist, Suffragette, Unitarian people in Nottingham, owing\nto his acquaintance with Clara. One day a friend of his and of Clara's,\nin Bestwood, asked him to take a message to Mrs. Dawes. He went in the\nevening across Sneinton Market to Bluebell Hill. He found the house in\na mean little street paved with granite cobbles and having causeways of\ndark blue, grooved bricks. The front door went up a step from off this\nrough pavement, where the feet of the passersby rasped and clattered.\nThe brown paint on the door was so old that the naked wood showed\nbetween the rents. He stood on the street below and knocked. There came\na heavy footstep; a large, stout woman of about sixty towered above him.\nHe looked up at her from the pavement. She had a rather severe face.\n\nShe admitted him into the parlour, which opened on to the street. It was\na small, stuffy, defunct room, of mahogany, and deathly enlargements of\nphotographs of departed people done in carbon. Mrs. Radford left him.\nShe was stately, almost martial. In a moment Clara appeared. She flushed\ndeeply, and he was covered with confusion. It seemed as if she did not\nlike being discovered in her home circumstances.\n\n\"I thought it couldn't be your voice,\" she said.\n\nBut she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She invited him\nout of the mausoleum of a parlour into the kitchen.\n\nThat was a little, darkish room too, but it was smothered in white lace.\nThe mother had seated herself again by the cupboard, and was drawing\nthread from a vast web of lace. A clump of fluff and ravelled cotton was\nat her right hand, a heap of three-quarter-inch lace lay on her\nleft, whilst in front of her was the mountain of lace web, piling the\nhearthrug. Threads of curly cotton, pulled out from between the lengths\nof lace, strewed over the fender and the fireplace. Paul dared not go\nforward, for fear of treading on piles of white stuff.\n\nOn the table was a jenny for carding the lace. There was a pack of brown\ncardboard squares, a pack of cards of lace, a little box of pins, and on\nthe sofa lay a heap of drawn lace.\n\nThe room was all lace, and it was so dark and warm that the white, snowy\nstuff seemed the more distinct.\n\n\"If you're coming in you won't have to mind the work,\" said Mrs.\nRadford. \"I know we're about blocked up. But sit you down.\"\n\nClara, much embarrassed, gave him a chair against the wall opposite the\nwhite heaps. Then she herself took her place on the sofa, shamedly.\n\n\"Will you drink a bottle of stout?\" Mrs. Radford asked. \"Clara, get him\na bottle of stout.\"\n\nHe protested, but Mrs. Radford insisted.\n\n\"You look as if you could do with it,\" she said. \"Haven't you never any\nmore colour than that?\"\n\n\"It's only a thick skin I've got that doesn't show the blood through,\"\nhe answered.\n\nClara, ashamed and chagrined, brought him a bottle of stout and a glass.\nHe poured out some of the black stuff.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, lifting the glass, \"here's health!\"\n\n\"And thank you,\" said Mrs. Radford.\n\nHe took a drink of stout.\n\n\"And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don't set the house on\nfire,\" said Mrs. Radford.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he replied.\n\n\"Nay, you needn't thank me,\" she answered. \"I s'll be glad to smell a\nbit of smoke in th' 'ouse again. A house o' women is as dead as a house\nwi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'm not a spider as likes a corner to\nmyself. I like a man about, if he's only something to snap at.\"\n\nClara began to work. Her jenny spun with a subdued buzz; the white\nlace hopped from between her fingers on to the card. It was filled; she\nsnipped off the length, and pinned the end down to the banded lace. Then\nshe put a new card in her jenny. Paul watched her. She sat square and\nmagnificent. Her throat and arms were bare. The blood still mantled\nbelow her ears; she bent her head in shame of her humility. Her face was\nset on her work. Her arms were creamy and full of life beside the white\nlace; her large, well-kept hands worked with a balanced movement, as if\nnothing would hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her all the time. He\nsaw the arch of her neck from the shoulder, as she bent her head; he saw\nthe coil of dun hair; he watched her moving, gleaming arms.\n\n\"I've heard a bit about you from Clara,\" continued the mother. \"You're\nin Jordan's, aren't you?\" She drew her lace unceasing.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to ask ME for one\nof my toffies.\"\n\n\"Did he?\" laughed Paul. \"And did he get it?\"\n\n\"Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't--which was latterly. For he's the\nsort that takes all and gives naught, he is--or used to be.\"\n\n\"I think he's very decent,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Yes; well, I'm glad to hear it.\"\n\nMrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was something\ndetermined about her that he liked. Her face was falling loose, but her\neyes were calm, and there was something strong in her that made it\nseem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheeks were an\nanachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a woman in the prime\nof life. She continued drawing the lace with slow, dignified movements.\nThe big web came up inevitably over her apron; the length of lace fell\naway at her side. Her arms were finely shapen, but glossy and yellow\nas old ivory. They had not the peculiar dull gleam that made Clara's so\nfascinating to him.\n\n\"And you've been going with Miriam Leivers?\" the mother asked him.\n\n\"Well--\" he answered.\n\n\"Yes, she's a nice girl,\" she continued. \"She's very nice, but she's a\nbit too much above this world to suit my fancy.\"\n\n\"She is a bit like that,\" he agreed.\n\n\"She'll never be satisfied till she's got wings and can fly over\neverybody's head, she won't,\" she said.\n\nClara broke in, and he told her his message. She spoke humbly to him. He\nhad surprised her in her drudgery. To have her humble made him feel as\nif he were lifting his head in expectation.\n\n\"Do you like jennying?\" he asked.\n\n\"What can a woman do!\" she replied bitterly.\n\n\"Is it sweated?\"\n\n\"More or less. Isn't ALL woman's work? That's another trick the men have\nplayed, since we force ourselves into the labour market.\"\n\n\"Now then, you shut up about the men,\" said her mother. \"If the women\nwasn't fools, the men wouldn't be bad uns, that's what I say. No man was\never that bad wi' me but what he got it back again. Not but what they're\na lousy lot, there's no denying it.\"\n\n\"But they're all right really, aren't they?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well, they're a bit different from women,\" she answered.\n\n\"Would you care to be back at Jordan's?\" he asked Clara.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" she replied.\n\n\"Yes, she would!\" cried her mother; \"thank her stars if she could get\nback. Don't you listen to her. She's for ever on that 'igh horse of\nhers, an' it's back's that thin an' starved it'll cut her in two one of\nthese days.\"\n\nClara suffered badly from her mother. Paul felt as if his eyes were\ncoming very wide open. Wasn't he to take Clara's fulminations so\nseriously, after all? She spun steadily at her work. He experienced a\nthrill of joy, thinking she might need his help. She seemed denied and\ndeprived of so much. And her arm moved mechanically, that should never\nhave been subdued to a mechanism, and her head was bowed to the lace,\nthat never should have been bowed. She seemed to be stranded there\namong the refuse that life has thrown away, doing her jennying. It was\na bitter thing to her to be put aside by life, as if it had no use for\nher. No wonder she protested.\n\nShe came with him to the door. He stood below in the mean street,\nlooking up at her. So fine she was in her stature and her bearing, she\nreminded him of Juno dethroned. As she stood in the doorway, she winced\nfrom the street, from her surroundings.\n\n\"And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall?\"\n\nHe was talking quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her grey eyes at\nlast met his. They looked dumb with humiliation, pleading with a kind of\ncaptive misery. He was shaken and at a loss. He had thought her high and\nmighty.\n\nWhen he left her, he wanted to run. He went to the station in a sort of\ndream, and was at home without realising he had moved out of her street.\n\nHe had an idea that Susan, the overseer of the Spiral girls, was about\nto be married. He asked her the next day.\n\n\"I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your getting married. What about\nit?\"\n\nSusan flushed red.\n\n\"Who's been talking to you?\" she replied.\n\n\"Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you WERE thinking--\"\n\n\"Well, I am, though you needn't tell anybody. What's more, I wish I\nwasn't!\"\n\n\"Nay, Susan, you won't make me believe that.\"\n\n\"Shan't I? You CAN believe it, though. I'd rather stop here a thousand\ntimes.\"\n\nPaul was perturbed.\n\n\"Why, Susan?\"\n\nThe girl's colour was high, and her eyes flashed.\n\n\"That's why!\"\n\n\"And must you?\"\n\nFor answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candour and\ngentleness which made the women trust him. He understood.\n\n\"Ah, I'm sorry,\" he said.\n\nTears came to her eyes.\n\n\"But you'll see it'll turn out all right. You'll make the best of it,\"\nhe continued rather wistfully.\n\n\"There's nothing else for it.\"\n\n\"Yea, there's making the worst of it. Try and make it all right.\"\n\nHe soon made occasion to call again on Clara.\n\n\"Would you,\" he said, \"care to come back to Jordan's?\"\n\nShe put down her work, laid her beautiful arms on the table, and looked\nat him for some moments without answering. Gradually the flush mounted\nher cheek.\n\n\"Why?\" she asked.\n\nPaul felt rather awkward.\n\n\"Well, because Susan is thinking of leaving,\" he said.\n\nClara went on with her jennying. The white lace leaped in little jumps\nand bounds on to the card. He waited for her. Without raising her head,\nshe said at last, in a peculiar low voice:\n\n\"Have you said anything about it?\"\n\n\"Except to you, not a word.\"\n\nThere was again a long silence.\n\n\"I will apply when the advertisement is out,\" she said.\n\n\"You will apply before that. I will let you know exactly when.\"\n\nShe went on spinning her little machine, and did not contradict him.\n\nClara came to Jordan's. Some of the older hands, Fanny among them,\nremembered her earlier rule, and cordially disliked the memory. Clara\nhad always been \"ikey\", reserved, and superior. She had never mixed with\nthe girls as one of themselves. If she had occasion to find fault, she\ndid it coolly and with perfect politeness, which the defaulter felt to\nbe a bigger insult than crassness. Towards Fanny, the poor, overstrung\nhunchback, Clara was unfailingly compassionate and gentle, as a result\nof which Fanny shed more bitter tears than ever the rough tongues of the\nother overseers had caused her.\n\nThere was something in Clara that Paul disliked, and much that piqued\nhim. If she were about, he always watched her strong throat or her neck,\nupon which the blonde hair grew low and fluffy. There was a fine down,\nalmost invisible, upon the skin of her face and arms, and when once he\nhad perceived it, he saw it always.\n\nWhen he was at his work, painting in the afternoon, she would come and\nstand near to him, perfectly motionless. Then he felt her, though she\nneither spoke nor touched him. Although she stood a yard away he felt\nas if he were in contact with her. Then he could paint no more. He flung\ndown the brushes, and turned to talk to her.\n\nSometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and cold.\n\n\"You are affected in that piece,\" she would say; and, as there was an\nelement of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled with anger.\n\nAgain: \"What of this?\" he would ask enthusiastically.\n\n\"H'm!\" She made a small doubtful sound. \"It doesn't interest me much.\"\n\n\"Because you don't understand it,\" he retorted.\n\n\"Then why ask me about it?\"\n\n\"Because I thought you would understand.\"\n\nShe would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She maddened him. He\nwas furious. Then he abused her, and went into passionate exposition of\nhis stuff. This amused and stimulated her. But she never owned that she\nhad been wrong.\n\nDuring the ten years that she had belonged to the women's movement\nshe had acquired a fair amount of education, and, having had some of\nMiriam's passion to be instructed, had taught herself French, and could\nread in that language with a struggle. She considered herself as a woman\napart, and particularly apart, from her class. The girls in the Spiral\ndepartment were all of good homes. It was a small, special industry, and\nhad a certain distinction. There was an air of refinement in both rooms.\nBut Clara was aloof also from her fellow-workers.\n\nNone of these things, however, did she reveal to Paul. She was not the\none to give herself away. There was a sense of mystery about her. She\nwas so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her history was open\non the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden from everybody. It was\nexciting. And then sometimes he caught her looking at him from under\nher brows with an almost furtive, sullen scrutiny, which made him move\nquickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were,\ncovered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile.\nShe was to him extraordinarily provocative, because of the knowledge she\nseemed to possess, and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain.\n\nOne day he picked up a copy of _Lettres de mon Moulin_ from her\nwork-bench.\n\n\"You read French, do you?\" he cried.\n\nClara glanced round negligently. She was making an elastic stocking\nof heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, balanced\nregularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or to adjust the\nneedles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and fine pencils of\nhair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. She turned a few\nmore rounds, and stopped.\n\n\"What did you say?\" she asked, smiling sweetly.\n\nPaul's eyes glittered at her insolent indifference to him.\n\n\"I did not know you read French,\" he said, very polite.\n\n\"Did you not?\" she replied, with a faint, sarcastic smile.\n\n\"Rotten swank!\" he said, but scarcely loud enough to be heard.\n\nHe shut his mouth angrily as he watched her. She seemed to scorn the\nwork she mechanically produced; yet the hose she made were as nearly\nperfect as possible.\n\n\"You don't like Spiral work,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, well, all work is work,\" she answered, as if she knew all about it.\n\nHe marvelled at her coldness. He had to do everything hotly. She must be\nsomething special.\n\n\"What would you prefer to do?\" he asked.\n\nShe laughed at him indulgently, as she said:\n\n\"There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice, that I\nhaven't wasted time considering.\"\n\n\"Pah!\" he said, contemptuous on his side now. \"You only say that because\nyou're too proud to own up what you want and can't get.\"\n\n\"You know me very well,\" she replied coldly.\n\n\"I know you think you're terrific great shakes, and that you live under\nthe eternal insult of working in a factory.\"\n\nHe was very angry and very rude. She merely turned away from him in\ndisdain. He walked whistling down the room, flirted and laughed with\nHilda.\n\nLater on he said to himself:\n\n\"What was I so impudent to Clara for?\" He was rather annoyed with\nhimself, at the same time glad. \"Serve her right; she stinks with silent\npride,\" he said to himself angrily.\n\nIn the afternoon he came down. There was a certain weight on his\nheart which he wanted to remove. He thought to do it by offering her\nchocolates.\n\n\"Have one?\" he said. \"I bought a handful to sweeten me up.\"\n\nTo his great relief, she accepted. He sat on the work-bench beside her\nmachine, twisting a piece of silk round his finger. She loved him for\nhis quick, unexpected movements, like a young animal. His feet swung\nas he pondered. The sweets lay strewn on the bench. She bent over her\nmachine, grinding rhythmically, then stooping to see the stocking\nthat hung beneath, pulled down by the weight. He watched the handsome\ncrouching of her back, and the apron-strings curling on the floor.\n\n\"There is always about you,\" he said, \"a sort of waiting. Whatever I see\nyou doing, you're not really there: you are waiting--like Penelope when\nshe did her weaving.\" He could not help a spurt of wickedness. \"I'll\ncall you Penelope,\" he said.\n\n\"Would it make any difference?\" she said, carefully removing one of her\nneedles.\n\n\"That doesn't matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say, you seem to\nforget I'm your boss. It just occurs to me.\"\n\n\"And what does that mean?\" she asked coolly.\n\n\"It means I've got a right to boss you.\"\n\n\"Is there anything you want to complain about?\"\n\n\"Oh, I say, you needn't be nasty,\" he said angrily.\n\n\"I don't know what you want,\" she said, continuing her task.\n\n\"I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully.\"\n\n\"Call you 'sir', perhaps?\" she asked quietly.\n\n\"Yes, call me 'sir'. I should love it.\"\n\n\"Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir.\"\n\nHis mouth closed, and a frown came on his face. He jumped suddenly down.\n\n\"You're too blessed superior for anything,\" he said.\n\nAnd he went away to the other girls. He felt he was being angrier than\nhe had any need to be. In fact, he doubted slightly that he was showing\noff. But if he were, then he would. Clara heard him laughing, in a way\nshe hated, with the girls down the next room.\n\nWhen at evening he went through the department after the girls had gone,\nhe saw his chocolates lying untouched in front of Clara's machine. He\nleft them. In the morning they were still there, and Clara was at work.\nLater on Minnie, a little brunette they called Pussy, called to him:\n\n\"Hey, haven't you got a chocolate for anybody?\"\n\n\"Sorry, Pussy,\" he replied. \"I meant to have offered them; then I went\nand forgot 'em.\"\n\n\"I think you did,\" she answered.\n\n\"I'll bring you some this afternoon. You don't want them after they've\nbeen lying about, do you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not particular,\" smiled Pussy.\n\n\"Oh no,\" he said. \"They'll be dusty.\"\n\nHe went up to Clara's bench.\n\n\"Sorry I left these things littering about,\" he said.\n\nShe flushed scarlet. He gathered them together in his fist.\n\n\"They'll be dirty now,\" he said. \"You should have taken them. I wonder\nwhy you didn't. I meant to have told you I wanted you to.\"\n\nHe flung them out of the window into the yard below. He just glanced at\nher. She winced from his eyes.\n\nIn the afternoon he brought another packet.\n\n\"Will you take some?\" he said, offering them first to Clara. \"These are\nfresh.\"\n\nShe accepted one, and put it on to the bench.\n\n\"Oh, take several--for luck,\" he said.\n\nShe took a couple more, and put them on the bench also. Then she turned\nin confusion to her work. He went on up the room.\n\n\"Here you are, Pussy,\" he said. \"Don't be greedy!\"\n\n\"Are they all for her?\" cried the others, rushing up.\n\n\"Of course they're not,\" he said.\n\nThe girls clamoured round. Pussy drew back from her mates.\n\n\"Come out!\" she cried. \"I can have first pick, can't I, Paul?\"\n\n\"Be nice with 'em,\" he said, and went away.\n\n\"You ARE a dear,\" the girls cried.\n\n\"Tenpence,\" he answered.\n\nHe went past Clara without speaking. She felt the three chocolate creams\nwould burn her if she touched them. It needed all her courage to slip\nthem into the pocket of her apron.\n\nThe girls loved him and were afraid of him. He was so nice while he\nwas nice, but if he were offended, so distant, treating them as if they\nscarcely existed, or not more than the bobbins of thread. And then, if\nthey were impudent, he said quietly: \"Do you mind going on with your\nwork,\" and stood and watched.\n\nWhen he celebrated his twenty-third birthday, the house was in trouble.\nArthur was just going to be married. His mother was not well. His\nfather, getting an old man, and lame from his accidents, was given\na paltry, poor job. Miriam was an eternal reproach. He felt he owed\nhimself to her, yet could not give himself. The house, moreover, needed\nhis support. He was pulled in all directions. He was not glad it was his\nbirthday. It made him bitter.\n\nHe got to work at eight o'clock. Most of the clerks had not turned up.\nThe girls were not due till 8.30. As he was changing his coat, he heard\na voice behind him say:\n\n\"Paul, Paul, I want you.\"\n\nIt was Fanny, the hunchback, standing at the top of her stairs, her face\nradiant with a secret. Paul looked at her in astonishment.\n\n\"I want you,\" she said.\n\nHe stood, at a loss.\n\n\"Come on,\" she coaxed. \"Come before you begin on the letters.\"\n\nHe went down the half-dozen steps into her dry, narrow, \"finishing-off\"\nroom. Fanny walked before him: her black bodice was short--the waist was\nunder her armpits--and her green-black cashmere skirt seemed very\nlong, as she strode with big strides before the young man, himself so\ngraceful. She went to her seat at the narrow end of the room, where the\nwindow opened on to chimney-pots. Paul watched her thin hands and her\nflat red wrists as she excitedly twitched her white apron, which was\nspread on the bench in front of her. She hesitated.\n\n\"You didn't think we'd forgot you?\" she asked, reproachful.\n\n\"Why?\" he asked. He had forgotten his birthday himself.\n\n\"'Why,' he says! 'Why!' Why, look here!\" She pointed to the calendar,\nand he saw, surrounding the big black number \"21\", hundreds of little\ncrosses in black-lead.\n\n\"Oh, kisses for my birthday,\" he laughed. \"How did you know?\"\n\n\"Yes, you want to know, don't you?\" Fanny mocked, hugely delighted.\n\"There's one from everybody--except Lady Clara--and two from some. But I\nshan't tell you how many I put.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know, you're spooney,\" he said.\n\n\"There you ARE mistaken!\" she cried, indignant. \"I could never be so\nsoft.\" Her voice was strong and contralto.\n\n\"You always pretend to be such a hard-hearted hussy,\" he laughed. \"And\nyou know you're as sentimental--\"\n\n\"I'd rather be called sentimental than frozen meat,\" Fanny blurted. Paul\nknew she referred to Clara, and he smiled.\n\n\"Do you say such nasty things about me?\" he laughed.\n\n\"No, my duck,\" the hunchback woman answered, lavishly tender. She was\nthirty-nine. \"No, my duck, because you don't think yourself a fine\nfigure in marble and us nothing but dirt. I'm as good as you, aren't I,\nPaul?\" and the question delighted her.\n\n\"Why, we're not better than one another, are we?\" he replied.\n\n\"But I'm as good as you, aren't I, Paul?\" she persisted daringly.\n\n\"Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you're better.\"\n\nShe was rather afraid of the situation. She might get hysterical.\n\n\"I thought I'd get here before the others--won't they say I'm deep! Now\nshut your eyes--\" she said.\n\n\"And open your mouth, and see what God sends you,\" he continued, suiting\naction to words, and expecting a piece of chocolate. He heard the rustle\nof the apron, and a faint clink of metal. \"I'm going to look,\" he said.\n\nHe opened his eyes. Fanny, her long cheeks flushed, her blue eyes\nshining, was gazing at him. There was a little bundle of paint-tubes on\nthe bench before him. He turned pale.\n\n\"No, Fanny,\" he said quickly.\n\n\"From us all,\" she answered hastily.\n\n\"No, but--\"\n\n\"Are they the right sort?\" she asked, rocking herself with delight.\n\n\"Jove! they're the best in the catalogue.\"\n\n\"But they're the right sorts?\" she cried.\n\n\"They're off the little list I'd made to get when my ship came in.\" He\nbit his lip.\n\nFanny was overcome with emotion. She must turn the conversation.\n\n\"They was all on thorns to do it; they all paid their shares, all except\nthe Queen of Sheba.\"\n\nThe Queen of Sheba was Clara.\n\n\"And wouldn't she join?\" Paul asked.\n\n\"She didn't get the chance; we never told her; we wasn't going to have\nHER bossing THIS show. We didn't WANT her to join.\"\n\nPaul laughed at the woman. He was much moved. At last he must go. She\nwas very close to him. Suddenly she flung her arms round his neck and\nkissed him vehemently.\n\n\"I can give you a kiss to-day,\" she said apologetically. \"You've looked\nso white, it's made my heart ache.\"\n\nPaul kissed her, and left her. Her arms were so pitifully thin that his\nheart ached also.\n\nThat day he met Clara as he ran downstairs to wash his hands at\ndinner-time.\n\n\"You have stayed to dinner!\" he exclaimed. It was unusual for her.\n\n\"Yes; and I seem to have dined on old surgical-appliance stock. I MUST\ngo out now, or I shall feel stale india-rubber right through.\"\n\nShe lingered. He instantly caught at her wish.\n\n\"You are going anywhere?\" he asked.\n\nThey went together up to the Castle. Outdoors she dressed very plainly,\ndown to ugliness; indoors she always looked nice. She walked with\nhesitating steps alongside Paul, bowing and turning away from him.\nDowdy in dress, and drooping, she showed to great disadvantage. He could\nscarcely recognise her strong form, that seemed to slumber with power.\nShe appeared almost insignificant, drowning her stature in her stoop, as\nshe shrank from the public gaze.\n\nThe Castle grounds were very green and fresh. Climbing the precipitous\nascent, he laughed and chattered, but she was silent, seeming to brood\nover something. There was scarcely time to go inside the squat, square\nbuilding that crowns the bluff of rock. They leaned upon the wall where\nthe cliff runs sheer down to the Park. Below them, in their holes in the\nsandstone, pigeons preened themselves and cooed softly. Away down upon\nthe boulevard at the foot of the rock, tiny trees stood in their\nown pools of shadow, and tiny people went scurrying about in almost\nludicrous importance.\n\n\"You feel as if you could scoop up the folk like tadpoles, and have a\nhandful of them,\" he said.\n\nShe laughed, answering:\n\n\"Yes; it is not necessary to get far off in order to see us\nproportionately. The trees are much more significant.\"\n\n\"Bulk only,\" he said.\n\nShe laughed cynically.\n\nAway beyond the boulevard the thin stripes of the metals showed upon the\nrailway-track, whose margin was crowded with little stacks of timber,\nbeside which smoking toy engines fussed. Then the silver string of the\ncanal lay at random among the black heaps. Beyond, the dwellings, very\ndense on the river flat, looked like black, poisonous herbage, in thick\nrows and crowded beds, stretching right away, broken now and then by\ntaller plants, right to where the river glistened in a hieroglyph across\nthe country. The steep scarp cliffs across the river looked puny. Great\nstretches of country darkened with trees and faintly brightened with\ncorn-land, spread towards the haze, where the hills rose blue beyond\ngrey.\n\n\"It is comforting,\" said Mrs. Dawes, \"to think the town goes no farther.\nIt is only a LITTLE sore upon the country yet.\"\n\n\"A little scab,\" Paul said.\n\nShe shivered. She loathed the town. Looking drearily across at the\ncountry which was forbidden her, her impassive face, pale and hostile,\nshe reminded Paul of one of the bitter, remorseful angels.\n\n\"But the town's all right,\" he said; \"it's only temporary. This is the\ncrude, clumsy make-shift we've practised on, till we find out what the\nidea is. The town will come all right.\"\n\nThe pigeons in the pockets of rock, among the perched bushes, cooed\ncomfortably. To the left the large church of St. Mary rose into space,\nto keep close company with the Castle, above the heaped rubble of the\ntown. Mrs. Dawes smiled brightly as she looked across the country.\n\n\"I feel better,\" she said.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he replied. \"Great compliment!\"\n\n\"Oh, my brother!\" she laughed.\n\n\"H'm! that's snatching back with the left hand what you gave with the\nright, and no mistake,\" he said.\n\nShe laughed in amusement at him.\n\n\"But what was the matter with you?\" he asked. \"I know you were brooding\nsomething special. I can see the stamp of it on your face yet.\"\n\n\"I think I will not tell you,\" she said.\n\n\"All right, hug it,\" he answered.\n\nShe flushed and bit her lip.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"it was the girls.\"\n\n\"What about 'em?\" Paul asked.\n\n\"They have been plotting something for a week now, and to-day they seem\nparticularly full of it. All alike; they insult me with their secrecy.\"\n\n\"Do they?\" he asked in concern.\n\n\"I should not mind,\" she went on, in the metallic, angry tone, \"if they\ndid not thrust it into my face--the fact that they have a secret.\"\n\n\"Just like women,\" said he.\n\n\"It is hateful, their mean gloating,\" she said intensely.\n\nPaul was silent. He knew what the girls gloated over. He was sorry to be\nthe cause of this new dissension.\n\n\"They can have all the secrets in the world,\" she went on, brooding\nbitterly; \"but they might refrain from glorying in them, and making me\nfeel more out of it than ever. It is--it is almost unbearable.\"\n\nPaul thought for a few minutes. He was much perturbed.\n\n\"I will tell you what it's all about,\" he said, pale and nervous. \"It's\nmy birthday, and they've bought me a fine lot of paints, all the\ngirls. They're jealous of you\"--he felt her stiffen coldly at the word\n'jealous'--\"merely because I sometimes bring you a book,\" he added\nslowly. \"But, you see, it's only a trifle. Don't bother about it, will\nyou--because\"--he laughed quickly--\"well, what would they say if they\nsaw us here now, in spite of their victory?\"\n\nShe was angry with him for his clumsy reference to their present\nintimacy. It was almost insolent of him. Yet he was so quiet, she\nforgave him, although it cost her an effort.\n\nTheir two hands lay on the rough stone parapet of the Castle wall. He\nhad inherited from his mother a fineness of mould, so that his hands\nwere small and vigorous. Hers were large, to match her large limbs, but\nwhite and powerful looking. As Paul looked at them he knew her. \"She is\nwanting somebody to take her hands--for all she is so contemptuous of\nus,\" he said to himself. And she saw nothing but his two hands, so warm\nand alive, which seemed to live for her. He was brooding now, staring\nout over the country from under sullen brows. The little, interesting\ndiversity of shapes had vanished from the scene; all that remained was a\nvast, dark matrix of sorrow and tragedy, the same in all the houses\nand the river-flats and the people and the birds; they were only shapen\ndifferently. And now that the forms seemed to have melted away, there\nremained the mass from which all the landscape was composed, a dark mass\nof struggle and pain. The factory, the girls, his mother, the\nlarge, uplifted church, the thicket of the town, merged into one\natmosphere--dark, brooding, and sorrowful, every bit.\n\n\"Is that two o'clock striking?\" Mrs. Dawes said in surprise.\n\nPaul started, and everything sprang into form, regained its\nindividuality, its forgetfulness, and its cheerfulness.\n\nThey hurried back to work.\n\nWhen he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post, examining the\nwork up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing, the evening postman\ncame in.\n\n\"'Mr. Paul Morel,'\" he said, smiling, handing Paul a package. \"A lady's\nhandwriting! Don't let the girls see it.\"\n\nThe postman, himself a favourite, was pleased to make fun of the girls'\naffection for Paul.\n\nIt was a volume of verse with a brief note: \"You will allow me to send\nyou this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathise and wish you\nwell.--C.D.\" Paul flushed hot.\n\n\"Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord, who ever'd have\nthought it!\"\n\nHe was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmth of her.\nIn the glow he could almost feel her as if she were present--her arms,\nher shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them, almost contain them.\n\nThis move on the part of Clara brought them into closer intimacy. The\nother girls noticed that when Paul met Mrs. Dawes his eyes lifted and\ngave that peculiar bright greeting which they could interpret. Knowing\nhe was unaware, Clara made no sign, save that occasionally she turned\naside her face from him when he came upon her.\n\nThey walked out together very often at dinner-time; it was quite open,\nquite frank. Everybody seemed to feel that he was quite unaware of the\nstate of his own feeling, and that nothing was wrong. He talked to her\nnow with some of the old fervour with which he had talked to Miriam, but\nhe cared less about the talk; he did not bother about his conclusions.\n\nOne day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly they came\nto a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate, she sat\non the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still, with a dim haze, and\nyellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet.\n\n\"How old were you when you married?\" he asked quietly.\n\n\"Twenty-two.\"\n\nHer voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would tell him now.\n\n\"It is eight years ago?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And when did you leave him?\"\n\n\"Three years ago.\"\n\n\"Five years! Did you love him when you married him?\"\n\nShe was silent for some time; then she said slowly:\n\n\"I thought I did--more or less. I didn't think much about it. And he\nwanted me. I was very prudish then.\"\n\n\"And you sort of walked into it without thinking?\"\n\n\"Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life.\"\n\n\"_Somnambule_? But--when did you wake up?\"\n\n\"I don't know that I ever did, or ever have--since I was a child.\"\n\n\"You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn't\nwake you?\"\n\n\"No; he never got there,\" she replied, in a monotone.\n\nThe brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hips stood naked\nand scarlet.\n\n\"Got where?\" he asked.\n\n\"At me. He never really mattered to me.\"\n\nThe afternoon was so gently warm and dim. Red roofs of the cottages\nburned among the blue haze. He loved the day. He could feel, but he\ncould not understand, what Clara was saying.\n\n\"But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?\"\n\nShe shuddered lightly.\n\n\"He--he sort of degraded me. He wanted to bully me because he hadn't\ngot me. And then I felt as if I wanted to run, as if I was fastened and\nbound up. And he seemed dirty.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\nHe did not at all see.\n\n\"And was he always dirty?\" he asked.\n\n\"A bit,\" she replied slowly. \"And then he seemed as if he couldn't get\nAT me, really. And then he got brutal--he WAS brutal!\"\n\n\"And why did you leave him finally?\"\n\n\"Because--because he was unfaithful to me--\"\n\nThey were both silent for some time. Her hand lay on the gate-post as\nshe balanced. He put his own over it. His heart beat quickly.\n\n\"But did you--were you ever--did you ever give him a chance?\"\n\n\"Chance? How?\"\n\n\"To come near to you.\"\n\n\"I married him--and I was willing--\"\n\nThey both strove to keep their voices steady.\n\n\"I believe he loves you,\" he said.\n\n\"It looks like it,\" she replied.\n\nHe wanted to take his hand away, and could not. She saved him by\nremoving her own. After a silence, he began again:\n\n\"Did you leave him out of count all along?\"\n\n\"He left me,\" she said.\n\n\"And I suppose he couldn't MAKE himself mean everything to you?\"\n\n\"He tried to bully me into it.\"\n\nBut the conversation had got them both out of their depth. Suddenly Paul\njumped down.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said. \"Let's go and get some tea.\"\n\nThey found a cottage, where they sat in the cold parlour. She poured out\nhis tea. She was very quiet. He felt she had withdrawn again from him.\nAfter tea, she stared broodingly into her tea-cup, twisting her wedding\nring all the time. In her abstraction she took the ring off her finger,\nstood it up, and spun it upon the table. The gold became a diaphanous,\nglittering globe. It fell, and the ring was quivering upon the table.\nShe spun it again and again. Paul watched, fascinated.\n\nBut she was a married woman, and he believed in simple friendship. And\nhe considered that he was perfectly honourable with regard to her.\nIt was only a friendship between man and woman, such as any civilised\npersons might have.\n\nHe was like so many young men of his own age. Sex had become so\ncomplicated in him that he would have denied that he ever could want\nClara or Miriam or any woman whom he knew. Sex desire was a sort of\ndetached thing, that did not belong to a woman. He loved Miriam with his\nsoul. He grew warm at the thought of Clara, he battled with her, he\nknew the curves of her breast and shoulders as if they had been moulded\ninside him; and yet he did not positively desire her. He would have\ndenied it for ever. He believed himself really bound to Miriam. If ever\nhe should marry, some time in the far future, it would be his duty to\nmarry Miriam. That he gave Clara to understand, and she said nothing,\nbut left him to his courses. He came to her, Mrs. Dawes, whenever\nhe could. Then he wrote frequently to Miriam, and visited the girl\noccasionally. So he went on through the winter; but he seemed not so\nfretted. His mother was easier about him. She thought he was getting\naway from Miriam.\n\nMiriam knew now how strong was the attraction of Clara for him; but\nstill she was certain that the best in him would triumph. His feeling\nfor Mrs. Dawes--who, moreover, was a married woman--was shallow and\ntemporal, compared with his love for herself. He would come back to her,\nshe was sure; with some of his young freshness gone, perhaps, but cured\nof his desire for the lesser things which other women than herself could\ngive him. She could bear all if he were inwardly true to her and must\ncome back.\n\nHe saw none of the anomaly of his position. Miriam was his old friend,\nlover, and she belonged to Bestwood and home and his youth. Clara was a\nnewer friend, and she belonged to Nottingham, to life, to the world. It\nseemed to him quite plain.\n\nMrs. Dawes and he had many periods of coolness, when they saw little of\neach other; but they always came together again.\n\n\"Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?\" he asked her. It was a thing that\nseemed to trouble him.\n\n\"In what way?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. But weren't you horrid with him? Didn't you do\nsomething that knocked him to pieces?\"\n\n\"What, pray?\"\n\n\"Making him feel as if he were nothing--I know,\" Paul declared.\n\n\"You are so clever, my friend,\" she said coolly.\n\nThe conversation broke off there. But it made her cool with him for some\ntime.\n\nShe very rarely saw Miriam now. The friendship between the two women was\nnot broken off, but considerably weakened.\n\n\"Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?\" Clara asked him\njust after Christmas.\n\n\"I promised to go up to Willey Farm,\" he replied.\n\n\"Oh, very well.\"\n\n\"You don't mind, do you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why should I?\" she answered.\n\nWhich almost annoyed him.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, \"Miriam and I have been a lot to each other ever\nsince I was sixteen--that's seven years now.\"\n\n\"It's a long time,\" Clara replied.\n\n\"Yes; but somehow she--it doesn't go right--\"\n\n\"How?\" asked Clara.\n\n\"She seems to draw me and draw me, and she wouldn't leave a single hair\nof me free to fall out and blow away--she'd keep it.\"\n\n\"But you like to be kept.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"I don't. I wish it could be normal, give and take--like\nme and you. I want a woman to keep me, but not in her pocket.\"\n\n\"But if you love her, it couldn't be normal, like me and you.\"\n\n\"Yes; I should love her better then. She sort of wants me so much that I\ncan't give myself.\"\n\n\"Wants you how?\"\n\n\"Wants the soul out of my body. I can't help shrinking back from her.\"\n\n\"And yet you love her!\"\n\n\"No, I don't love her. I never even kiss her.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Clara asked.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"I suppose you're afraid,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm not. Something in me shrinks from her like hell--she's so good,\nwhen I'm not good.\"\n\n\"How do you know what she is?\"\n\n\"I do! I know she wants a sort of soul union.\"\n\n\"But how do you know what she wants?\"\n\n\"I've been with her for seven years.\"\n\n\"And you haven't found out the very first thing about her.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\n\"That she doesn't want any of your soul communion. That's your own\nimagination. She wants you.\"\n\nHe pondered over this. Perhaps he was wrong.\n\n\"But she seems--\" he began.\n\n\"You've never tried,\" she answered.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE TEST ON MIRIAM\n\nWITH the spring came again the old madness and battle. Now he knew he\nwould have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? He told himself\nit was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and him which neither\ncould break through. He might have married her; but his circumstances\nat home made it difficult, and, moreover, he did not want to marry.\nMarriage was for life, and because they had become close companions, he\nand she, he did not see that it should inevitably follow they should be\nman and wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage with Miriam. He\nwished he did. He would have given his head to have felt a joyous desire\nto marry her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? There\nwas some obstacle; and what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical\nbondage. He shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her he felt\nbound up inside himself. He could not go out to her. Something struggled\nin him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said she\neven wanted him; then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss\nher? Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did he\nfeel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself to\nher; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking\nfrom her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no aversion for\nher. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong desire battling with a\nstill stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a\npositive force, which fought and won in both of them. And with her he\nfelt it so hard to overcome; yet he was nearest to her, and with her\nalone could he deliberately break through. And he owed himself to her.\nThen, if they could get things right, they could marry; but he would not\nmarry unless he could feel strong in the joy of it--never. He could not\nhave faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself in\na marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all his\nlife, make it a nullity. He would try what he COULD do.\n\nAnd he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, dreaming\nher religion; and he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear to\nfail her. It would all come right if they tried.\n\nHe looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were like\nhimself, bound in by their own virginity, which they could not break\nout of. They were so sensitive to their women that they would go without\nthem for ever rather than do them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sons\nof mothers whose husbands had blundered rather brutally through their\nfeminine sanctities, they were themselves too diffident and shy. They\ncould easier deny themselves than incur any reproach from a woman; for\na woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense of their\nmother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy,\nrather than risk the other person.\n\nHe went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, brought\nthe tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang.\nAnnie was playing a song on the piano. As Miriam sang her mouth seemed\nhopeless. She sang like a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so much\nof the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, so\nspiritual. Again, hot as steel, came up the pain in him. Why must he ask\nher for the other thing? Why was there his blood battling with her? If\nonly he could have been always gentle, tender with her, breathing with\nher the atmosphere of reverie and religious dreams, he would give\nhis right hand. It was not fair to hurt her. There seemed an eternal\nmaidenhood about her; and when he thought of her mother, he saw the\ngreat brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and shocked out of\nher virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of her seven children.\nThey had been born almost leaving her out of count, not of her, but upon\nher. So she could never let them go, because she never had possessed\nthem.\n\nMrs. Morel saw him going again frequently to Miriam, and was astonished.\nHe said nothing to his mother. He did not explain nor excuse himself. If\nhe came home late, and she reproached him, he frowned and turned on her\nin an overbearing way:\n\n\"I shall come home when I like,\" he said; \"I am old enough.\"\n\n\"Must she keep you till this time?\"\n\n\"It is I who stay,\" he answered.\n\n\"And she lets you? But very well,\" she said.\n\nAnd she went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for him; but she lay\nlistening until he came, often long after. It was a great bitterness\nto her that he had gone back to Miriam. She recognised, however, the\nuselessness of any further interference. He went to Willey Farm as a\nman now, not as a youth. She had no right over him. There was a coldness\nbetween him and her. He hardly told her anything. Discarded, she waited\non him, cooked for him still, and loved to slave for him; but her face\nclosed again like a mask. There was nothing for her to do now but the\nhousework; for all the rest he had gone to Miriam. She could not forgive\nhim. Miriam killed the joy and the warmth in him. He had been such a\njolly lad, and full of the warmest affection; now he grew colder, more\nand more irritable and gloomy. It reminded her of William; but Paul was\nworse. He did things with more intensity, and more realisation of what\nhe was about. His mother knew how he was suffering for want of a woman,\nand she saw him going to Miriam. If he had made up his mind, nothing\non earth would alter him. Mrs. Morel was tired. She began to give up at\nlast; she had finished. She was in the way.\n\nHe went on determinedly. He realised more or less what his mother felt.\nIt only hardened his soul. He made himself callous towards her; but it\nwas like being callous to his own health. It undermined him quickly; yet\nhe persisted.\n\nHe lay back in the rocking-chair at Willey Farm one evening. He had been\ntalking to Miriam for some weeks, but had not come to the point. Now he\nsaid suddenly:\n\n\"I am twenty-four, almost.\"\n\nShe had been brooding. She looked up at him suddenly in surprise.\n\n\"Yes. What makes you say it?\"\n\nThere was something in the charged atmosphere that she dreaded.\n\n\"Sir Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four.\"\n\nShe laughed quaintly, saying:\n\n\"Does it need Sir Thomas More's sanction?\"\n\n\"No; but one ought to marry about then.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" she answered broodingly; and she waited.\n\n\"I can't marry you,\" he continued slowly, \"not now, because we've no\nmoney, and they depend on me at home.\"\n\nShe sat half-guessing what was coming.\n\n\"But I want to marry now--\"\n\n\"You want to marry?\" she repeated.\n\n\"A woman--you know what I mean.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"Now, at last, I must,\" he said.\n\n\"Ay,\" she answered.\n\n\"And you love me?\"\n\nShe laughed bitterly.\n\n\"Why are you ashamed of it,\" he answered. \"You wouldn't be ashamed\nbefore your God, why are you before people?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" she answered deeply, \"I am not ashamed.\"\n\n\"You are,\" he replied bitterly; \"and it's my fault. But you know I can't\nhelp being--as I am--don't you?\"\n\n\"I know you can't help it,\" she replied.\n\n\"I love you an awful lot--then there is something short.\"\n\n\"Where?\" she answered, looking at him.\n\n\"Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed--like a spiritual cripple.\nAnd I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied Miriam.\n\n\"And I don't know,\" he repeated. \"Don't you think we have been too\nfierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that to be so much\nafraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness?\"\n\nShe looked at him with startled dark eyes.\n\n\"You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the motion from\nyou, and recoiled also, perhaps worse.\"\n\nThere was silence in the room for some time.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"it is so.\"\n\n\"There is between us,\" he said, \"all these years of intimacy. I feel\nnaked enough before you. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" she answered.\n\n\"And you love me?\"\n\nShe laughed.\n\n\"Don't be bitter,\" he pleaded.\n\nShe looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were dark with\ntorture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have this\ndeflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He\nwas restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. He\nmight do as he liked, and have what he liked of her.\n\n\"Nay,\" she said softly, \"I am not bitter.\"\n\nShe felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him. She\nput her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took\nit and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himself\naside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more like\nnullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, when it would drive\nher away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him and\nkissed her.\n\nThey knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him,\nshe watched his eyes; they were staring across the room, with a peculiar\ndark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. She\ncould feel his heart throbbing heavily in his breast.\n\n\"What are you thinking about?\" she asked.\n\nThe blaze in his eyes shuddered, became uncertain.\n\n\"I was thinking, all the while, I love you. I have been obstinate.\"\n\nShe sank her head on his breast.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\n\"That's all,\" he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouth was\nkissing her throat.\n\nThen she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her full gaze of\nlove. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from her, and\nthen was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment of\nanguish.\n\n\"Kiss me,\" she whispered.\n\nHe shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer and\ncloser.\n\nWhen she walked home with him over the fields, he said:\n\n\"I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you--as if there\nwas nothing to hide. We will be happy?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes.\n\n\"Some sort of perversity in our souls,\" he said, \"makes us not want, get\naway from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, and she felt stunned.\n\nAs she stood under the drooping-thorn tree, in the darkness by the\nroadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. In\nthe darkness, where he could not see her but only feel her, his passion\nflooded him. He clasped her very close.\n\n\"Sometime you will have me?\" he murmured, hiding his face on her\nshoulder. It was so difficult.\n\n\"Not now,\" she said.\n\nHis hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him.\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nHis clasp of her slackened.\n\n\"I love to feel your arm THERE!\" she said, pressing his arm against her\nback, where it went round her waist. \"It rests me so.\"\n\nHe tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back to rest\nher.\n\n\"We belong to each other,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether?\"\n\n\"But--\" she faltered.\n\n\"I know it's a lot to ask,\" he said; \"but there's not much risk for you\nreally--not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?\"\n\n\"Oh, I can trust you.\" The answer came quick and strong. \"It's not\nthat--it's not that at all--but--\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nShe hid her face in his neck with a little cry of misery.\n\n\"I don't know!\" she cried.\n\nShe seemed slightly hysterical, but with a sort of horror. His heart\ndied in him.\n\n\"You don't think it ugly?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, not now. You have TAUGHT me it isn't.\"\n\n\"You are afraid?\"\n\nShe calmed herself hastily.\n\n\"Yes, I am only afraid,\" she said.\n\nHe kissed her tenderly.\n\n\"Never mind,\" he said. \"You should please yourself.\"\n\nSuddenly she gripped his arms round her, and clenched her body stiff.\n\n\"You SHALL have me,\" she said, through her shut teeth.\n\nHis heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close, and his mouth\nwas on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. He disengaged\nher.\n\n\"Won't you be late?\" she asked gently.\n\nHe sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited, wishing he would\ngo. At last he kissed her quickly and climbed the fence. Looking round\nhe saw the pale blotch of her face down in the darkness under the\nhanging tree. There was no more of her but this pale blotch.\n\n\"Good-bye!\" she called softly. She had no body, only a voice and a dim\nface. He turned away and ran down the road, his fists clenched; and\nwhen he came to the wall over the lake he leaned there, almost stunned,\nlooking up the black water.\n\nMiriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid of people, what\nthey might say; but she dreaded the issue with him. Yes, she would\nlet him have her if he insisted; and then, when she thought of it\nafterwards, her heart went down. He would be disappointed, he would find\nno satisfaction, and then he would go away. Yet he was so insistent; and\nover this, which did not seem so all-important to her, was their love\nto break down. After all, he was only like other men, seeking his\nsatisfaction. Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper!\nShe could trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession\nwas a great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there.\nPerhaps it was so. There was something divine in it; then she would\nsubmit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And at\nthe thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily, hard, as if\nagainst something; but Life forced her through this gate of suffering,\ntoo, and she would submit. At any rate, it would give him what he\nwanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded and brooded\nherself towards accepting him.\n\nHe courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot, she put his\nface from her, held it between her hands, and looked in his eyes.\nHe could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love, earnest and\nsearching, made him turn away. Not for an instant would she let him\nforget. Back again he had to torture himself into a sense of his\nresponsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leaving himself\nto the great hunger and impersonality of passion; he must be brought\nback to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if from a swoon of passion\nshe caged him back to the littleness, the personal relationship. He\ncould not bear it. \"Leave me alone--leave me alone!\" he wanted to cry;\nbut she wanted him to look at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full\nof the dark, impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her.\n\nThere was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at the back\nof the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarlet and crimson\ndrops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gathering the fruit\none evening. It had been a hot day, and now the clouds were rolling in\nthe sky, dark and warm. Paul combed high in the tree, above the scarlet\nroofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily, made the whole tree\nrock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirred the blood. The young\nman, perched insecurely in the slender branches, rocked till he felt\nslightly drunk, reached down the boughs, where the scarlet beady\ncherries hung thick underneath, and tore off handful after handful of\nthe sleek, cool-fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck as\nhe stretched forward, their chill finger-tips sending a flash down his\nblood. All shades of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson,\nglowed and met his eyes under a darkness of leaves.\n\nThe sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Immense piles of\ngold flared out in the south-east, heaped in soft, glowing yellow right\nup the sky. The world, till now dusk and grey, reflected the gold glow,\nastonished. Everywhere the trees, and the grass, and the far-off water,\nseemed roused from the twilight and shining.\n\nMiriam came out wondering.\n\n\"Oh!\" Paul heard her mellow voice call, \"isn't it wonderful?\"\n\nHe looked down. There was a faint gold glimmer on her face, that looked\nvery soft, turned up to him.\n\n\"How high you are!\" she said.\n\nBeside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds, thieves that\nhad been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hanging quite bleached, like\nskeletons, picked clear of flesh. He looked down again to Miriam.\n\n\"Clouds are on fire,\" he said.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" she cried.\n\nShe seemed so small, so soft, so tender, down there. He threw a handful\nof cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He laughed with a\nlow, chuckling sound, and pelted her. She ran for shelter, picking\nup some cherries. Two fine red pairs she hung over her ears; then she\nlooked up again.\n\n\"Haven't you got enough?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nearly. It is like being on a ship up here.\"\n\n\"And how long will you stay?\"\n\n\"While the sunset lasts.\"\n\nShe went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds fall to\npieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the darkness. Gold\nflamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarlet\nsank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quickly the passion went out of\nthe sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul scrambled quickly down with\nhis basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve as he did so.\n\n\"They are lovely,\" said Miriam, fingering the cherries.\n\n\"I've torn my sleeve,\" he answered.\n\nShe took the three-cornered rip, saying:\n\n\"I shall have to mend it.\" It was near the shoulder. She put her fingers\nthrough the tear. \"How warm!\" she said.\n\nHe laughed. There was a new, strange note in his voice, one that made\nher pant.\n\n\"Shall we stay out?\" he said.\n\n\"Won't it rain?\" she asked.\n\n\"No, let us walk a little way.\"\n\nThey went down the fields and into the thick plantation of trees and\npines.\n\n\"Shall we go in among the trees?\" he asked.\n\n\"Do you want to?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nIt was very dark among the firs, and the sharp spines pricked her face.\nShe was afraid. Paul was silent and strange.\n\n\"I like the darkness,\" he said. \"I wish it were thicker--good, thick\ndarkness.\"\n\nHe seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person: she was only to him\nthen a woman. She was afraid.\n\nHe stood against a pine-tree trunk and took her in his arms. She\nrelinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which she felt\nsomething of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man was a stranger to\nher.\n\nLater it began to rain. The pine-trees smelled very strong. Paul lay\nwith his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles, listening to the\nsharp hiss of the rain--a steady, keen noise. His heart was down, very\nheavy. Now he realised that she had not been with him all the time,\nthat her soul had stood apart, in a sort of horror. He was physically at\nrest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very sad, and very tender,\nhis fingers wandered over her face pitifully. Now again she loved him\ndeeply. He was tender and beautiful.\n\n\"The rain!\" he said.\n\n\"Yes--is it coming on you?\"\n\nShe put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feel if\nthe raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he lay with his\nface on the dead pine-leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. He did not\nmind if the raindrops came on him: he would have lain and got wet\nthrough: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if his living were smeared\naway into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentle\nreaching-out to death was new to him.\n\n\"We must go,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, but did not move.\n\nTo him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death,\nand stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be\nurgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt\nout into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being.\n\n\"The rain is coming in on us,\" said Miriam.\n\nHe rose, and assisted her.\n\n\"It is a pity,\" he said.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"To have to go. I feel so still.\"\n\n\"Still!\" she repeated.\n\n\"Stiller than I have ever been in my life.\"\n\nHe was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers, feeling\na slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fear lest she should\nlose him.\n\n\"The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only a\npresence.\"\n\nShe was afraid, and said nothing.\n\n\"A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that's\nwhat we do in death--sleep in wonder.\"\n\nShe had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the mystic. She\ntrod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy \"Hush!\" on the\ntrees. At last they gained the cartshed.\n\n\"Let us stay here awhile,\" he said.\n\nThere was a sound of rain everywhere, smothering everything.\n\n\"I feel so strange and still,\" he said; \"along with everything.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" she answered patiently.\n\nHe seemed again unaware of her, though he held her hand close.\n\n\"To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our\neffort--to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep--that is very\nbeautiful, I think; that is our after-life--our immortality.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Yes--and very beautiful to have.\"\n\n\"You don't usually say that.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nIn a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them curiously. He\nstill kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness in his\nvoice. Instinctively, they all left him alone.\n\nAbout this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottage in\nWoodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It was a\nbeautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, with\nred brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the back\nanother garden was separated from the fields by a tall old hedge. It\nwas very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found time for her\nbeloved reading, and for writing little introspective pieces which\ninterested her.\n\nAt the holiday-time her grandmother, being better, was driven to Derby\nto stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a crotchety old\nlady, and might return the second day or the third; so Miriam stayed\nalone in the cottage, which also pleased her.\n\nPaul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rule peaceful and happy\ntimes. He did not embarrass her much; but then on the Monday of the\nholiday he was to spend a whole day with her.\n\nIt was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where he was\ngoing. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him; but\nhe had three days that were all his own, when he was going to do as he\nliked. It was sweet to rush through the morning lanes on his bicycle.\n\nHe got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy preparing\ndinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the little kitchen,\nruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was small\nand cosy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort of linen in squares\nof red and pale blue, old, much washed, but pretty. There was a stuffed\nowl in a case over a corner cupboard. The sunlight came through the\nleaves of the scented geraniums in the window. She was cooking a chicken\nin his honour. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man and\nwife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought she\ngave a feeling of home almost like his mother; and no one could look\nmore beautiful, with her tumbled curls, when she was flushed from the\nfire.\n\nThe dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he carved. They\ntalked all the time with unflagging zest. Then he wiped the dishes she\nhad washed, and they went out down the fields. There was a bright little\nbrook that ran into a bog at the foot of a very steep bank. Here\nthey wandered, picking still a few marsh-marigolds and many big blue\nforget-me-nots. Then she sat on the bank with her hands full of flowers,\nmostly golden water-blobs. As she put her face down into the marigolds,\nit was all overcast with a yellow shine.\n\n\"Your face is bright,\" he said, \"like a transfiguration.\"\n\nShe looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her, laying his\nhands on hers. Then he kissed her fingers, then her face.\n\nThe world was all steeped in sunshine, and quite still, yet not asleep,\nbut quivering with a kind of expectancy.\n\n\"I have never seen anything more beautiful than this,\" he said. He held\nher hand fast all the time.\n\n\"And the water singing to itself as it runs--do you love it?\" She looked\nat him full of love. His eyes were very dark, very bright.\n\n\"Don't you think it's a great day?\" he asked.\n\nShe murmured her assent. She WAS happy, and he saw it.\n\n\"And our day--just between us,\" he said.\n\nThey lingered a little while. Then they stood up upon the sweet thyme,\nand he looked down at her simply.\n\n\"Will you come?\" he asked.\n\nThey went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens came\nscampering down the path to her. He locked the door, and they had the\nlittle house to themselves.\n\nHe never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he was\nunfastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was blind\nwith it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imagined. He stood\nunable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half-smiling with\nwonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went forward to her, her hands\nlifted in a little pleading movement, and he looked at her face, and\nstopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him, still and resigned and\nloving; she lay as if she had given herself up to sacrifice: there was\nher body for him; but the look at the back of her eyes, like a creature\nawaiting immolation, arrested him, and all his blood fell back.\n\n\"You are sure you want me?\" he asked, as if a cold shadow had come over\nhim.\n\n\"Yes, quite sure.\"\n\nShe was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that she was doing\nsomething for him. He could hardly bear it. She lay to be sacrificed for\nhim because she loved him so much. And he had to sacrifice her. For a\nsecond, he wished he were sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes again\nto her, and his blood beat back again.\n\nAnd afterwards he loved her--loved her to the last fibre of his being.\nHe loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was something he\ncould not bear for her sake. He stayed with her till quite late at\nnight. As he rode home he felt that he was finally initiated. He was a\nyouth no longer. But why had he the dull pain in his soul? Why did the\nthought of death, the after-life, seem so sweet and consoling?\n\nHe spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passion before\nit was gone. He had always, almost wilfully, to put her out of count,\nand act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not do\nit often, and there remained afterwards always the sense of failure and\nof death. If he were really with her, he had to put aside himself and\nhis desire. If he would have her, he had to put her aside.\n\n\"When I come to you,\" he asked her, his eyes dark with pain and shame,\n\"you don't really want me, do you?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes!\" she replied quickly.\n\nHe looked at her.\n\n\"Nay,\" he said.\n\nShe began to tremble.\n\n\"You see,\" she said, taking his face and shutting it out against her\nshoulder--\"you see--as we are--how can I get used to you? It would come\nall right if we were married.\"\n\nHe lifted her head, and looked at her.\n\n\"You mean, now, it is always too much shock?\"\n\n\"Yes--and--\"\n\n\"You are always clenched against me.\"\n\nShe was trembling with agitation.\n\n\"You see,\" she said, \"I'm not used to the thought--\"\n\n\"You are lately,\" he said.\n\n\"But all my life. Mother said to me: 'There is one thing in marriage\nthat is always dreadful, but you have to bear it.' And I believed it.\"\n\n\"And still believe it,\" he said.\n\n\"No!\" she cried hastily. \"I believe, as you do, that loving, even in\nTHAT way, is the high-water mark of living.\"\n\n\"That doesn't alter the fact that you never want it.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, taking his head in her arms and rocking in despair.\n\"Don't say so! You don't understand.\" She rocked with pain. \"Don't I\nwant your children?\"\n\n\"But not me.\"\n\n\"How can you say so? But we must be married to have children--\"\n\n\"Shall we be married, then? I want you to have my children.\"\n\nHe kissed her hand reverently. She pondered sadly, watching him.\n\n\"We are too young,\" she said at length.\n\n\"Twenty-four and twenty-three--\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" she pleaded, as she rocked herself in distress.\n\n\"When you will,\" he said.\n\nShe bowed her head gravely. The tone of hopelessness in which he said\nthese things grieved her deeply. It had always been a failure between\nthem. Tacitly, she acquiesced in what he felt.\n\nAnd after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly one Sunday\nnight, just as they were going to bed:\n\n\"I shan't go so much to Miriam's, mother.\"\n\nShe was surprised, but she would not ask him anything.\n\n\"You please yourself,\" she said.\n\nSo he went to bed. But there was a new quietness about him which she\nhad wondered at. She almost guessed. She would leave him alone, however.\nPrecipitation might spoil things. She watched him in his loneliness,\nwondering where he would end. He was sick, and much too quiet for him.\nThere was a perpetual little knitting of his brows, such as she had seen\nwhen he was a small baby, and which had been gone for many years. Now\nit was the same again. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go on\nalone, make his own way.\n\nHe continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved her utterly.\nBut it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. At first it\nwas only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could not go on. He wanted\nto run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he ceased to ask her to have\nhim. Instead of drawing them together, it put them apart. And then he\nrealised, consciously, that it was no good. It was useless trying: it\nwould never be a success between them.\n\nFor some months he had seen very little of Clara. They had occasionally\nwalked out for half an hour at dinner-time. But he always reserved\nhimself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his brow cleared, and he\nwas gay again. She treated him indulgently, as if he were a child. He\nthought he did not mind. But deep below the surface it piqued him.\n\nSometimes Miriam said:\n\n\"What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately.\"\n\n\"I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday,\" he replied.\n\n\"And what did she talk about?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I suppose I did all the jawing--I usually do. I think I\nwas telling her about the strike, and how the women took it.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nSo he gave the account of himself.\n\nBut insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he felt for Clara\ndrew him away from Miriam, for whom he felt responsible, and to whom he\nfelt he belonged. He thought he was being quite faithful to her. It was\nnot easy to estimate exactly the strength and warmth of one's feelings\nfor a woman till they have run away with one.\n\nHe began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessop, at the\nart school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstrator at the university;\nNewton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar and Miriam's younger brothers.\nPleading work, he sketched and studied with Jessop. He called in the\nuniversity for Swain, and the two went \"down town\" together. Having come\nhome in the train with Newton, he called and had a game of billiards\nwith him in the Moon and Stars. If he gave to Miriam the excuse of his\nmen friends, he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved.\nHe always told her where he had been.\n\nDuring the summer Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cotton stuff with\nloose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleeves fell back, and her\nbeautiful strong arms shone out.\n\n\"Half a minute,\" he cried. \"Hold your arm still.\"\n\nHe made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawings contained some\nof the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always went\nscrupulously through his books and papers, saw the drawings.\n\n\"I think Clara has such beautiful arms,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes! When did you draw them?\"\n\n\"On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I've got a corner where I can\nwork. Often I can do every single thing they need in the department,\nbefore dinner. Then I work for myself in the afternoon, and just see to\nthings at night.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book.\n\nFrequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward and pored\nover his things. He hated her way of patiently casting him up, as if he\nwere an endless psychological account. When he was with her, he hated\nher for having got him, and yet not got him, and he tortured her. She\ntook all and gave nothing, he said. At least, she gave no living warmth.\nShe was never alive, and giving off life. Looking for her was like\nlooking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience,\nnot his mate. He hated her violently, and was more cruel to her. They\ndragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara.\n\nAt last he spoke. He had been sitting working at home one evening. There\nwas between him and his mother a peculiar condition of people frankly\nfinding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel was strong on her feet again.\nHe was not going to stick to Miriam. Very well; then she would stand\naloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, this\nbursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. This\nevening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense.\nHe worked feverishly and mechanically, so that he could escape from\nhimself. It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent\nof madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got\nup and went out of doors.\n\nThe beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half-moon, dusky gold,\nwas sinking behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden, making\nthe sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a dim white fence of lilies\nwent across the garden, and the air all round seemed to stir with scent,\nas if it were alive. He went across the bed of pinks, whose keen perfume\ncame sharply across the rocking, heavy scent of the lilies, and stood\nalongside the white barrier of flowers. They flagged all loose, as if\nthey were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field\nto watch the moon sink under.\n\nA corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moon slid quite\nquickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind him the great flowers\nleaned as if they were calling. And then, like a shock, he caught\nanother perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round, he found\nthe purple iris, touched their fleshy throats and their dark, grasping\nhands. At any rate, he had found something. They stood stiff in the\ndarkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon the\ncrest of the hill. It was gone; all was dark. The corncrake called\nstill.\n\nBreaking off a pink, he suddenly went indoors.\n\n\"Come, my boy,\" said his mother. \"I'm sure it's time you went to bed.\"\n\nHe stood with the pink against his lips.\n\n\"I shall break off with Miriam, mother,\" he answered calmly.\n\nShe looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring back at her,\nunswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took off her glasses. He\nwas white. The male was up in him, dominant. She did not want to see him\ntoo clearly.\n\n\"But I thought--\" she began.\n\n\"Well,\" he answered, \"I don't love her. I don't want to marry her--so I\nshall have done.\"\n\n\"But,\" exclaimed his mother, amazed, \"I thought lately you had made up\nyour mind to have her, and so I said nothing.\"\n\n\"I had--I wanted to--but now I don't want. It's no good. I shall break\noff on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I?\"\n\n\"You know best. You know I said so long ago.\"\n\n\"I can't help that now. I shall break off on Sunday.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said his mother, \"I think it will be best. But lately I decided\nyou had made up your mind to have her, so I said nothing, and should\nhave said nothing. But I say as I have always said, I DON'T think she is\nsuited to you.\"\n\n\"On Sunday I break off,\" he said, smelling the pink. He put the flower\nin his mouth. Unthinking, he bared his teeth, closed them on the blossom\nslowly, and had a mouthful of petals. These he spat into the fire,\nkissed his mother, and went to bed.\n\nOn Sunday he went up to the farm in the early afternoon. He had written\nMiriam that they would walk over the fields to Hucknall. His mother was\nvery tender with him. He said nothing. But she saw the effort it was\ncosting. The peculiar set look on his face stilled her.\n\n\"Never mind, my son,\" she said. \"You will be so much better when it is\nall over.\"\n\nPaul glanced swiftly at his mother in surprise and resentment. He did\nnot want sympathy.\n\nMiriam met him at the lane-end. She was wearing a new dress of figured\nmuslin that had short sleeves. Those short sleeves, and Miriam's\nbrown-skinned arms beneath them--such pitiful, resigned arms--gave him\nso much pain that they helped to make him cruel. She had made herself\nlook so beautiful and fresh for him. She seemed to blossom for him\nalone. Every time he looked at her--a mature young woman now, and\nbeautiful in her new dress--it hurt so much that his heart seemed almost\nto be bursting with the restraint he put on it. But he had decided, and\nit was irrevocable.\n\nOn the hills they sat down, and he lay with his head in her lap, whilst\nshe fingered his hair. She knew that \"he was not there,\" as she put it.\nOften, when she had him with her, she looked for him, and could not find\nhim. But this afternoon she was not prepared.\n\nIt was nearly five o'clock when he told her. They were sitting on the\nbank of a stream, where the lip of turf hung over a hollow bank of\nyellow earth, and he was hacking away with a stick, as he did when he\nwas perturbed and cruel.\n\n\"I have been thinking,\" he said, \"we ought to break off.\"\n\n\"Why?\" she cried in surprise.\n\n\"Because it's no good going on.\"\n\n\"Why is it no good?\"\n\n\"It isn't. I don't want to marry. I don't want ever to marry. And if\nwe're not going to marry, it's no good going on.\"\n\n\"But why do you say this now?\"\n\n\"Because I've made up my mind.\"\n\n\"And what about these last months, and the things you told me then?\"\n\n\"I can't help it! I don't want to go on.\"\n\n\"You don't want any more of me?\"\n\n\"I want us to break off--you be free of me, I free of you.\"\n\n\"And what about these last months?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true.\"\n\n\"Then why are you different now?\"\n\n\"I'm not--I'm the same--only I know it's no good going on.\"\n\n\"You haven't told me why it's no good.\"\n\n\"Because I don't want to go on--and I don't want to marry.\"\n\n\"How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn't?\"\n\n\"I know; but I want us to break off.\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment or two, while he dug viciously at the\nearth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasonable child. He\nwas like an infant which, when it has drunk its fill, throws away and\nsmashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she could get hold of him\nand WRING some consistency out of him. But she was helpless. Then she\ncried:\n\n\"I have said you were only fourteen--you are only FOUR!\"\n\nHe still dug at the earth viciously. He heard.\n\n\"You are a child of four,\" she repeated in her anger.\n\nHe did not answer, but said in his heart: \"All right; if I'm a child of\nfour, what do you want me for? I don't want another mother.\" But he said\nnothing to her, and there was silence.\n\n\"And have you told your people?\" she asked.\n\n\"I have told my mother.\"\n\nThere was another long interval of silence.\n\n\"Then what do you WANT?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all these\nyears; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you, and you will\ngo your way without me. You will have an independent life of your own\nthen.\"\n\nThere was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness, she could\nnot help registering. She knew she felt in a sort of bondage to him,\nwhich she hated because she could not control it. She hated her love for\nhim from the moment it grew too strong for her. And, deep down, she had\nhated him because she loved him and he dominated her. She had resisted\nhis domination. She had fought to keep herself free of him in the last\nissue. And she was free of him, even more than he of her.\n\n\"And,\" he continued, \"we shall always be more or less each other's work.\nYou have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us start and live by\nourselves.\"\n\n\"What do you want to do?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing--only to be free,\" he answered.\n\nShe, however, knew in her heart that Clara's influence was over him to\nliberate him. But she said nothing.\n\n\"And what have I to tell my mother?\" she asked.\n\n\"I told my mother,\" he answered, \"that I was breaking off--clean and\naltogether.\"\n\n\"I shall not tell them at home,\" she said.\n\nFrowning, \"You please yourself,\" he said.\n\nHe knew he had landed her in a nasty hole, and was leaving her in the\nlurch. It angered him.\n\n\"Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken off,\" he\nsaid. \"It's true enough.\"\n\nShe bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She had\nknown it would come to this; she had seen it all along. It chimed with\nher bitter expectation.\n\n\"Always--it has always been so!\" she cried. \"It has been one long battle\nbetween us--you fighting away from me.\"\n\nIt came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heart\nstood still. Was this how she saw it?\n\n\"But we've had SOME perfect hours, SOME perfect times, when we were\ntogether!\" he pleaded.\n\n\"Never!\" she cried; \"never! It has always been you fighting me off.\"\n\n\"Not always--not at first!\" he pleaded.\n\n\"Always, from the very beginning--always the same!\"\n\nShe had finished, but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wanted\nto say: \"It has been good, but it is at an end.\" And she--she whose love\nhe had believed in when he had despised himself--denied that their love\nhad ever been love. \"He had always fought away from her?\" Then it had\nbeen monstrous. There had never been anything really between them; all\nthe time he had been imagining something where there was nothing. And\nshe had known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She\nhad known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her!\n\nHe sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appeared in a\ncynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with her.\nShe had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, and\ndespised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel.\n\n\"You ought to marry a man who worships you,\" he said; \"then you could do\nas you liked with him. Plenty of men will worship you, if you get on the\nprivate side of their natures. You ought to marry one such. They would\nnever fight you off.\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" she said. \"But don't advise me to marry someone else any\nmore. You've done it before.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" he said; \"I will say no more.\"\n\nHe sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow, instead of giving one.\nTheir eight years of friendship and love, THE eight years of his life,\nwere nullified.\n\n\"When did you think of this?\" she asked.\n\n\"I thought definitely on Thursday night.\"\n\n\"I knew it was coming,\" she said.\n\nThat pleased him bitterly. \"Oh, very well! If she knew then it doesn't\ncome as a surprise to her,\" he thought.\n\n\"And have you said anything to Clara?\" she asked.\n\n\"No; but I shall tell her now.\"\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n\"Do you remember the things you said this time last year, in my\ngrandmother's house--nay last month even?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"I do! And I meant them! I can't help that it's failed.\"\n\n\"It has failed because you want something else.\"\n\n\"It would have failed whether or not. YOU never believed in me.\"\n\nShe laughed strangely.\n\nHe sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she had deceived him.\nShe had despised him when he thought she worshipped him. She had let him\nsay wrong things, and had not contradicted him. She had let him fight\nalone. But it stuck in his throat that she had despised him whilst he\nthought she worshipped him. She should have told him when she found\nfault with him. She had not played fair. He hated her. All these years\nshe had treated him as if he were a hero, and thought of him secretly as\nan infant, a foolish child. Then why had she left the foolish child to\nhis folly? His heart was hard against her.\n\nShe sat full of bitterness. She had known--oh, well she had known!\nAll the time he was away from her she had summed him up, seen his\nlittleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soul\nagainst him. She was not overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt.\nShe had known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strange\ndominance over her? His very movements fascinated her as if she were\nhypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean.\nWhy this bondage for her? Why was it the movement of his arm stirred her\nas nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why,\neven now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey?\nShe would obey him in his trifling commands. But once he was obeyed,\nthen she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would.\nShe was sure of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he was not a man!\nHe was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachment\nof his soul would not keep him. Very well, he would have to go. But he\nwould come back when he had tired of his new sensation.\n\nHe hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She rose. He sat\nflinging lumps of earth in the stream.\n\n\"We will go and have tea here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\nThey chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea. He held forth on\nthe love of ornament--the cottage parlour moved him thereto--and its\nconnection with aesthetics. She was cold and quiet. As they walked home,\nshe asked:\n\n\"And we shall not see each other?\"\n\n\"No--or rarely,\" he answered.\n\n\"Nor write?\" she asked, almost sarcastically.\n\n\"As you will,\" he answered. \"We're not strangers--never should be,\nwhatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You please\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I see!\" she answered cuttingly.\n\nBut he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made a\ngreat cleavage in his life. He had had a great shock when she had told\nhim their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mattered. If it\nnever had been much, there was no need to make a fuss that it was ended.\n\nHe left her at the lane-end. As she went home, solitary, in her new\nfrock, having her people to face at the other end, he stood still with\nshame and pain in the highroad, thinking of the suffering he caused her.\n\nIn the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went into the\nWillow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who had been out for the\nday, drinking a modest glass of port. They had some chocolates on the\ntable. Paul sat near with his whisky. He noticed the girls whispering\nand nudging. Presently one, a bonny dark hussy, leaned to him and said:\n\n\"Have a chocolate?\"\n\nThe others laughed loudly at her impudence.\n\n\"All right,\" said Paul. \"Give me a hard one--nut. I don't like creams.\"\n\n\"Here you are, then,\" said the girl; \"here's an almond for you.\"\n\nShe held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. She popped\nit in, and blushed.\n\n\"You ARE nice!\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" she answered, \"we thought you looked overcast, and they dared me\noffer you a chocolate.\"\n\n\"I don't mind if I have another--another sort,\" he said.\n\nAnd presently they were all laughing together.\n\nIt was nine o'clock when he got home, falling dark. He entered the house\nin silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose anxiously.\n\n\"I told her,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm glad,\" replied the mother, with great relief.\n\nHe hung up his cap wearily.\n\n\"I said we'd have done altogether,\" he said.\n\n\"That's right, my son,\" said the mother. \"It's hard for her now, but\nbest in the long run. I know. You weren't suited for her.\"\n\nHe laughed shakily as he sat down.\n\n\"I've had such a lark with some girls in a pub,\" he said.\n\nHis mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He told her\nabout the girls in the Willow Tree. Mrs. Morel looked at him. It seemed\nunreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much horror and misery.\n\n\"Now have some supper,\" she said very gently.\n\nAfterwards he said wistfully:\n\n\"She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first, and so\nshe's not disappointed.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid,\" said his mother, \"she doesn't give up hopes of you yet.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"perhaps not.\"\n\n\"You'll find it's better to have done,\" she said.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said desperately.\n\n\"Well, leave her alone,\" replied his mother. So he left her, and she was\nalone. Very few people cared for her, and she for very few people. She\nremained alone with herself, waiting.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nPASSION\n\nHE was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood by his art.\nLiberty's had taken several of his painted designs on various stuffs,\nand he could sell designs for embroideries, for altar-cloths, and\nsimilar things, in one or two places. It was not very much he made\nat present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends with the\ndesigner for a pottery firm, and was gaining some knowledge of his new\nacquaintance's art. The applied arts interested him very much. At the\nsame time he laboured slowly at his pictures. He loved to paint large\nfigures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and cast\nshadows, like the impressionists; rather definite figures that had a\ncertain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo's people. And\nthese he fitted into a landscape, in what he thought true proportion.\nHe worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew. He believed\nfirmly in his work, that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits of\ndepression, shrinking, everything, he believed in his work.\n\nHe was twenty-four when he said his first confident thing to his mother.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"I s'll make a painter that they'll attend to.\"\n\nShe sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleased shrug of\nthe shoulders.\n\n\"Very well, my boy, we'll see,\" she said.\n\n\"You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you're not swanky one of these\ndays!\"\n\n\"I'm quite content, my boy,\" she smiled.\n\n\"But you'll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie!\"\n\nMinnie was the small servant, a girl of fourteen.\n\n\"And what about Minnie?\" asked Mrs. Morel, with dignity.\n\n\"I heard her this morning: 'Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was going to do that,'\nwhen you went out in the rain for some coal,\" he said. \"That looks a lot\nlike your being able to manage servants!\"\n\n\"Well, it was only the child's niceness,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"And you apologising to her: 'You can't do two things at once, can\nyou?'\"\n\n\"She WAS busy washing up,\" replied Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"And what did she say? 'It could easy have waited a bit. Now look how\nyour feet paddle!'\"\n\n\"Yes--brazen young baggage!\" said Mrs. Morel, smiling.\n\nHe looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm and rosy again\nwith love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshine were on her for a\nmoment. He continued his work gladly. She seemed so well when she was\nhappy that he forgot her grey hair.\n\nAnd that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight for a holiday. It\nwas too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morel was full\nof joy and wonder. But he would have her walk with him more than she\nwas able. She had a bad fainting bout. So grey her face was, so blue her\nmouth! It was agony to him. He felt as if someone were pushing a knife\nin his chest. Then she was better again, and he forgot. But the anxiety\nremained inside him, like a wound that did not close.\n\nAfter leaving Miriam he went almost straight to Clara. On the Monday\nfollowing the day of the rupture he went down to the work-room. She\nlooked up at him and smiled. They had grown very intimate unawares. She\nsaw a new brightness about him.\n\n\"Well, Queen of Sheba!\" he said, laughing.\n\n\"But why?\" she asked.\n\n\"I think it suits you. You've got a new frock on.\"\n\nShe flushed, asking:\n\n\"And what of it?\"\n\n\"Suits you--awfully! I could design you a dress.\"\n\n\"How would it be?\"\n\nHe stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded. He\nkept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of her. She\nhalf-started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse tighter, smoothed it\nover her breast.\n\n\"More SO!\" he explained.\n\nBut they were both of them flaming with blushes, and immediately he\nran away. He had touched her. His whole body was quivering with the\nsensation.\n\nThere was already a sort of secret understanding between them. The next\nevening he went to the cinematograph with her for a few minutes before\ntrain-time. As they sat, he saw her hand lying near him. For some\nmoments he dared not touch it. The pictures danced and dithered. Then\nhe took her hand in his. It was large and firm; it filled his grasp. He\nheld it fast. She neither moved nor made any sign. When they came out\nhis train was due. He hesitated.\n\n\"Good-night,\" she said. He darted away across the road.\n\nThe next day he came again, talking to her. She was rather superior with\nhim.\n\n\"Shall we go a walk on Monday?\" he asked.\n\nShe turned her face aside.\n\n\"Shall you tell Miriam?\" she replied sarcastically.\n\n\"I have broken off with her,\" he said.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Last Sunday.\"\n\n\"You quarrelled?\"\n\n\"No! I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely I should\nconsider myself free.\"\n\nClara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She was so quiet and\nso superb!\n\nOn the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink coffee with him\nin a restaurant, meeting him after work was over. She came, looking\nvery reserved and very distant. He had three-quarters of an hour to\ntrain-time.\n\n\"We will walk a little while,\" he said.\n\nShe agreed, and they went past the Castle into the Park. He was afraid\nof her. She walked moodily at his side, with a kind of resentful,\nreluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to take her hand.\n\n\"Which way shall we go?\" he asked as they walked in darkness.\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\n\"Then we'll go up the steps.\"\n\nHe suddenly turned round. They had passed the Park steps. She stood\nstill in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her.\nShe stood aloof. He caught her suddenly in his arms, held her strained\nfor a moment, kissed her. Then he let her go.\n\n\"Come along,\" he said, penitent.\n\nShe followed him. He took her hand and kissed her finger-tips. They went\nin silence. When they came to the light, he let go her hand. Neither\nspoke till they reached the station. Then they looked each other in the\neyes.\n\n\"Good-night,\" she said.\n\nAnd he went for his train. His body acted mechanically. People talked to\nhim. He heard faint echoes answering them. He was in a delirium. He felt\nthat he would go mad if Monday did not come at once. On Monday he would\nsee her again. All himself was pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened.\nHe could not bear it. He could not see her till Monday. And Sunday\nintervened--hour after hour of tension. He wanted to beat his head\nagainst the door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whisky\non the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must not be\nupset, that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There he\nsat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out of the window at\nthe far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought nor slept, but sat\nperfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold that he came\nto himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two. It was\nafter three o'clock. He was exhausted, but still there was the torment\nof knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bed and slept. Then he\ncycled all day long, till he was fagged out. And he scarcely knew where\nhe had been. But the day after was Monday. He slept till four o'clock.\nThen he lay and thought. He was coming nearer to himself--he could see\nhimself, real, somewhere in front. She would go a walk with him in the\nafternoon. Afternoon! It seemed years ahead.\n\nSlowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard him pottering\nabout. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavy boots scraping the\nyard. Cocks were still crowing. A cart went down the road. His mother\ngot up. She knocked the fire. Presently she called him softly. He\nanswered as if he were asleep. This shell of himself did well.\n\nHe was walking to the station--another mile! The train was near\nNottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels? But it did not matter; it\nwould get there before dinner-time. He was at Jordan's. She would\ncome in half an hour. At any rate, she would be near. He had done\nthe letters. She would be there. Perhaps she had not come. He ran\ndownstairs. Ah! he saw her through the glass door. Her shoulders\nstooping a little to her work made him feel he could not go forward; he\ncould not stand. He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quite\ncold. Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real self with\nthis shell.\n\n\"And this afternoon,\" he struggled to say. \"You will come?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" she replied, murmuring.\n\nHe stood before her, unable to say a word. She hid her face from him.\nAgain came over him the feeling that he would lose consciousness. He set\nhis teeth and went upstairs. He had done everything correctly yet, and\nhe would do so. All the morning things seemed a long way off, as they\ndo to a man under chloroform. He himself seemed under a tight band\nof constraint. Then there was his other self, in the distance, doing\nthings, entering stuff in a ledger, and he watched that far-off him\ncarefully to see he made no mistake.\n\nBut the ache and strain of it could not go on much longer. He worked\nincessantly. Still it was only twelve o'clock. As if he had nailed his\nclothing against the desk, he stood there and worked, forcing every\nstroke out of himself. It was a quarter to one; he could clear away.\nThen he ran downstairs.\n\n\"You will meet me at the Fountain at two o'clock,\" he said.\n\n\"I can't be there till half-past.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" he said.\n\nShe saw his dark, mad eyes.\n\n\"I will try at a quarter past.\"\n\nAnd he had to be content. He went and got some dinner. All the time\nhe was still under chloroform, and every minute was stretched out\nindefinitely. He walked miles of streets. Then he thought he would be\nlate at the meeting-place. He was at the Fountain at five past two. The\ntorture of the next quarter of an hour was refined beyond expression. It\nwas the anguish of combining the living self with the shell. Then he saw\nher. She came! And he was there.\n\n\"You are late,\" he said.\n\n\"Only five minutes,\" she answered.\n\n\"I'd never have done it to you,\" he laughed.\n\nShe was in a dark blue costume. He looked at her beautiful figure.\n\n\"You want some flowers,\" he said, going to the nearest florist's.\n\nShe followed him in silence. He bought her a bunch of scarlet, brick-red\ncarnations. She put them in her coat, flushing.\n\n\"That's a fine colour!\" he said.\n\n\"I'd rather have had something softer,\" she said.\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street?\" he said.\n\nShe hung her head, afraid of the people they met. He looked sideways at\nher as they walked. There was a wonderful close down on her face near\nthe ear that he wanted to touch. And a certain heaviness, the heaviness\nof a very full ear of corn that dips slightly in the wind, that there\nwas about her, made his brain spin. He seemed to be spinning down the\nstreet, everything going round.\n\nAs they sat in the tramcar, she leaned her heavy shoulder against him,\nand he took her hand. He felt himself coming round from the anaesthetic,\nbeginning to breathe. Her ear, half-hidden among her blonde hair, was\nnear to him. The temptation to kiss it was almost too great. But there\nwere other people on top of the car. It still remained to him to kiss\nit. After all, he was not himself, he was some attribute of hers, like\nthe sunshine that fell on her.\n\nHe looked quickly away. It had been raining. The big bluff of the Castle\nrock was streaked with rain, as it reared above the flat of the town.\nThey crossed the wide, black space of the Midland Railway, and passed\nthe cattle enclosure that stood out white. Then they ran down sordid\nWilford Road.\n\nShe rocked slightly to the tram's motion, and as she leaned against\nhim, rocked upon him. He was a vigorous, slender man, with exhaustless\nenergy. His face was rough, with rough-hewn features, like the common\npeople's; but his eyes under the deep brows were so full of life that\nthey fascinated her. They seemed to dance, and yet they were still\ntrembling on the finest balance of laughter. His mouth the same was just\ngoing to spring into a laugh of triumph, yet did not. There was a sharp\nsuspense about him. She bit her lip moodily. His hand was hard clenched\nover hers.\n\nThey paid their two halfpennies at the turnstile and crossed the bridge.\nThe Trent was very full. It swept silent and insidious under the bridge,\ntravelling in a soft body. There had been a great deal of rain. On the\nriver levels were flat gleams of flood water. The sky was grey, with\nglisten of silver here and there. In Wilford churchyard the dahlias were\nsodden with rain--wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path that\nwent along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade.\n\nThere was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the green\nmeadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The river\nslid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself\nlike some subtle, complex creature. Clara walked moodily beside him.\n\n\"Why,\" she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, \"did you leave\nMiriam?\"\n\nHe frowned.\n\n\"Because I WANTED to leave her,\" he said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I didn't want to go on with her. And I didn't want to marry.\"\n\nShe was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path.\nDrops of water fell from the elm-trees.\n\n\"You didn't want to marry Miriam, or you didn't want to marry at all?\"\nshe asked.\n\n\"Both,\" he answered--\"both!\"\n\nThey had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools of\nwater.\n\n\"And what did she say?\" Clara asked.\n\n\"Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always HAD battled\nher off.\"\n\nClara pondered over this for a time.\n\n\"But you have really been going with her for some time?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And now you don't want any more of her?\"\n\n\"No. I know it's no good.\"\n\nShe pondered again.\n\n\"Don't you think you've treated her rather badly?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been no\ngood going on. Two wrongs don't make a right.\"\n\n\"How old ARE you?\" Clara asked.\n\n\"Twenty-five.\"\n\n\"And I am thirty,\" she said.\n\n\"I know you are.\"\n\n\"I shall be thirty-one--or AM I thirty-one?\"\n\n\"I neither know nor care. What does it matter!\"\n\nThey were at the entrance to the Grove. The wet, red track, already\nsticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass.\nOn either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle,\narching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell.\nAll was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and he\nheld both her hands. Laughing, she looked down into his eyes. Then she\nleaped. Her breast came against his; he held her, and covered her face\nwith kisses.\n\nThey went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released his\nhand and put it round her waist.\n\n\"You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly,\" she said.\n\nThey walked along. His finger-tips felt the rocking of her breast. All\nwas silent and deserted. On the left the red wet plough-land showed\nthrough the doorways between the elm-boles and their branches. On the\nright, looking down, they could see the tree-tops of elms growing far\nbeneath them, hear occasionally the gurgle of the river. Sometimes\nthere below they caught glimpses of the full, soft-sliding Trent, and of\nwater-meadows dotted with small cattle.\n\n\"It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come,\" he\nsaid.\n\nBut he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush was\nfusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that pouted disconsolate. She\nstirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string.\n\nHalfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the Grove rose highest above\nthe river, their forward movement faltered to an end. He led her across\nto the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path. The cliff of red\nearth sloped swiftly down, through trees and bushes, to the river that\nglimmered and was dark between the foliage. The far-below water-meadows\nwere very green. He and she stood leaning against one another, silent,\nafraid, their bodies touching all along. There came a quick gurgle from\nthe river below.\n\n\"Why,\" he asked at length, \"did you hate Baxter Dawes?\"\n\nShe turned to him with a splendid movement. Her mouth was offered him,\nand her throat; her eyes were half-shut; her breast was tilted as if it\nasked for him. He flashed with a small laugh, shut his eyes, and met\nher in a long, whole kiss. Her mouth fused with his; their bodies were\nsealed and annealed. It was some minutes before they withdrew. They were\nstanding beside the public path.\n\n\"Will you go down to the river?\" he asked.\n\nShe looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over the brim\nof the declivity and began to climb down.\n\n\"It is slippery,\" he said.\n\n\"Never mind,\" she replied.\n\nThe red clay went down almost sheer. He slid, went from one tuft\nof grass to the next, hanging on to the bushes, making for a little\nplatform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laughing with\nexcitement. Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her.\nHe frowned. At last he caught her hand, and she stood beside him. The\ncliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyes\nflashed. He looked at the big drop below them.\n\n\"It's risky,\" he said; \"or messy, at any rate. Shall we go back?\"\n\n\"Not for my sake,\" she said quickly.\n\n\"All right. You see, I can't help you; I should only hinder. Give me\nthat little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!\"\n\nThey stood perched on the face of the declivity, under the trees.\n\n\"Well, I'll go again,\" he said.\n\nAway he went, slipping, staggering, sliding to the next tree, into which\nhe fell with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. She\ncame after cautiously, hanging on to the twigs and grasses. So they\ndescended, stage by stage, to the river's brink. There, to his disgust,\nthe flood had eaten away the path, and the red decline ran straight into\nthe water. He dug in his heels and brought himself up violently. The\nstring of the parcel broke with a snap; the brown parcel bounded down,\nleaped into the water, and sailed smoothly away. He hung on to his tree.\n\n\"Well, I'll be damned!\" he cried crossly. Then he laughed. She was\ncoming perilously down.\n\n\"Mind!\" he warned her. He stood with his back to the tree, waiting.\n\"Come now,\" he called, opening his arms.\n\nShe let herself run. He caught her, and together they stood watching the\ndark water scoop at the raw edge of the bank. The parcel had sailed out\nof sight.\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" she said.\n\nHe held her close and kissed her. There was only room for their four\nfeet.\n\n\"It's a swindle!\" he said. \"But there's a rut where a man has been, so\nif we go on I guess we shall find the path again.\"\n\nThe river slid and twined its great volume. On the other bank cattle\nwere feeding on the desolate flats. The cliff rose high above Paul and\nClara on their right hand. They stood against the tree in the watery\nsilence.\n\n\"Let us try going forward,\" he said; and they struggled in the red\nclay along the groove a man's nailed boots had made. They were hot and\nflushed. Their barkled shoes hung heavy on their steps. At last they\nfound the broken path. It was littered with rubble from the water, but\nat any rate it was easier. They cleaned their boots with twigs. His\nheart was beating thick and fast.\n\nSuddenly, coming on to the little level, he saw two figures of men\nstanding silent at the water's edge. His heart leaped. They were\nfishing. He turned and put his hand up warningly to Clara. She\nhesitated, buttoned her coat. The two went on together.\n\nThe fishermen turned curiously to watch the two intruders on their\nprivacy and solitude. They had had a fire, but it was nearly out. All\nkept perfectly still. The men turned again to their fishing, stood\nover the grey glinting river like statues. Clara went with bowed head,\nflushing; he was laughing to himself. Directly they passed out of sight\nbehind the willows.\n\n\"Now they ought to be drowned,\" said Paul softly.\n\nClara did not answer. They toiled forward along a tiny path on the\nriver's lip. Suddenly it vanished. The bank was sheer red solid clay\nin front of them, sloping straight into the river. He stood and cursed\nbeneath his breath, setting his teeth.\n\n\"It's impossible!\" said Clara.\n\nHe stood erect, looking round. Just ahead were two islets in the stream,\ncovered with osiers. But they were unattainable. The cliff came down\nlike a sloping wall from far above their heads. Behind, not far back,\nwere the fishermen. Across the river the distant cattle fed silently\nin the desolate afternoon. He cursed again deeply under his breath. He\ngazed up the great steep bank. Was there no hope but to scale back to\nthe public path?\n\n\"Stop a minute,\" he said, and, digging his heels sideways into the steep\nbank of red clay, he began nimbly to mount. He looked across at every\ntree-foot. At last he found what he wanted. Two beech-trees side by side\non the hill held a little level on the upper face between their roots.\nIt was littered with damp leaves, but it would do. The fishermen were\nperhaps sufficiently out of sight. He threw down his rainproof and waved\nto her to come.\n\nShe toiled to his side. Arriving there, she looked at him heavily,\ndumbly, and laid her head on his shoulder. He held her fast as he looked\nround. They were safe enough from all but the small, lonely cows over\nthe river. He sunk his mouth on her throat, where he felt her heavy\npulse beat under his lips. Everything was perfectly still. There was\nnothing in the afternoon but themselves.\n\nWhen she arose, he, looking on the ground all the time, saw suddenly\nsprinkled on the black wet beech-roots many scarlet carnation petals,\nlike splashed drops of blood; and red, small splashes fell from her\nbosom, streaming down her dress to her feet.\n\n\"Your flowers are smashed,\" he said.\n\nShe looked at him heavily as she put back her hair. Suddenly he put his\nfinger-tips on her cheek.\n\n\"Why dost look so heavy?\" he reproached her.\n\nShe smiled sadly, as if she felt alone in herself. He caressed her cheek\nwith his fingers, and kissed her.\n\n\"Nay!\" he said. \"Never thee bother!\"\n\nShe gripped his fingers tight, and laughed shakily. Then she dropped her\nhand. He put the hair back from her brows, stroking her temples, kissing\nthem lightly.\n\n\"But tha shouldna worrit!\" he said softly, pleading.\n\n\"No, I don't worry!\" she laughed tenderly and resigned.\n\n\"Yea, tha does! Dunna thee worrit,\" he implored, caressing.\n\n\"No!\" she consoled him, kissing him.\n\nThey had a stiff climb to get to the top again. It took them a quarter\nof an hour. When he got on to the level grass, he threw off his cap,\nwiped the sweat from his forehead, and sighed.\n\n\"Now we're back at the ordinary level,\" he said.\n\nShe sat down, panting, on the tussocky grass. Her cheeks were flushed\npink. He kissed her, and she gave way to joy.\n\n\"And now I'll clean thy boots and make thee fit for respectable folk,\"\nhe said.\n\nHe kneeled at her feet, worked away with a stick and tufts of grass. She\nput her fingers in his hair, drew his head to her, and kissed it.\n\n\"What am I supposed to be doing,\" he said, looking at her laughing;\n\"cleaning shoes or dibbling with love? Answer me that!\"\n\n\"Just whichever I please,\" she replied.\n\n\"I'm your boot-boy for the time being, and nothing else!\" But they\nremained looking into each other's eyes and laughing. Then they kissed\nwith little nibbling kisses.\n\n\"T-t-t-t!\" he went with his tongue, like his mother. \"I tell you,\nnothing gets done when there's a woman about.\"\n\nAnd he returned to his boot-cleaning, singing softly. She touched his\nthick hair, and he kissed her fingers. He worked away at her shoes. At\nlast they were quite presentable.\n\n\"There you are, you see!\" he said. \"Aren't I a great hand at restoring\nyou to respectability? Stand up! There, you look as irreproachable as\nBritannia herself!\"\n\nHe cleaned his own boots a little, washed his hands in a puddle, and\nsang. They went on into Clifton village. He was madly in love with her;\nevery movement she made, every crease in her garments, sent a hot flash\nthrough him and seemed adorable.\n\nThe old lady at whose house they had tea was roused into gaiety by them.\n\n\"I could wish you'd had something of a better day,\" she said, hovering\nround.\n\n\"Nay!\" he laughed. \"We've been saying how nice it is.\"\n\nThe old lady looked at him curiously. There was a peculiar glow\nand charm about him. His eyes were dark and laughing. He rubbed his\nmoustache with a glad movement.\n\n\"Have you been saying SO!\" she exclaimed, a light rousing in her old\neyes.\n\n\"Truly!\" he laughed.\n\n\"Then I'm sure the day's good enough,\" said the old lady.\n\nShe fussed about, and did not want to leave them.\n\n\"I don't know whether you'd like some radishes as well,\" she said to\nClara; \"but I've got some in the garden--AND a cucumber.\"\n\nClara flushed. She looked very handsome.\n\n\"I should like some radishes,\" she answered.\n\nAnd the old lady pottered off gleefully.\n\n\"If she knew!\" said Clara quietly to him.\n\n\"Well, she doesn't know; and it shows we're nice in ourselves, at any\nrate. You look quite enough to satisfy an archangel, and I'm sure I feel\nharmless--so--if it makes you look nice, and makes folk happy when they\nhave us, and makes us happy--why, we're not cheating them out of much!\"\n\nThey went on with the meal. When they were going away, the old lady came\ntimidly with three tiny dahlias in full blow, neat as bees, and speckled\nscarlet and white. She stood before Clara, pleased with herself, saying:\n\n\"I don't know whether--\" and holding the flowers forward in her old\nhand.\n\n\"Oh, how pretty!\" cried Clara, accepting the flowers.\n\n\"Shall she have them all?\" asked Paul reproachfully of the old woman.\n\n\"Yes, she shall have them all,\" she replied, beaming with joy. \"You have\ngot enough for your share.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I shall ask her to give me one!\" he teased.\n\n\"Then she does as she pleases,\" said the old lady, smiling. And she\nbobbed a little curtsey of delight.\n\nClara was rather quiet and uncomfortable. As they walked along, he said:\n\n\"You don't feel criminal, do you?\"\n\nShe looked at him with startled grey eyes.\n\n\"Criminal!\" she said. \"No.\"\n\n\"But you seem to feel you have done a wrong?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"I only think, 'If they knew!'\"\n\n\"If they knew, they'd cease to understand. As it is, they do understand,\nand they like it. What do they matter? Here, with only the trees and me,\nyou don't feel not the least bit wrong, do you?\"\n\nHe took her by the arm, held her facing him, holding her eyes with his.\nSomething fretted him.\n\n\"Not sinners, are we?\" he said, with an uneasy little frown.\n\n\"No,\" she replied.\n\nHe kissed her, laughing.\n\n\"You like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe,\" he said. \"I believe\nEve enjoyed it, when she went cowering out of Paradise.\"\n\nBut there was a certain glow and quietness about her that made him glad.\nWhen he was alone in the railway-carriage, he found himself tumultuously\nhappy, and the people exceedingly nice, and the night lovely, and\neverything good.\n\nMrs. Morel was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not good\nnow, and there had come that ivory pallor into her face which he never\nnoticed, and which afterwards he never forgot. She did not mention her\nown ill-health to him. After all, she thought, it was not much.\n\n\"You are late!\" she said, looking at him.\n\nHis eyes were shining; his face seemed to glow. He smiled to her.\n\n\"Yes; I've been down Clifton Grove with Clara.\"\n\nHis mother looked at him again.\n\n\"But won't people talk?\" she said.\n\n\"Why? They know she's a suffragette, and so on. And what if they do\ntalk!\"\n\n\"Of course, there may be nothing wrong in it,\" said his mother. \"But you\nknow what folks are, and if once she gets talked about--\"\n\n\"Well, I can't help it. Their jaw isn't so almighty important, after\nall.\"\n\n\"I think you ought to consider HER.\"\n\n\"So I DO! What can people say?--that we take a walk together. I believe\nyou're jealous.\"\n\n\"You know I should be GLAD if she weren't a married woman.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, she lives separate from her husband, and talks on\nplatforms; so she's already singled out from the sheep, and, as far as\nI can see, hasn't much to lose. No; her life's nothing to her, so what's\nthe worth of nothing? She goes with me--it becomes something. Then she\nmust pay--we both must pay! Folk are so frightened of paying; they'd\nrather starve and die.\"\n\n\"Very well, my son. We'll see how it will end.\"\n\n\"Very well, my mother. I'll abide by the end.\"\n\n\"We'll see!\"\n\n\"And she's--she's AWFULLY nice, mother; she is really! You don't know!\"\n\n\"That's not the same as marrying her.\"\n\n\"It's perhaps better.\"\n\nThere was silence for a while. He wanted to ask his mother something,\nbut was afraid.\n\n\"Should you like to know her?\" He hesitated.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel coolly. \"I should like to know what she's like.\"\n\n\"But she's nice, mother, she is! And not a bit common!\"\n\n\"I never suggested she was.\"\n\n\"But you seem to think she's--not as good as--She's better than\nninety-nine folk out of a hundred, I tell you! She's BETTER, she is!\nShe's fair, she's honest, she's straight! There isn't anything underhand\nor superior about her. Don't be mean about her!\"\n\nMrs. Morel flushed.\n\n\"I am sure I am not mean about her. She may be quite as you say, but--\"\n\n\"You don't approve,\" he finished.\n\n\"And do you expect me to?\" she answered coldly.\n\n\"Yes!--yes!--if you'd anything about you, you'd be glad! Do you WANT to\nsee her?\"\n\n\"I said I did.\"\n\n\"Then I'll bring her--shall I bring her here?\"\n\n\"You please yourself.\"\n\n\"Then I WILL bring her here--one Sunday--to tea. If you think a horrid\nthing about her, I shan't forgive you.\"\n\nHis mother laughed.\n\n\"As if it would make any difference!\" she said. He knew he had won.\n\n\"Oh, but it feels so fine, when she's there! She's such a queen in her\nway.\"\n\nOccasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam and\nEdgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very much the\nsame with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her presence. One\nevening she was alone when he accompanied her. They began by talking\nbooks: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. Morel had said that his and\nMiriam's affair was like a fire fed on books--if there were no more\nvolumes it would die out. Miriam, for her part, boasted that she could\nread him like a book, could place her finger any minute on the chapter\nand the line. He, easily taken in, believed that Miriam knew more about\nhim than anyone else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself,\nlike the simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his own\ndoings. It flattered him immensely that he was of such supreme interest.\n\n\"And what have you been doing lately?\"\n\n\"I--oh, not much! I made a sketch of Bestwood from the garden, that is\nnearly right at last. It's the hundredth try.\"\n\nSo they went on. Then she said:\n\n\"You've not been out, then, lately?\"\n\n\"Yes; I went up Clifton Grove on Monday afternoon with Clara.\"\n\n\"It was not very nice weather,\" said Miriam, \"was it?\"\n\n\"But I wanted to go out, and it was all right. The Trent IS full.\"\n\n\"And did you go to Barton?\" she asked.\n\n\"No; we had tea in Clifton.\"\n\n\"DID you! That would be nice.\"\n\n\"It was! The jolliest old woman! She gave us several pompom dahlias, as\npretty as you like.\"\n\nMiriam bowed her head and brooded. He was quite unconscious of\nconcealing anything from her.\n\n\"What made her give them you?\" she asked.\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"Because she liked us--because we were jolly, I should think.\"\n\nMiriam put her finger in her mouth.\n\n\"Were you late home?\" she asked.\n\nAt last he resented her tone.\n\n\"I caught the seven-thirty.\"\n\n\"Ha!\"\n\nThey walked on in silence, and he was angry.\n\n\"And how IS Clara?\" asked Miriam.\n\n\"Quite all right, I think.\"\n\n\"That's good!\" she said, with a tinge of irony. \"By the way, what of her\nhusband? One never hears anything of him.\"\n\n\"He's got some other woman, and is also quite all right,\" he replied.\n\"At least, so I think.\"\n\n\"I see--you don't know for certain. Don't you think a position like that\nis hard on a woman?\"\n\n\"Rottenly hard!\"\n\n\"It's so unjust!\" said Miriam. \"The man does as he likes--\"\n\n\"Then let the woman also,\" he said.\n\n\"How can she? And if she does, look at her position!\"\n\n\"What of it?\"\n\n\"Why, it's impossible! You don't understand what a woman forfeits--\"\n\n\"No, I don't. But if a woman's got nothing but her fair fame to feed on,\nwhy, it's thin tack, and a donkey would die of it!\"\n\nSo she understood his moral attitude, at least, and she knew he would\nact accordingly.\n\nShe never asked him anything direct, but she got to know enough.\n\nAnother day, when he saw Miriam, the conversation turned to marriage,\nthen to Clara's marriage with Dawes.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, \"she never knew the fearful importance of marriage.\nShe thought it was all in the day's march--it would have to come--and\nDawes--well, a good many women would have given their souls to get\nhim; so why not him? Then she developed into the femme incomprise, and\ntreated him badly, I'll bet my boots.\"\n\n\"And she left him because he didn't understand her?\"\n\n\"I suppose so. I suppose she had to. It isn't altogether a question\nof understanding; it's a question of living. With him, she was only\nhalf-alive; the rest was dormant, deadened. And the dormant woman was\nthe femme incomprise, and she HAD to be awakened.\"\n\n\"And what about him.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I rather think he loves her as much as he can, but he's a\nfool.\"\n\n\"It was something like your mother and father,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"Yes; but my mother, I believe, got real joy and satisfaction out of\nmy father at first. I believe she had a passion for him; that's why she\nstayed with him. After all, they were bound to each other.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"That's what one MUST HAVE, I think,\" he continued--\"the real, real\nflame of feeling through another person--once, only once, if it only\nlasts three months. See, my mother looks as if she'd HAD everything that\nwas necessary for her living and developing. There's not a tiny bit of\nfeeling of sterility about her.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"And with my father, at first, I'm sure she had the real thing. She\nknows; she has been there. You can feel it about her, and about him, and\nabout hundreds of people you meet every day; and, once it has happened\nto you, you can go on with anything and ripen.\"\n\n\"What happened, exactly?\" asked Miriam.\n\n\"It's so hard to say, but the something big and intense that changes\nyou when you really come together with somebody else. It almost seems to\nfertilise your soul and make it that you can go on and mature.\"\n\n\"And you think your mother had it with your father?\"\n\n\"Yes; and at the bottom she feels grateful to him for giving it her,\neven now, though they are miles apart.\"\n\n\"And you think Clara never had it?\"\n\n\"I'm sure.\"\n\nMiriam pondered this. She saw what he was seeking--a sort of baptism of\nfire in passion, it seemed to her. She realised that he would never be\nsatisfied till he had it. Perhaps it was essential to him, as to some\nmen, to sow wild oats; and afterwards, when he was satisfied, he would\nnot rage with restlessness any more, but could settle down and give her\nhis life into her hands. Well, then, if he must go, let him go and have\nhis fill--something big and intense, he called it. At any rate, when he\nhad got it, he would not want it--that he said himself; he would want\nthe other thing that she could give him. He would want to be owned, so\nthat he could work. It seemed to her a bitter thing that he must go, but\nshe could let him go into an inn for a glass of whisky, so she could let\nhim go to Clara, so long as it was something that would satisfy a need\nin him, and leave him free for herself to possess.\n\n\"Have you told your mother about Clara?\" she asked.\n\nShe knew this would be a test of the seriousness of his feeling for the\nother woman: she knew he was going to Clara for something vital, not as\na man goes for pleasure to a prostitute, if he told his mother.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"and she is coming to tea on Sunday.\"\n\n\"To your house?\"\n\n\"Yes; I want mater to see her.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\nThere was a silence. Things had gone quicker than she thought. She felt\na sudden bitterness that he could leave her so soon and so entirely.\nAnd was Clara to be accepted by his people, who had been so hostile to\nherself?\n\n\"I may call in as I go to chapel,\" she said. \"It is a long time since I\nsaw Clara.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" he said, astonished, and unconsciously angry.\n\nOn the Sunday afternoon he went to Keston to meet Clara at the station.\nAs he stood on the platform he was trying to examine in himself if he\nhad a premonition.\n\n\"Do I FEEL as if she'd come?\" he said to himself, and he tried to find\nout. His heart felt queer and contracted. That seemed like foreboding.\nThen he HAD a foreboding she would not come! Then she would not come,\nand instead of taking her over the fields home, as he had imagined,\nhe would have to go alone. The train was late; the afternoon would\nbe wasted, and the evening. He hated her for not coming. Why had she\npromised, then, if she could not keep her promise? Perhaps she had\nmissed her train--he himself was always missing trains--but that was no\nreason why she should miss this particular one. He was angry with her;\nhe was furious.\n\nSuddenly he saw the train crawling, sneaking round the corner. Here,\nthen, was the train, but of course she had not come. The green engine\nhissed along the platform, the row of brown carriages drew up, several\ndoors opened. No; she had not come! No! Yes; ah, there she was! She had\na big black hat on! He was at her side in a moment.\n\n\"I thought you weren't coming,\" he said.\n\nShe was laughing rather breathlessly as she put out her hand to him;\ntheir eyes met. He took her quickly along the platform, talking at a\ngreat rate to hide his feeling. She looked beautiful. In her hat were\nlarge silk roses, coloured like tarnished gold. Her costume of dark\ncloth fitted so beautifully over her breast and shoulders. His pride\nwent up as he walked with her. He felt the station people, who knew him,\neyed her with awe and admiration.\n\n\"I was sure you weren't coming,\" he laughed shakily.\n\nShe laughed in answer, almost with a little cry.\n\n\"And I wondered, when I was in the train, WHATEVER I should do if you\nweren't there!\" she said.\n\nHe caught her hand impulsively, and they went along the narrow twitchel.\nThey took the road into Nuttall and over the Reckoning House Farm. It\nwas a blue, mild day. Everywhere the brown leaves lay scattered; many\nscarlet hips stood upon the hedge beside the wood. He gathered a few for\nher to wear.\n\n\"Though, really,\" he said, as he fitted them into the breast of her\ncoat, \"you ought to object to my getting them, because of the birds.\nBut they don't care much for rose-hips in this part, where they can\nget plenty of stuff. You often find the berries going rotten in the\nspringtime.\"\n\nSo he chattered, scarcely aware of what he said, only knowing he was\nputting berries in the bosom of her coat, while she stood patiently for\nhim. And she watched his quick hands, so full of life, and it seemed to\nher she had never SEEN anything before. Till now, everything had been\nindistinct.\n\nThey came near to the colliery. It stood quite still and black among the\ncorn-fields, its immense heap of slag seen rising almost from the oats.\n\n\"What a pity there is a coal-pit here where it is so pretty!\" said\nClara.\n\n\"Do you think so?\" he answered. \"You see, I am so used to it I should\nmiss it. No; and I like the pits here and there. I like the rows of\ntrucks, and the headstocks, and the steam in the daytime, and the lights\nat night. When I was a boy, I always thought a pillar of cloud by day\nand a pillar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, and its\nlights, and the burning bank,--and I thought the Lord was always at the\npit-top.\"\n\nAs they drew near home she walked in silence, and seemed to hang back.\nHe pressed her fingers in his own. She flushed, but gave no response.\n\n\"Don't you want to come home?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, I want to come,\" she replied.\n\nIt did not occur to him that her position in his home would be rather a\npeculiar and difficult one. To him it seemed just as if one of his men\nfriends were going to be introduced to his mother, only nicer.\n\nThe Morels lived in a house in an ugly street that ran down a steep\nhill. The street itself was hideous. The house was rather superior\nto most. It was old, grimy, with a big bay window, and it was\nsemi-detached; but it looked gloomy. Then Paul opened the door to the\ngarden, and all was different. The sunny afternoon was there, like\nanother land. By the path grew tansy and little trees. In front of the\nwindow was a plot of sunny grass, with old lilacs round it. And away\nwent the garden, with heaps of dishevelled chrysanthemums in the\nsunshine, down to the sycamore-tree, and the field, and beyond one\nlooked over a few red-roofed cottages to the hills with all the glow of\nthe autumn afternoon.\n\nMrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her black silk blouse.\nHer grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her brow and her high\ntemples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering, followed Paul into\nthe kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thought her a lady, even rather\nstiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look,\nalmost resigned.\n\n\"Mother--Clara,\" said Paul.\n\nMrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled.\n\n\"He has told me a good deal about you,\" she said.\n\nThe blood flamed in Clara's cheek.\n\n\"I hope you don't mind my coming,\" she faltered.\n\n\"I was pleased when he said he would bring you,\" replied Mrs. Morel.\n\nPaul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His mother looked so\nsmall, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara.\n\n\"It's such a pretty day, mother!\" he said. \"And we saw a jay.\"\n\nHis mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thought what a\nman he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale and\ndetached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart\nglowed; then she was sorry for Clara.\n\n\"Perhaps you'll leave your things in the parlour,\" said Mrs. Morel\nnicely to the young woman.\n\n\"Oh, thank you,\" she replied.\n\n\"Come on,\" said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room,\nwith its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble\nmantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and\ndrawing-boards. \"I leave my things lying about,\" he said. \"It's so much\neasier.\"\n\nShe loved his artist's paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of\npeople. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William's\nyoung lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this\nwas Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being\ntaken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they\ntalked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put\naside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow\nblack-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her\nhead. She looked rather stately and reserved.\n\n\"You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?\" said Mrs. Morel. \"When\nI was a girl--girl, I say!--when I was a young woman WE lived in Minerva\nTerrace.\"\n\n\"Oh, did you!\" said Clara. \"I have a friend in number 6.\"\n\nAnd the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottingham\npeople; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs.\nMorel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very\nclear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paul\nsaw.\n\nMrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found herself\neasily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul's surprising\nregard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting, expecting\nsomeone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this little\ninterested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as she\nfelt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs. Morel's way.\nThere was something so hard and certain in his mother, as if she never\nhad a misgiving in her life.\n\nPresently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoon\nsleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he plodded in his stocking feet,\nhis waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous.\n\n\"This is Mrs. Dawes, father,\" said Paul.\n\nThen Morel pulled himself together. Clara saw Paul's manner of bowing\nand shaking hands.\n\n\"Oh, indeed!\" exclaimed Morel. \"I am very glad to see you--I am, I\nassure you. But don't disturb yourself. No, no make yourself quite\ncomfortable, and be very welcome.\"\n\nClara was astonished at this flood of hospitality from the old collier.\nHe was so courteous, so gallant! She thought him most delightful.\n\n\"And may you have come far?\" he asked.\n\n\"Only from Nottingham,\" she said.\n\n\"From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful day for your journey.\"\n\nThen he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face, and from\nforce of habit came on to the hearth with the towel to dry himself.\n\nAt tea Clara felt the refinement and sang-froid of the household. Mrs.\nMorel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea and attending\nto the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in her\ntalk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark blue\nwillow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little\nbowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the\ncircle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the\nself-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone;\nthere was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where\neveryone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a\nfear deep at the bottom of her.\n\nPaul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was\nconscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming blown\nquickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and thither\nof a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him. By the\nway she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see she was\npossessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman was sorry\nfor her.\n\nHaving finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two women\nto talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced\nthrough the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums.\nShe felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet he\nseemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as he\ntied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wanted\nto shriek in her helplessness.\n\nMrs. Morel rose.\n\n\"You will let me help you wash up,\" said Clara.\n\n\"Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute,\" said the other.\n\nClara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be on such good\nterms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow him\ndown the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if a\nrope were taken off her ankle.\n\nThe afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood across\nin the other garden, beside a bush of pale Michaelmas daisies, watching\nthe last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming, he turned to her\nwith an easy motion, saying:\n\n\"It's the end of the run with these chaps.\"\n\nClara stood near him. Over the low red wall in front was the country and\nthe far-off hills, all golden dim.\n\nAt that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door. She saw\nClara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come to rest together.\nSomething in their perfect isolation together made her know that it was\naccomplished between them, that they were, as she put it, married. She\nwalked very slowly down the cinder-track of the long garden.\n\nClara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breaking it\nto get the seeds. Above her bowed head the pink flowers stared, as if\ndefending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive.\n\n\"Count your money,\" laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seeds one by one\nfrom the roll of coin. She looked at him.\n\n\"I'm well off,\" she said, smiling.\n\n\"How much? Pf!\" He snapped his fingers. \"Can I turn them into gold?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not,\" she laughed.\n\nThey looked into each other's eyes, laughing. At that moment they became\naware of Miriam. There was a click, and everything had altered.\n\n\"Hello, Miriam!\" he exclaimed. \"You said you'd come!\"\n\n\"Yes. Had you forgotten?\"\n\nShe shook hands with Clara, saying:\n\n\"It seems strange to see you here.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the other; \"it seems strange to be here.\"\n\nThere was a hesitation.\n\n\"This is pretty, isn't it?\" said Miriam.\n\n\"I like it very much,\" replied Clara.\n\nThen Miriam realised that Clara was accepted as she had never been.\n\n\"Have you come down alone?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"Yes; I went to Agatha's to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called\nin for a moment to see Clara.\"\n\n\"You should have come in here to tea,\" he said.\n\nMiriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside.\n\n\"Do you like the chrysanthemums?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes; they are very fine,\" replied Miriam.\n\n\"Which sort do you like best?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't know. The bronze, I think.\"\n\n\"I don't think you've seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see\nwhich are YOUR favourites, Clara.\"\n\nHe led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsled bushes of\nflowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path down to the field.\nThe situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge.\n\n\"Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. They\naren't so fine here, are they?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"But they're hardier. You're so sheltered; things grow big and tender,\nand then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?\"\n\nWhile they were out there the bells began to ring in the church,\nsounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at the tower,\nproud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he had\nbrought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her even\nyet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors.\n\n\"What! is that Miriam?\" asked his mother coldly.\n\n\"Yes; she said she'd call and see Clara.\"\n\n\"You told her, then?\" came the sarcastic answer.\n\n\"Yes; why shouldn't I?\"\n\n\"There's certainly no reason why you shouldn't,\" said Mrs. Morel, and\nshe returned to her book. He winced from his mother's irony, frowned\nirritably, thinking: \"Why can't I do as I like?\"\n\n\"You've not seen Mrs. Morel before?\" Miriam was saying to Clara.\n\n\"No; but she's so nice!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miriam, dropping her head; \"in some ways she's very fine.\"\n\n\"I should think so.\"\n\n\"Had Paul told you much about her?\"\n\n\"He had talked a good deal.\"\n\n\"Ha!\"\n\nThere was silence until he returned with the book.\n\n\"When will you want it back?\" Miriam asked.\n\n\"When you like,\" he answered.\n\nClara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriam to the gate.\n\n\"When will you come up to Willey Farm?\" the latter asked.\n\n\"I couldn't say,\" replied Clara.\n\n\"Mother asked me to say she'd be pleased to see you any time, if you\ncared to come.\"\n\n\"Thank you; I should like to, but I can't say when.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well!\" exclaimed Miriam rather bitterly, turning away.\n\nShe went down the path with her mouth to the flowers he had given her.\n\n\"You're sure you won't come in?\" he said.\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"We are going to chapel.\"\n\n\"Ah, I shall see you, then!\" Miriam was very bitter.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThey parted. He felt guilty towards her. She was bitter, and she scorned\nhim. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could have\nClara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give her\nthe same hymn-book he had given herself years before. She heard him\nrunning quickly indoors.\n\nBut he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass, he heard\nhis mother's voice, then Clara's answer:\n\n\"What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said his mother quickly, \"yes; DOESN'T it make you hate her,\nnow!\"\n\nHis heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about the\ngirl. What right had they to say that? Something in the speech itself\nstung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heart\nrebelled furiously at Clara's taking the liberty of speaking so about\nMiriam. After all, the girl was the better woman of the two, he thought,\nif it came to goodness. He went indoors. His mother looked excited. She\nwas beating with her hand rhythmically on the sofa-arm, as women do who\nare wearing out. He could never bear to see the movement. There was a\nsilence; then he began to talk.\n\nIn chapel Miriam saw him find the place in the hymn-book for Clara, in\nexactly the same way as he used for herself. And during the sermon he\ncould see the girl across the chapel, her hat throwing a dark shadow\nover her face. What did she think, seeing Clara with him? He did not\nstop to consider. He felt himself cruel towards Miriam.\n\nAfter chapel he went over Pentrich with Clara. It was a dark autumn\nnight. They had said good-bye to Miriam, and his heart had smitten him\nas he left the girl alone. \"But it serves her right,\" he said inside\nhimself, and it almost gave him pleasure to go off under her eyes with\nthis other handsome woman.\n\nThere was a scent of damp leaves in the darkness. Clara's hand lay warm\nand inert in his own as they walked. He was full of conflict. The battle\nthat raged inside him made him feel desperate.\n\nUp Pentrich Hill Clara leaned against him as he went. He slid his arm\nround her waist. Feeling the strong motion of her body under his arm as\nshe walked, the tightness in his chest because of Miriam relaxed, and\nthe hot blood bathed him. He held her closer and closer.\n\nThen: \"You still keep on with Miriam,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"Only talk. There never WAS a great deal more than talk between us,\" he\nsaid bitterly.\n\n\"Your mother doesn't care for her,\" said Clara.\n\n\"No, or I might have married her. But it's all up really!\"\n\nSuddenly his voice went passionate with hate.\n\n\"If I was with her now, we should be jawing about the 'Christian\nMystery', or some such tack. Thank God, I'm not!\"\n\nThey walked on in silence for some time.\n\n\"But you can't really give her up,\" said Clara.\n\n\"I don't give her up, because there's nothing to give,\" he said.\n\n\"There is for her.\"\n\n\"I don't know why she and I shouldn't be friends as long as we live,\" he\nsaid. \"But it'll only be friends.\"\n\nClara drew away from him, leaning away from contact with him.\n\n\"What are you drawing away for?\" he asked.\n\nShe did not answer, but drew farther from him.\n\n\"Why do you want to walk alone?\" he asked.\n\nStill there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head.\n\n\"Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!\" he exclaimed.\n\nShe would not answer him anything.\n\n\"I tell you it's only words that go between us,\" he persisted, trying to\ntake her again.\n\nShe resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring her\nway.\n\n\"Damn it!\" he said. \"What do you want now?\"\n\n\"You'd better run after Miriam,\" mocked Clara.\n\nThe blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She drooped\nsulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her in\nhis arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss of\nrage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard and\nrelentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall of\nhis chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, and\nkissed her.\n\nHe heard people coming down the hill.\n\n\"Stand up! stand up!\" he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. If\nhe had let go, she would have sunk to the ground.\n\nShe sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence.\n\n\"We will go over the fields,\" he said; and then she woke up.\n\nBut she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in silence\nwith him over the first dark field. It was the way to Nottingham and to\nthe station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. They came out on\na bare hilltop where stood the dark figure of the ruined windmill. There\nhe halted. They stood together high up in the darkness, looking at\nthe lights scattered on the night before them, handfuls of glittering\npoints, villages lying high and low on the dark, here and there.\n\n\"Like treading among the stars,\" he said, with a quaky laugh.\n\nThen he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved aside her\nmouth to ask, dogged and low:\n\n\"What time is it?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" he pleaded thickly.\n\n\"Yes it does--yes! I must go!\"\n\n\"It's early yet,\" he said.\n\n\"What time is it?\" she insisted.\n\nAll round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nShe put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the joints\nfuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he stood\npanting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face of the\nwatch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till he\ncould take her in his arms again.\n\n\"I can't see,\" she said.\n\n\"Then don't bother.\"\n\n\"Yes; I'm going!\" she said, turning away.\n\n\"Wait! I'll look!\" But he could not see. \"I'll strike a match.\"\n\nHe secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the\nglowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face lit\nup, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All was\nblack before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Where\nwas he?\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked, afraid.\n\n\"You can't do it,\" his voice answered out of the darkness.\n\nThere was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in his\nvoice. It frightened her.\n\n\"What time is it?\" she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless.\n\n\"Two minutes to nine,\" he replied, telling the truth with a struggle.\n\n\"And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?\"\n\n\"No. At any rate--\"\n\nShe could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted\nto escape.\n\n\"But can't I do it?\" she pleaded.\n\n\"If you hurry,\" he said brusquely. \"But you could easily walk it, Clara;\nit's only seven miles to the tram. I'll come with you.\"\n\n\"No; I want to catch the train.\"\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"I do--I want to catch the train.\"\n\nSuddenly his voice altered.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said, dry and hard. \"Come along, then.\"\n\nAnd he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting to\ncry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, dark\nfields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row of\nlights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly:\n\n\"There she is!\" he cried, breaking into a run.\n\nThere was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, like\na luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling\nceased.\n\n\"She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it.\"\n\nClara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The\nwhistle blew. He was gone. Gone!--and she was in a carriage full of\npeople. She felt the cruelty of it.\n\nHe turned round and plunged home. Before he knew where he was he was\nin the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark and\ndangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him.\n\n\"Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!\" she said.\n\nHe looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother\nwondered if he were drunk.\n\n\"She caught the train then?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I hope HER feet weren't so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her I\ndon't know!\"\n\nHe was silent and motionless for some time.\n\n\"Did you like her?\" he asked grudgingly at last.\n\n\"Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you know you will.\"\n\nHe did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing.\n\n\"Have you been running?\" she asked.\n\n\"We had to run for the train.\"\n\n\"You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk.\"\n\nIt was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went to\nbed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rage\nand pain. There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips till\nthey bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost to\nfeel.\n\n\"This is how she serves me, is it?\" he said in his heart, over and over,\npressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over the\nscene, and again he hated her.\n\nThe next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara was very gentle,\nalmost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a touch of contempt.\nShe sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round.\n\nOne evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royal in\nNottingham, giving \"La Dame aux Camelias\". Paul wanted to see this old\nand famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told his\nmother to leave the key in the window for him.\n\n\"Shall I book seats?\" he asked of Clara.\n\n\"Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seen you in it.\"\n\n\"But, good Lord, Clara! Think of ME in evening suit at the theatre!\" he\nremonstrated.\n\n\"Would you rather not?\" she asked.\n\n\"I will if you WANT me to; but I s'll feel a fool.\"\n\nShe laughed at him.\n\n\"Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?\"\n\nThe request made his blood flush up.\n\n\"I suppose I s'll have to.\"\n\n\"What are you taking a suitcase for?\" his mother asked.\n\nHe blushed furiously.\n\n\"Clara asked me,\" he said.\n\n\"And what seats are you going in?\"\n\n\"Circle--three-and-six each!\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sure!\" exclaimed his mother sarcastically.\n\n\"It's only once in the bluest of blue moons,\" he said.\n\nHe dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met Clara in a\ncafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old long\ncoat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrap over her head, which\nhe hated. The three went to the theatre together.\n\nClara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was in a\nsort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and part of her\nbreast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thing\nof green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, he thought. He could\nsee her figure inside the frock, as if that were wrapped closely round\nher. The firmness and the softness of her upright body could almost be\nfelt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists.\n\nAnd he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm,\nwatching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching the\nbreasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight\ndress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this\ntorture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head and\nstared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she\nyielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could\nnot help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself.\nA kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, made\nit necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched\ndown on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist.\nHer beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights\nwent down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and\narm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time\nhis blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his\nconsciousness momentarily.\n\nThe drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere;\nhe did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara's\nwhite heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be\nhimself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identified\nwith that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara,\nher bosom coming down on him, her arm that he held gripped between his\nhands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless,\nher towering in her force above him.\n\nOnly the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expressibly. He\nwanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark again. In a maze,\nhe wandered out for a drink. Then the lights were out, and the strange,\ninsane reality of Clara and the drama took hold of him again.\n\nThe play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire to kiss the tiny\nblue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel it. His\nwhole face seemed suspended till he had put his lips there. It must be\ndone. And the other people! At last he bent quickly forward and touched\nit with his lips. His moustache brushed the sensitive flesh. Clara\nshivered, drew away her arm.\n\nWhen all was over, the lights up, the people clapping, he came to\nhimself and looked at his watch. His train was gone.\n\n\"I s'll have to walk home!\" he said.\n\nClara looked at him.\n\n\"It is too late?\" she asked.\n\nHe nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat.\n\n\"I love you! You look beautiful in that dress,\" he murmured over her\nshoulder, among the throng of bustling people.\n\nShe remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He saw the\ncabs waiting, the people passing. It seemed he met a pair of brown\neyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and Clara turned away,\nmechanically taking the direction to the station.\n\nThe train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home.\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" he said. \"I shall enjoy it.\"\n\n\"Won't you,\" she said, flushing, \"come home for the night? I can sleep\nwith mother.\"\n\nHe looked at her. Their eyes met.\n\n\"What will your mother say?\" he asked.\n\n\"She won't mind.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\"\n\n\"Quite!\"\n\n\"SHALL I come?\"\n\n\"If you will.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nAnd they turned away. At the first stopping-place they took the car. The\nwind blew fresh in their faces. The town was dark; the tram tipped in\nits haste. He sat with her hand fast in his.\n\n\"Will your mother be gone to bed?\" he asked.\n\n\"She may be. I hope not.\"\n\nThey hurried along the silent, dark little street, the only people out\nof doors. Clara quickly entered the house. He hesitated.\n\nHe leaped up the step and was in the room. Her mother appeared in the\ninner doorway, large and hostile.\n\n\"Who have you got there?\" she asked.\n\n\"It's Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we might put him up\nfor the night, and save him a ten-mile walk.\"\n\n\"H'm,\" exclaimed Mrs. Radford. \"That's your lookout! If you've invited\nhim, he's very welcome as far as I'm concerned. YOU keep the house!\"\n\n\"If you don't like me, I'll go away again,\" he said.\n\n\"Nay, nay, you needn't! Come along in! I dunno what you'll think of the\nsupper I'd got her.\"\n\nIt was a little dish of chip potatoes and a piece of bacon. The table\nwas roughly laid for one.\n\n\"You can have some more bacon,\" continued Mrs. Radford. \"More chips you\ncan't have.\"\n\n\"It's a shame to bother you,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, don't you be apologetic! It doesn't DO wi' me! You treated her to\nthe theatre, didn't you?\" There was a sarcasm in the last question.\n\n\"Well?\" laughed Paul uncomfortably.\n\n\"Well, and what's an inch of bacon! Take your coat off.\"\n\nThe big, straight-standing woman was trying to estimate the situation.\nShe moved about the cupboard. Clara took his coat. The room was very\nwarm and cosy in the lamplight.\n\n\"My sirs!\" exclaimed Mrs. Radford; \"but you two's a pair of bright\nbeauties, I must say! What's all that get-up for?\"\n\n\"I believe we don't know,\" he said, feeling a victim.\n\n\"There isn't room in THIS house for two such bobby-dazzlers, if you fly\nyour kites THAT high!\" she rallied them. It was a nasty thrust.\n\nHe in his dinner jacket, and Clara in her green dress and bare arms,\nwere confused. They felt they must shelter each other in that little\nkitchen.\n\n\"And look at THAT blossom!\" continued Mrs. Radford, pointing to Clara.\n\"What does she reckon she did it for?\"\n\nPaul looked at Clara. She was rosy; her neck was warm with blushes.\nThere was a moment of silence.\n\n\"You like to see it, don't you?\" he asked.\n\nThe mother had them in her power. All the time his heart was beating\nhard, and he was tight with anxiety. But he would fight her.\n\n\"Me like to see it!\" exclaimed the old woman. \"What should I like to see\nher make a fool of herself for?\"\n\n\"I've seen people look bigger fools,\" he said. Clara was under his\nprotection now.\n\n\"Oh, ay! and when was that?\" came the sarcastic rejoinder.\n\n\"When they made frights of themselves,\" he answered.\n\nMrs. Radford, large and threatening, stood suspended on the hearthrug,\nholding her fork.\n\n\"They're fools either road,\" she answered at length, turning to the\nDutch oven.\n\n\"No,\" he said, fighting stoutly. \"Folk ought to look as well as they\ncan.\"\n\n\"And do you call THAT looking nice!\" cried the mother, pointing a\nscornful fork at Clara. \"That--that looks as if it wasn't properly\ndressed!\"\n\n\"I believe you're jealous that you can't swank as well,\" he said\nlaughing.\n\n\"Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I'd wanted to!\"\ncame the scornful answer.\n\n\"And why didn't you want to?\" he asked pertinently. \"Or DID you wear\nit?\"\n\nThere was a long pause. Mrs. Radford readjusted the bacon in the Dutch\noven. His heart beat fast, for fear he had offended her.\n\n\"Me!\" she exclaimed at last. \"No, I didn't! And when I was in service,\nI knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bare shoulders what sort\nSHE was, going to her sixpenny hop!\"\n\n\"Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?\" he said.\n\nClara sat with bowed head. His eyes were dark and glittering. Mrs.\nRadford took the Dutch oven from the fire, and stood near him, putting\nbits of bacon on his plate.\n\n\"THERE'S a nice crozzly bit!\" she said.\n\n\"Don't give me the best!\" he said.\n\n\"SHE'S got what SHE wants,\" was the answer.\n\nThere was a sort of scornful forbearance in the woman's tone that made\nPaul know she was mollified.\n\n\"But DO have some!\" he said to Clara.\n\nShe looked up at him with her grey eyes, humiliated and lonely.\n\n\"No thanks!\" she said.\n\n\"Why won't you?\" he answered carelessly.\n\nThe blood was beating up like fire in his veins. Mrs. Radford sat down\nagain, large and impressive and aloof. He left Clara altogether to\nattend to the mother.\n\n\"They say Sarah Bernhardt's fifty,\" he said.\n\n\"Fifty! She's turned sixty!\" came the scornful answer.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"you'd never think it! She made me want to howl even\nnow.\"\n\n\"I should like to see myself howling at THAT bad old baggage!\" said\nMrs. Radford. \"It's time she began to think herself a grandmother, not a\nshrieking catamaran--\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"A catamaran is a boat the Malays use,\" he said.\n\n\"And it's a word as I use,\" she retorted.\n\n\"My mother does sometimes, and it's no good my telling her,\" he said.\n\n\"I s'd think she boxes your ears,\" said Mrs. Radford, good-humouredly.\n\n\"She'd like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool to\nstand on.\"\n\n\"That's the worst of my mother,\" said Clara. \"She never wants a stool\nfor anything.\"\n\n\"But she often can't touch THAT lady with a long prop,\" retorted Mrs.\nRadford to Paul.\n\n\"I s'd think she doesn't want touching with a prop,\" he laughed. \"I\nshouldn't.\"\n\n\"It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head with\none,\" said the mother, laughing suddenly.\n\n\"Why are you so vindictive towards me?\" he said. \"I've not stolen\nanything from you.\"\n\n\"No; I'll watch that,\" laughed the older woman.\n\nSoon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her chair. Paul\nlit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit,\nwhich she spread on the fender to air.\n\n\"Why, I'd forgot all about THEM!\" said Mrs. Radford. \"Where have they\nsprung from?\"\n\n\"Out of my drawer.\"\n\n\"H'm! You bought 'em for Baxter, an' he wouldn't wear 'em, would\nhe?\"--laughing. \"Said he reckoned to do wi'out trousers i' bed.\" She\nturned confidentially to Paul, saying: \"He couldn't BEAR 'em, them\npyjama things.\"\n\nThe young man sat making rings of smoke.\n\n\"Well, it's everyone to his taste,\" he laughed.\n\nThen followed a little discussion of the merits of pyjamas.\n\n\"My mother loves me in them,\" he said. \"She says I'm a pierrot.\"\n\n\"I can imagine they'd suit you,\" said Mrs. Radford.\n\nAfter a while he glanced at the little clock that was ticking on the\nmantelpiece. It was half-past twelve.\n\n\"It is funny,\" he said, \"but it takes hours to settle down to sleep\nafter the theatre.\"\n\n\"It's about time you did,\" said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table.\n\n\"Are YOU tired?\" he asked of Clara.\n\n\"Not the least bit,\" she answered, avoiding his eyes.\n\n\"Shall we have a game at cribbage?\" he said.\n\n\"I've forgotten it.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?\" he asked.\n\n\"You'll please yourselves,\" she said; \"but it's pretty late.\"\n\n\"A game or so will make us sleepy,\" he answered.\n\nClara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-ring whilst he\nshuffled them. Mrs. Radford was washing up in the scullery. As it grew\nlater Paul felt the situation getting more and more tense.\n\n\"Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two's eight--!\"\n\nThe clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radford had done\nall the little jobs preparatory to going to bed, had locked the door\nand filled the kettle. Still Paul went on dealing and counting. He was\nobsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He believed he could see where the\ndivision was just beginning for her breasts. He could not leave her. She\nwatched his hands, and felt her joints melt as they moved quickly. She\nwas so near; it was almost as if he touched her, and yet not quite. His\nmettle was roused. He hated Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly dropping\nasleep, but determined and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her,\nthen at Clara. She met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard as\nsteel. Her own answered him in shame. He knew SHE, at any rate, was of\nhis mind. He played on.\n\nAt last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiffly, and said:\n\n\"Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?\"\n\nPaul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiently to murder\nher.\n\n\"Half a minute,\" he said.\n\nThe elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery, returning\nwith his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then she sat down\nagain. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, he dropped his\ncards.\n\n\"We'll stop, then,\" he said, but his voice was still a challenge.\n\nClara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It seemed like\nan agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing, to clear her throat.\n\n\"Well, I'm glad you've finished,\" said Mrs. Radford. \"Here, take your\nthings\"--she thrust the warm suit in his hand--\"and this is your candle.\nYour room's over this; there's only two, so you can't go far wrong.\nWell, good-night. I hope you'll rest well.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I shall; I always do,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes; and so you ought at your age,\" she replied.\n\nHe bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting stairs of white,\nscrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He went doggedly. The\ntwo doors faced each other. He went in his room, pushed the door to,\nwithout fastening the latch.\n\nIt was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara's hair-pins were\non the dressing-table--her hair-brush. Her clothes and some skirts hung\nunder a cloth in a corner. There was actually a pair of stockings over\na chair. He explored the room. Two books of his own were there on the\nshelf. He undressed, folded his suit, and sat on the bed, listening.\nThen he blew out the candle, lay down, and in two minutes was almost\nasleep. Then click!--he was wide awake and writhing in torment. It\nwas as if, when he had nearly got to sleep, something had bitten him\nsuddenly and sent him mad. He sat up and looked at the room in the\ndarkness, his feet doubled under him, perfectly motionless, listening.\nHe heard a cat somewhere away outside; then the heavy, poised tread of\nthe mother; then Clara's distinct voice:\n\n\"Will you unfasten my dress?\"\n\nThere was silence for some time. At last the mother said:\n\n\"Now then! aren't you coming up?\"\n\n\"No, not yet,\" replied the daughter calmly.\n\n\"Oh, very well then! If it's not late enough, stop a bit longer. Only\nyou needn't come waking me up when I've got to sleep.\"\n\n\"I shan't be long,\" said Clara.\n\nImmediately afterwards Paul heard the mother slowly mounting the stairs.\nThe candlelight flashed through the cracks in his door. Her dress\nbrushed the door, and his heart jumped. Then it was dark, and he\nheard the clatter of her latch. She was very leisurely indeed in her\npreparations for sleep. After a long time it was quite still. He sat\nstrung up on the bed, shivering slightly. His door was an inch open.\nAs Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He waited. All was dead\nsilence. The clock struck two. Then he heard a slight scrape of the\nfender downstairs. Now he could not help himself. His shivering was\nuncontrollable. He felt he must go or die.\n\nHe stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then he went\nstraight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first stair\ncracked like a shot. He listened. The old woman stirred in her bed. The\nstaircase was dark. There was a slit of light under the stair-foot\ndoor, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. Then he went on,\nmechanically. Every step creaked, and his back was creeping, lest the\nold woman's door should open behind him up above. He fumbled with the\ndoor at the bottom. The latch opened with a loud clack. He went through\ninto the kitchen, and shut the door noisily behind him. The old woman\ndaren't come now.\n\nThen he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of white\nunderclothing on the hearthrug, her back towards him, warming herself.\nShe did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, and her rounded\nbeautiful back was towards him, and her face was hidden. She was warming\nher body at the fire for consolation. The glow was rosy on one side, the\nshadow was dark and warm on the other. Her arms hung slack.\n\nHe shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hard to keep\ncontrol. Then he went forward to her. He put one hand on her shoulder,\nthe fingers of the other hand under her chin to raise her face. A\nconvulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his touch. She kept\nher head bent.\n\n\"Sorry!\" he murmured, realising that his hands were very cold.\n\nThen she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that is afraid of\ndeath.\n\n\"My hands are so cold,\" he murmured.\n\n\"I like it,\" she whispered, closing her eyes.\n\nThe breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms clasped his knees.\nThe cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and made her shiver.\nAs the warmth went into him, his shuddering became less.\n\nAt length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and she buried\nher head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowly with an\ninfinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him, trying to hide\nherself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at last she looked\nat him, mute, imploring, looking to see if she must be ashamed.\n\nHis eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if her beauty\nand his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked at her with a\nlittle pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before her. She kissed him\nfervently on the eyes, first one, then the other, and she folded herself\nto him. She gave herself. He held her fast. It was a moment intense\nalmost to agony.\n\nShe stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It healed\nher hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It made her feel erect\nand proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside her. She had been\ncheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride again. It was her\nrestoration and her recognition.\n\nThen he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed to each other,\nand he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off, the minutes\npassed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together, mouth to mouth,\nlike a statue in one block.\n\nBut again his fingers went seeking over her, restless, wandering,\ndissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her head on\nhis shoulder.\n\n\"Come you to my room,\" he murmured.\n\nShe looked at him and shook her head, her mouth pouting disconsolately,\nher eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly.\n\n\"Yes!\" he said.\n\nAgain she shook her head.\n\n\"Why not?\" he asked.\n\nShe looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again she shook her\nhead. His eyes hardened, and he gave way.\n\nWhen, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she had refused to\ncome to him openly, so that her mother would know. At any rate, then\nthings would have been definite. And she could have stayed with him the\nnight, without having to go, as she was, to her mother's bed. It was\nstrange, and he could not understand it. And then almost immediately he\nfell asleep.\n\nHe awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes,\nhe saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking down on him. She held a\ncup of tea in her hand.\n\n\"Do you think you're going to sleep till Doomsday?\" she said.\n\nHe laughed at once.\n\n\"It ought only to be about five o'clock,\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" she answered, \"it's half-past seven, whether or not. Here, I've\nbrought you a cup of tea.\"\n\nHe rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, and roused\nhimself.\n\n\"What's it so late for!\" he grumbled.\n\nHe resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neck in the\nflannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl's. He rubbed his\nhair crossly.\n\n\"It's no good your scratching your head,\" she said. \"It won't make it no\nearlier. Here, an' how long d'you think I'm going to stand waiting wi'\nthis here cup?\"\n\n\"Oh, dash the cup!\" he said.\n\n\"You should go to bed earlier,\" said the woman.\n\nHe looked up at her, laughing with impudence.\n\n\"I went to bed before YOU did,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, my Guyney, you did!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Fancy,\" he said, stirring his tea, \"having tea brought to bed to me! My\nmother'll think I'm ruined for life.\"\n\n\"Don't she never do it?\" asked Mrs. Radford.\n\n\"She'd as leave think of flying.\"\n\n\"Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That's why they've turned out such bad\nuns,\" said the elderly woman.\n\n\"You'd only Clara,\" he said. \"And Mr. Radford's in heaven. So I suppose\nthere's only you left to be the bad un.\"\n\n\"I'm not bad; I'm only soft,\" she said, as she went out of the bedroom.\n\"I'm only a fool, I am!\"\n\nClara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of air of\nproprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radford was\nevidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting.\n\n\"What's the good,\" exclaimed the mother, \"of your whittling and worrying\nand twistin' and too-in' at that painting of yours? What GOOD does it do\nyou, I should like to know? You'd better be enjoyin' yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh, but,\" exclaimed Paul, \"I made over thirty guineas last year.\"\n\n\"Did you! Well, that's a consideration, but it's nothing to the time you\nput in.\"\n\n\"And I've got four pounds owing. A man said he'd give me five pounds if\nI'd paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went and\nput the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy, so I had to\nknock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn't like the dog. I made a\npicture of it. What shall I do when he pays me the four pounds?\"\n\n\"Nay! you know your own uses for your money,\" said Mrs. Radford.\n\n\"But I'm going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the seaside for\na day or two?\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"You and Clara and me.\"\n\n\"What, on your money!\" she exclaimed, half-wrathful.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"YOU wouldn't be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!\" she said.\n\n\"So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?\"\n\n\"Nay; you may settle that atween you.\"\n\n\"And you're willing?\" he asked, amazed and rejoicing.\n\n\"You'll do as you like,\" said Mrs. Radford, \"whether I'm willing or\nnot.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nBAXTER DAWES\n\nSOON after Paul had been to the theatre with Clara, he was drinking\nin the Punch Bowl with some friends of his when Dawes came in. Clara's\nhusband was growing stout; his eyelids were getting slack over his brown\neyes; he was losing his healthy firmness of flesh. He was very evidently\non the downward track. Having quarrelled with his sister, he had gone\ninto cheap lodgings. His mistress had left him for a man who would marry\nher. He had been in prison one night for fighting when he was drunk, and\nthere was a shady betting episode in which he was concerned.\n\nPaul and he were confirmed enemies, and yet there was between them that\npeculiar feeling of intimacy, as if they were secretly near to each\nother, which sometimes exists between two people, although they never\nspeak to one another. Paul often thought of Baxter Dawes, often wanted\nto get at him and be friends with him. He knew that Dawes often thought\nabout him, and that the man was drawn to him by some bond or other. And\nyet the two never looked at each other save in hostility.\n\nSince he was a superior employee at Jordan's, it was the thing for Paul\nto offer Dawes a drink.\n\n\"What'll you have?\" he asked of him.\n\n\"Nowt wi' a bleeder like you!\" replied the man.\n\nPaul turned away with a slight disdainful movement of the shoulders,\nvery irritating.\n\n\"The aristocracy,\" he continued, \"is really a military institution. Take\nGermany, now. She's got thousands of aristocrats whose only means of\nexistence is the army. They're deadly poor, and life's deadly slow. So\nthey hope for a war. They look for war as a chance of getting on. Till\nthere's a war they are idle good-for-nothings. When there's a war, they\nare leaders and commanders. There you are, then--they WANT war!\"\n\nHe was not a favourite debater in the public-house, being too quick and\noverbearing. He irritated the older men by his assertive manner, and\nhis cocksureness. They listened in silence, and were not sorry when he\nfinished.\n\nDawes interrupted the young man's flow of eloquence by asking, in a loud\nsneer:\n\n\"Did you learn all that at th' theatre th' other night?\"\n\nPaul looked at him; their eyes met. Then he knew Dawes had seen him\ncoming out of the theatre with Clara.\n\n\"Why, what about th' theatre?\" asked one of Paul's associates, glad to\nget a dig at the young fellow, and sniffing something tasty.\n\n\"Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!\" sneered Dawes,\njerking his head contemptuously at Paul.\n\n\"That's comin' it strong,\" said the mutual friend. \"Tart an' all?\"\n\n\"Tart, begod!\" said Dawes.\n\n\"Go on; let's have it!\" cried the mutual friend.\n\n\"You've got it,\" said Dawes, \"an' I reckon Morelly had it an' all.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll be jiggered!\" said the mutual friend. \"An' was it a proper\ntart?\"\n\n\"Tart, God blimey--yes!\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dawes, \"I reckon he spent th' night--\"\n\nThere was a good deal of laughter at Paul's expense.\n\n\"But who WAS she? D'you know her?\" asked the mutual friend.\n\n\"I should SHAY SHO,\" said Dawes.\n\nThis brought another burst of laughter.\n\n\"Then spit it out,\" said the mutual friend.\n\nDawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer.\n\n\"It's a wonder he hasn't let on himself,\" he said. \"He'll be braggin' of\nit in a bit.\"\n\n\"Come on, Paul,\" said the friend; \"it's no good. You might just as well\nown up.\"\n\n\"Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?\"\n\n\"Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad,\" said the\nfriend.\n\n\"She WAS all right,\" said Dawes.\n\nPaul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his fingers,\nsneering.\n\n\"Strike me--! One o' that sort?\" said the mutual friend. \"Paul, boy, I'm\nsurprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?\"\n\n\"Just a bit, like!\"\n\nHe winked at the other men.\n\n\"Oh well,\" said Paul, \"I'll be going!\"\n\nThe mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.\n\n\"Nay,\" he said, \"you don't get off as easy as that, my lad. We've got to\nhave a full account of this business.\"\n\n\"Then get it from Dawes!\" he said.\n\n\"You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man,\" remonstrated the friend.\n\nThen Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer\nin his face.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Morel!\" cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the\n\"chucker-out\".\n\nDawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a brawny\nfellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over his\nhaunches intervened.\n\n\"Now, then!\" he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes.\n\n\"Come out!\" cried Dawes.\n\nPaul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of the\nbar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at that\nminute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man's forehead,\nhe thought he looked pathetic. He did not move.\n\n\"Come out, you--,\" said Dawes.\n\n\"That's enough, Dawes,\" cried the barmaid.\n\n\"Come on,\" said the \"chucker-out\", with kindly insistence, \"you'd better\nbe getting on.\"\n\nAnd, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he worked\nhim to the door.\n\n\"THAT'S the little sod as started it!\" cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointing\nto Paul Morel.\n\n\"Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes!\" said the barmaid. \"You know it was you\nall the time.\"\n\nStill the \"chucker-out\" kept thrusting his chest forward at him, still\nhe kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the steps\noutside; then he turned round.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, nodding straight at his rival.\n\nPaul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled with\nviolent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there was silence\nin the bar.\n\n\"Serve, him, jolly well right!\" said the barmaid.\n\n\"But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes,\" said the\nmutual friend.\n\n\"I tell you I was glad he did,\" said the barmaid. \"Will you have\nanother, Mr. Morel?\"\n\nShe held up Paul's glass questioningly. He nodded.\n\n\"He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes,\" said one.\n\n\"Pooh! is he?\" said the barmaid. \"He's a loud-mouthed one, he is, and\nthey're never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken chap, if you want a\ndevil!\"\n\n\"Well, Paul, my lad,\" said the friend, \"you'll have to take care of\nyourself now for a while.\"\n\n\"You won't have to give him a chance over you, that's all,\" said the\nbarmaid.\n\n\"Can you box?\" asked a friend.\n\n\"Not a bit,\" he answered, still very white.\n\n\"I might give you a turn or two,\" said the friend.\n\n\"Thanks, I haven't time.\"\n\nAnd presently he took his departure.\n\n\"Go along with him, Mr. Jenkinson,\" whispered the barmaid, tipping Mr.\nJenkinson the wink.\n\nThe man nodded, took his hat, said: \"Good-night all!\" very heartily, and\nfollowed Paul, calling:\n\n\"Half a minute, old man. You an' me's going the same road, I believe.\"\n\n\"Mr. Morel doesn't like it,\" said the barmaid. \"You'll see, we shan't\nhave him in much more. I'm sorry; he's good company. And Baxter Dawes\nwants locking up, that's what he wants.\"\n\nPaul would have died rather than his mother should get to know of this\naffair. He suffered tortures of humiliation and self-consciousness.\nThere was now a good deal of his life of which necessarily he could not\nspeak to his mother. He had a life apart from her--his sexual life. The\nrest she still kept. But he felt he had to conceal something from her,\nand it irked him. There was a certain silence between them, and he\nfelt he had, in that silence, to defend himself against her; he felt\ncondemned by her. Then sometimes he hated her, and pulled at her\nbondage. His life wanted to free itself of her. It was like a circle\nwhere life turned back on itself, and got no farther. She bore him,\nloved him, kept him, and his love turned back into her, so that he could\nnot be free to go forward with his own life, really love another woman.\nAt this period, unknowingly, he resisted his mother's influence. He did\nnot tell her things; there was a distance between them.\n\nClara was happy, almost sure of him. She felt she had at last got him\nfor herself; and then again came the uncertainty. He told her jestingly\nof the affair with her husband. Her colour came up, her grey eyes\nflashed.\n\n\"That's him to a 'T',\" she cried--\"like a navvy! He's not fit for mixing\nwith decent folk.\"\n\n\"Yet you married him,\" he said.\n\nIt made her furious that he reminded her.\n\n\"I did!\" she cried. \"But how was I to know?\"\n\n\"I think he might have been rather nice,\" he said.\n\n\"You think I made him what he is!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Oh no! he made himself. But there's something about him--\"\n\nClara looked at her lover closely. There was something in him she hated,\na sort of detached criticism of herself, a coldness which made her\nwoman's soul harden against him.\n\n\"And what are you going to do?\" she asked.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"About Baxter.\"\n\n\"There's nothing to do, is there?\" he replied.\n\n\"You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?\" she said.\n\n\"No; I haven't the least sense of the 'fist'. It's funny. With most men\nthere's the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It's not so with me. I\nshould want a knife or a pistol or something to fight with.\"\n\n\"Then you'd better carry something,\" she said.\n\n\"Nay,\" he laughed; \"I'm not daggeroso.\"\n\n\"But he'll do something to you. You don't know him.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said, \"we'll see.\"\n\n\"And you'll let him?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, if I can't help it.\"\n\n\"And if he kills you?\" she said.\n\n\"I should be sorry, for his sake and mine.\"\n\nClara was silent for a moment.\n\n\"You DO make me angry!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"That's nothing afresh,\" he laughed.\n\n\"But why are you so silly? You don't know him.\"\n\n\"And don't want.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you're not going to let a man do as he likes with you?\"\n\n\"What must I do?\" he replied, laughing.\n\n\"I should carry a revolver,\" she said. \"I'm sure he's dangerous.\"\n\n\"I might blow my fingers off,\" he said.\n\n\"No; but won't you?\" she pleaded.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Not anything?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And you'll leave him to--?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You are a fool!\"\n\n\"Fact!\"\n\nShe set her teeth with anger.\n\n\"I could SHAKE you!\" she cried, trembling with passion.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Let a man like HIM do as he likes with you.\"\n\n\"You can go back to him if he triumphs,\" he said.\n\n\"Do you want me to hate you?\" she asked.\n\n\"Well, I only tell you,\" he said.\n\n\"And YOU say you LOVE me!\" she exclaimed, low and indignant.\n\n\"Ought I to slay him to please you?\" he said. \"But if I did, see what a\nhold he'd have over me.\"\n\n\"Do you think I'm a fool!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Not at all. But you don't understand me, my dear.\"\n\nThere was a pause between them.\n\n\"But you ought NOT to expose yourself,\" she pleaded.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders.\n\n     \"'The man in righteousness arrayed,\n     The pure and blameless liver,\n     Needs not the keen Toledo blade,\n     Nor venom-freighted quiver,'\"\n\nhe quoted.\n\nShe looked at him searchingly.\n\n\"I wish I could understand you,\" she said.\n\n\"There's simply nothing to understand,\" he laughed.\n\nShe bowed her head, brooding.\n\nHe did not see Dawes for several days; then one morning as he ran\nupstairs from the Spiral room he almost collided with the burly\nmetal-worker.\n\n\"What the--!\" cried the smith.\n\n\"Sorry!\" said Paul, and passed on.\n\n\"SORRY!\" sneered Dawes.\n\nPaul whistled lightly, \"Put Me among the Girls\".\n\n\"I'll stop your whistle, my jockey!\" he said.\n\nThe other took no notice.\n\n\"You're goin' to answer for that job of the other night.\"\n\nPaul went to his desk in his corner, and turned over the leaves of the\nledger.\n\n\"Go and tell Fanny I want order 097, quick!\" he said to his boy.\n\nDawes stood in the doorway, tall and threatening, looking at the top of\nthe young man's head.\n\n\"Six and five's eleven and seven's one-and-six,\" Paul added aloud.\n\n\"An' you hear, do you!\" said Dawes.\n\n\"FIVE AND NINEPENCE!\" He wrote a figure. \"What's that?\" he said.\n\n\"I'm going to show you what it is,\" said the smith.\n\nThe other went on adding the figures aloud.\n\n\"Yer crawlin' little--, yer daresn't face me proper!\"\n\nPaul quickly snatched the heavy ruler. Dawes started. The young man\nruled some lines in his ledger. The elder man was infuriated.\n\n\"But wait till I light on you, no matter where it is, I'll settle your\nhash for a bit, yer little swine!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Paul.\n\nAt that the smith started heavily from the doorway. Just then a whistle\npiped shrilly. Paul went to the speaking-tube.\n\n\"Yes!\" he said, and he listened. \"Er--yes!\" He listened, then he\nlaughed. \"I'll come down directly. I've got a visitor just now.\"\n\nDawes knew from his tone that he had been speaking to Clara. He stepped\nforward.\n\n\"Yer little devil!\" he said. \"I'll visitor you, inside of two minutes!\nThink I'm goin' to have YOU whipperty-snappin' round?\"\n\nThe other clerks in the warehouse looked up. Paul's office-boy appeared,\nholding some white article.\n\n\"Fanny says you could have had it last night if you'd let her know,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"All right,\" answered Paul, looking at the stocking. \"Get it off.\" Dawes\nstood frustrated, helpless with rage. Morel turned round.\n\n\"Excuse me a minute,\" he said to Dawes, and he would have run\ndownstairs.\n\n\"By God, I'll stop your gallop!\" shouted the smith, seizing him by the\narm. He turned quickly.\n\n\"Hey! Hey!\" cried the office-boy, alarmed.\n\nThomas Jordan started out of his little glass office, and came running\ndown the room.\n\n\"What's a-matter, what's a-matter?\" he said, in his old man's sharp\nvoice.\n\n\"I'm just goin' ter settle this little--, that's all,\" said Dawes\ndesperately.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" snapped Thomas Jordan.\n\n\"What I say,\" said Dawes, but he hung fire.\n\nMorel was leaning against the counter, ashamed, half-grinning.\n\n\"What's it all about?\" snapped Thomas Jordan.\n\n\"Couldn't say,\" said Paul, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\"Couldn't yer, couldn't yer!\" cried Dawes, thrusting forward his\nhandsome, furious face, and squaring his fist.\n\n\"Have you finished?\" cried the old man, strutting. \"Get off about your\nbusiness, and don't come here tipsy in the morning.\"\n\nDawes turned his big frame slowly upon him.\n\n\"Tipsy!\" he said. \"Who's tipsy? I'm no more tipsy than YOU are!\"\n\n\"We've heard that song before,\" snapped the old man. \"Now you get off,\nand don't be long about it. Comin' HERE with your rowdying.\"\n\nThe smith looked down contemptuously on his employer. His hands, large,\nand grimy, and yet well shaped for his labour, worked restlessly. Paul\nremembered they were the hands of Clara's husband, and a flash of hate\nwent through him.\n\n\"Get out before you're turned out!\" snapped Thomas Jordan.\n\n\"Why, who'll turn me out?\" said Dawes, beginning to sneer.\n\nMr. Jordan started, marched up to the smith, waving him off, thrusting\nhis stout little figure at the man, saying:\n\n\"Get off my premises--get off!\"\n\nHe seized and twitched Dawes's arm.\n\n\"Come off!\" said the smith, and with a jerk of the elbow he sent the\nlittle manufacturer staggering backwards.\n\nBefore anyone could help him, Thomas Jordan had collided with the flimsy\nspring-door. It had given way, and let him crash down the half-dozen\nsteps into Fanny's room. There was a second of amazement; then men and\ngirls were running. Dawes stood a moment looking bitterly on the scene,\nthen he took his departure.\n\nThomas Jordan was shaken and braised, not otherwise hurt. He was,\nhowever, beside himself with rage. He dismissed Dawes from his\nemployment, and summoned him for assault.\n\nAt the trial Paul Morel had to give evidence. Asked how the trouble\nbegan, he said:\n\n\"Dawes took occasion to insult Mrs. Dawes and me because I accompanied\nher to the theatre one evening; then I threw some beer at him, and he\nwanted his revenge.\"\n\n\"_Cherchez la femme!_\" smiled the magistrate.\n\nThe case was dismissed after the magistrate had told Dawes he thought\nhim a skunk.\n\n\"You gave the case away,\" snapped Mr. Jordan to Paul.\n\n\"I don't think I did,\" replied the latter. \"Besides, you didn't really\nwant a conviction, did you?\"\n\n\"What do you think I took the case up for?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Paul, \"I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing.\" Clara was also\nvery angry.\n\n\"Why need MY name have been dragged in?\" she said.\n\n\"Better speak it openly than leave it to be whispered.\"\n\n\"There was no need for anything at all,\" she declared.\n\n\"We are none the poorer,\" he said indifferently.\n\n\"YOU may not be,\" she said.\n\n\"And you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I need never have been mentioned.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said; but he did not sound sorry.\n\nHe told himself easily: \"She will come round.\" And she did.\n\nHe told his mother about the fall of Mr. Jordan and the trial of Dawes.\nMrs. Morel watched him closely.\n\n\"And what do you think of it all?\" she asked him.\n\n\"I think he's a fool,\" he said.\n\nBut he was very uncomfortable, nevertheless.\n\n\"Have you ever considered where it will end?\" his mother said.\n\n\"No,\" he answered; \"things work out of themselves.\"\n\n\"They do, in a way one doesn't like, as a rule,\" said his mother.\n\n\"And then one has to put up with them,\" he said.\n\n\"You'll find you're not as good at 'putting up' as you imagine,\" she\nsaid.\n\nHe went on working rapidly at his design.\n\n\"Do you ever ask HER opinion?\" she said at length.\n\n\"What of?\"\n\n\"Of you, and the whole thing.\"\n\n\"I don't care what her opinion of me is. She's fearfully in love with\nme, but it's not very deep.\"\n\n\"But quite as deep as your feeling for her.\"\n\nHe looked up at his mother curiously.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"You know, mother, I think there must be something the\nmatter with me, that I CAN'T love. When she's there, as a rule, I DO\nlove her. Sometimes, when I see her just as THE WOMAN, I love her,\nmother; but then, when she talks and criticises, I often don't listen to\nher.\"\n\n\"Yet she's as much sense as Miriam.\"\n\n\"Perhaps; and I love her better than Miriam. But WHY don't they hold\nme?\"\n\nThe last question was almost a lamentation. His mother turned away her\nface, sat looking across the room, very quiet, grave, with something of\nrenunciation.\n\n\"But you wouldn't want to marry Clara?\" she said.\n\n\"No; at first perhaps I would. But why--why don't I want to marry her or\nanybody? I feel sometimes as if I wronged my women, mother.\"\n\n\"How wronged them, my son?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nHe went on painting rather despairingly; he had touched the quick of the\ntrouble.\n\n\"And as for wanting to marry,\" said his mother, \"there's plenty of time\nyet.\"\n\n\"But no, mother. I even love Clara, and I did Miriam; but to GIVE myself\nto them in marriage I couldn't. I couldn't belong to them. They seem to\nwant ME, and I can't ever give it them.\"\n\n\"You haven't met the right woman.\"\n\n\"And I never shall meet the right woman while you live,\" he said.\n\nShe was very quiet. Now she began to feel again tired, as if she were\ndone.\n\n\"We'll see, my son,\" she answered.\n\nThe feeling that things were going in a circle made him mad.\n\nClara was, indeed, passionately in love with him, and he with her, as\nfar as passion went. In the daytime he forgot her a good deal. She was\nworking in the same building, but he was not aware of it. He was busy,\nand her existence was of no matter to him. But all the time she was in\nher Spiral room she had a sense that he was upstairs, a physical sense\nof his person in the same building. Every second she expected him to\ncome through the door, and when he came it was a shock to her. But he\nwas often short and offhand with her. He gave her his directions in an\nofficial manner, keeping her at bay. With what wits she had left she\nlistened to him. She dared not misunderstand or fail to remember, but\nit was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactly\nhow his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touch\nit. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice giving orders about\nthe work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivial\ncoating of business which covered him with hardness, get at the man\nagain; but she was afraid, and before she could feel one touch of his\nwarmth he was gone, and she ached again.\n\nHe knew that she was dreary every evening she did not see him, so he\ngave her a good deal of his time. The days were often a misery to her,\nbut the evenings and the nights were usually a bliss to them both. Then\nthey were silent. For hours they sat together, or walked together in the\ndark, and talked only a few, almost meaningless words. But he had her\nhand in his, and her bosom left its warmth in his chest, making him feel\nwhole.\n\nOne evening they were walking down by the canal, and something was\ntroubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the time he whistled\nsoftly and persistently to himself. She listened, feeling she could\nlearn more from his whistling than from his speech. It was a sad\ndissatisfied tune--a tune that made her feel he would not stay with her.\nShe walked on in silence. When they came to the swing bridge he sat down\non the great pole, looking at the stars in the water. He was a long way\nfrom her. She had been thinking.\n\n\"Will you always stay at Jordan's?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" he answered without reflecting. \"No; I s'll leave Nottingham and\ngo abroad--soon.\"\n\n\"Go abroad! What for?\"\n\n\"I dunno! I feel restless.\"\n\n\"But what shall you do?\"\n\n\"I shall have to get some steady designing work, and some sort of sale\nfor my pictures first,\" he said. \"I am gradually making my way. I know I\nam.\"\n\n\"And when do you think you'll go?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I shall hardly go for long, while there's my mother.\"\n\n\"You couldn't leave her?\"\n\n\"Not for long.\"\n\nShe looked at the stars in the black water. They lay very white and\nstaring. It was an agony to know he would leave her, but it was almost\nan agony to have him near her.\n\n\"And if you made a nice lot of money, what would you do?\" she asked.\n\n\"Go somewhere in a pretty house near London with my mother.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\nThere was a long pause.\n\n\"I could still come and see you,\" he said. \"I don't know. Don't ask me\nwhat I should do; I don't know.\"\n\nThere was a silence. The stars shuddered and broke upon the water. There\ncame a breath of wind. He went suddenly to her, and put his hand on her\nshoulder.\n\n\"Don't ask me anything about the future,\" he said miserably. \"I don't\nknow anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter what it is?\"\n\nAnd she took him in her arms. After all, she was a married woman, and\nshe had no right even to what he gave her. He needed her badly. She had\nhim in her arms, and he was miserable. With her warmth she folded\nhim over, consoled him, loved him. She would let the moment stand for\nitself.\n\nAfter a moment he lifted his head as if he wanted to speak.\n\n\"Clara,\" he said, struggling.\n\nShe caught him passionately to her, pressed his head down on her breast\nwith her hand. She could not bear the suffering in his voice. She was\nafraid in her soul. He might have anything of her--anything; but she did\nnot want to KNOW. She felt she could not bear it. She wanted him to be\nsoothed upon her--soothed. She stood clasping him and caressing him, and\nhe was something unknown to her--something almost uncanny. She wanted to\nsoothe him into forgetfulness.\n\nAnd soon the struggle went down in his soul, and he forgot. But then\nClara was not there for him, only a woman, warm, something he loved\nand almost worshipped, there in the dark. But it was not Clara, and she\nsubmitted to him. The naked hunger and inevitability of his loving her,\nsomething strong and blind and ruthless in its primitiveness, made the\nhour almost terrible to her. She knew how stark and alone he was, and\nshe felt it was great that he came to her; and she took him simply\nbecause his need was bigger either than her or him, and her soul was\nstill within her. She did this for him in his need, even if he left her,\nfor she loved him.\n\nAll the while the peewits were screaming in the field. When he came to,\nhe wondered what was near his eyes, curving and strong with life in the\ndark, and what voice it was speaking. Then he realised it was the grass,\nand the peewit was calling. The warmth was Clara's breathing heaving.\nHe lifted his head, and looked into her eyes. They were dark and shining\nand strange, life wild at the source staring into his life, stranger to\nhim, yet meeting him; and he put his face down on her throat, afraid.\nWhat was she? A strong, strange, wild life, that breathed with his\nin the darkness through this hour. It was all so much bigger than\nthemselves that he was hushed. They had met, and included in their\nmeeting the thrust of the manifold grass stems, the cry of the peewit,\nthe wheel of the stars.\n\nWhen they stood up they saw other lovers stealing down the opposite\nhedge. It seemed natural they were there; the night contained them.\n\nAnd after such an evening they both were very still, having known\nthe immensity of passion. They felt small, half-afraid, childish and\nwondering, like Adam and Eve when they lost their innocence and realised\nthe magnificence of the power which drove them out of Paradise and\nacross the great night and the great day of humanity. It was for each of\nthem an initiation and a satisfaction. To know their own nothingness,\nto know the tremendous living flood which carried them always, gave them\nrest within themselves. If so great a magnificent power could overwhelm\nthem, identify them altogether with itself, so that they knew they were\nonly grains in the tremendous heave that lifted every grass blade its\nlittle height, and every tree, and living thing, then why fret about\nthemselves? They could let themselves be carried by life, and they felt\na sort of peace each in the other. There was a verification which they\nhad had together. Nothing could nullify it, nothing could take it away;\nit was almost their belief in life.\n\nBut Clara was not satisfied. Something great was there, she knew;\nsomething great enveloped her. But it did not keep her. In the morning\nit was not the same. They had KNOWN, but she could not keep the moment.\nShe wanted it again; she wanted something permanent. She had not\nrealised fully. She thought it was he whom she wanted. He was not safe\nto her. This that had been between them might never be again; he might\nleave her. She had not got him; she was not satisfied. She had been\nthere, but she had not gripped the--the something--she knew not\nwhat--which she was mad to have.\n\nIn the morning he had considerable peace, and was happy in himself. It\nseemed almost as if he had known the baptism of fire in passion, and it\nleft him at rest. But it was not Clara. It was something that happened\nbecause of her, but it was not her. They were scarcely any nearer each\nother. It was as if they had been blind agents of a great force.\n\nWhen she saw him that day at the factory her heart melted like a drop of\nfire. It was his body, his brows. The drop of fire grew more intense\nin her breast; she must hold him. But he, very quiet, very subdued this\nmorning, went on giving his instruction. She followed him into the\ndark, ugly basement, and lifted her arms to him. He kissed her, and the\nintensity of passion began to burn him again. Somebody was at the door.\nHe ran upstairs; she returned to her room, moving as if in a trance.\n\nAfter that the fire slowly went down. He felt more and more that his\nexperience had been impersonal, and not Clara. He loved her. There was\na big tenderness, as after a strong emotion they had known together; but\nit was not she who could keep his soul steady. He had wanted her to be\nsomething she could not be.\n\nAnd she was mad with desire of him. She could not see him without\ntouching him. In the factory, as he talked to her about Spiral hose,\nshe ran her hand secretly along his side. She followed him out into the\nbasement for a quick kiss; her eyes, always mute and yearning, full of\nunrestrained passion, she kept fixed on his. He was afraid of her, lest\nshe should too flagrantly give herself away before the other girls. She\ninvariably waited for him at dinnertime for him to embrace her before\nshe went. He felt as if she were helpless, almost a burden to him, and\nit irritated him.\n\n\"But what do you always want to be kissing and embracing for?\" he said.\n\"Surely there's a time for everything.\"\n\nShe looked up at him, and the hate came into her eyes.\n\n\"DO I always want to be kissing you?\" she said.\n\n\"Always, even if I come to ask you about the work. I don't want anything\nto do with love when I'm at work. Work's work--\"\n\n\"And what is love?\" she asked. \"Has it to have special hours?\"\n\n\"Yes; out of work hours.\"\n\n\"And you'll regulate it according to Mr. Jordan's closing time?\"\n\n\"Yes; and according to the freedom from business of any sort.\"\n\n\"It is only to exist in spare time?\"\n\n\"That's all, and not always then--not the kissing sort of love.\"\n\n\"And that's all you think of it?\"\n\n\"It's quite enough.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you think so.\"\n\nAnd she was cold to him for some time--she hated him; and while she was\ncold and contemptuous, he was uneasy till she had forgiven him again.\nBut when they started afresh they were not any nearer. He kept her\nbecause he never satisfied her.\n\nIn the spring they went together to the seaside. They had rooms at\na little cottage near Theddlethorpe, and lived as man and wife. Mrs.\nRadford sometimes went with them.\n\nIt was known in Nottingham that Paul Morel and Mrs. Dawes were going\ntogether, but as nothing was very obvious, and Clara always a solitary\nperson, and he seemed so simple and innocent, it did not make much\ndifference.\n\nHe loved the Lincolnshire coast, and she loved the sea. In the early\nmorning they often went out together to bathe. The grey of the dawn,\nthe far, desolate reaches of the fenland smitten with winter, the\nsea-meadows rank with herbage, were stark enough to rejoice his soul.\nAs they stepped on to the highroad from their plank bridge, and looked\nround at the endless monotony of levels, the land a little darker than\nthe sky, the sea sounding small beyond the sandhills, his heart filled\nstrong with the sweeping relentlessness of life. She loved him then. He\nwas solitary and strong, and his eyes had a beautiful light.\n\nThey shuddered with cold; then he raced her down the road to the green\nturf bridge. She could run well. Her colour soon came, her throat was\nbare, her eyes shone. He loved her for being so luxuriously heavy, and\nyet so quick. Himself was light; she went with a beautiful rush. They\ngrew warm, and walked hand in hand.\n\nA flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way down the west, sank\ninto insignificance. On the shadowy land things began to take life,\nplants with great leaves became distinct. They came through a pass in\nthe big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long waste of foreshore lay\nmoaning under the dawn and the sea; the ocean was a flat dark strip with\na white edge. Over the gloomy sea the sky grew red. Quickly the fire\nspread among the clouds and scattered them. Crimson burned to orange,\norange to dull gold, and in a golden glitter the sun came up, dribbling\nfierily over the waves in little splashes, as if someone had gone along\nand the light had spilled from her pail as she walked.\n\nThe breakers ran down the shore in long, hoarse strokes. Tiny seagulls,\nlike specks of spray, wheeled above the line of surf. Their crying\nseemed larger than they. Far away the coast reached out, and melted into\nthe morning, the tussocky sandhills seemed to sink to a level with the\nbeach. Mablethorpe was tiny on their right. They had alone the space of\nall this level shore, the sea, and the upcoming sun, the faint noise of\nthe waters, the sharp crying of the gulls.\n\nThey had a warm hollow in the sandhills where the wind did not come. He\nstood looking out to sea.\n\n\"It's very fine,\" he said.\n\n\"Now don't get sentimental,\" she said.\n\nIt irritated her to see him standing gazing at the sea, like a solitary\nand poetic person. He laughed. She quickly undressed.\n\n\"There are some fine waves this morning,\" she said triumphantly.\n\nShe was a better swimmer than he; he stood idly watching her.\n\n\"Aren't you coming?\" she said.\n\n\"In a minute,\" he answered.\n\nShe was white and velvet skinned, with heavy shoulders. A little wind,\ncoming from the sea, blew across her body and ruffled her hair.\n\nThe morning was of a lovely limpid gold colour. Veils of shadow seemed\nto be drifting away on the north and the south. Clara stood shrinking\nslightly from the touch of the wind, twisting her hair. The sea-grass\nrose behind the white stripped woman. She glanced at the sea, then\nlooked at him. He was watching her with dark eyes which she loved and\ncould not understand. She hugged her breasts between her arms, cringing,\nlaughing:\n\n\"Oo, it will be so cold!\" she said.\n\nHe bent forward and kissed her, held her suddenly close, and kissed her\nagain. She stood waiting. He looked into her eyes, then away at the pale\nsands.\n\n\"Go, then!\" he said quietly.\n\nShe flung her arms round his neck, drew him against her, kissed him\npassionately, and went, saying:\n\n\"But you'll come in?\"\n\n\"In a minute.\"\n\nShe went plodding heavily over the sand that was soft as velvet. He,\non the sandhills, watched the great pale coast envelop her. She grew\nsmaller, lost proportion, seemed only like a large white bird toiling\nforward.\n\n\"Not much more than a big white pebble on the beach, not much more\nthan a clot of foam being blown and rolled over the sand,\" he said to\nhimself.\n\nShe seemed to move very slowly across the vast sounding shore. As he\nwatched, he lost her. She was dazzled out of sight by the sunshine.\nAgain he saw her, the merest white speck moving against the white,\nmuttering sea-edge.\n\n\"Look how little she is!\" he said to himself. \"She's lost like a grain\nof sand in the beach--just a concentrated speck blown along, a tiny\nwhite foam-bubble, almost nothing among the morning. Why does she absorb\nme?\"\n\nThe morning was altogether uninterrupted: she was gone in the water. Far\nand wide the beach, the sandhills with their blue marrain, the shining\nwater, glowed together in immense, unbroken solitude.\n\n\"What is she, after all?\" he said to himself. \"Here's the seacoast\nmorning, big and permanent and beautiful; there is she, fretting, always\nunsatisfied, and temporary as a bubble of foam. What does she mean\nto me, after all? She represents something, like a bubble of foam\nrepresents the sea. But what is she? It's not her I care for.\"\n\nThen, startled by his own unconscious thoughts, that seemed to speak so\ndistinctly that all the morning could hear, he undressed and ran quickly\ndown the sands. She was watching for him. Her arm flashed up to him, she\nheaved on a wave, subsided, her shoulders in a pool of liquid silver.\nHe jumped through the breakers, and in a moment her hand was on his\nshoulder.\n\nHe was a poor swimmer, and could not stay long in the water. She played\nround him in triumph, sporting with her superiority, which he begrudged\nher. The sunshine stood deep and fine on the water. They laughed in the\nsea for a minute or two, then raced each other back to the sandhills.\n\nWhen they were drying themselves, panting heavily, he watched her\nlaughing, breathless face, her bright shoulders, her breasts that swayed\nand made him frightened as she rubbed them, and he thought again:\n\n\"But she is magnificent, and even bigger than the morning and the sea.\nIs she--? Is she--\"\n\nShe, seeing his dark eyes fixed on her, broke off from her drying with a\nlaugh.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" she said.\n\n\"You,\" he answered, laughing.\n\nHer eyes met his, and in a moment he was kissing her white\n\"goose-fleshed\" shoulder, and thinking:\n\n\"What is she? What is she?\"\n\nShe loved him in the morning. There was something detached, hard, and\nelemental about his kisses then, as if he were only conscious of his own\nwill, not in the least of her and her wanting him.\n\nLater in the day he went out sketching.\n\n\"You,\" he said to her, \"go with your mother to Sutton. I am so dull.\"\n\nShe stood and looked at him. He knew she wanted to come with him, but he\npreferred to be alone. She made him feel imprisoned when she was there,\nas if he could not get a free deep breath, as if there were something on\ntop of him. She felt his desire to be free of her.\n\nIn the evening he came back to her. They walked down the shore in the\ndarkness, then sat for a while in the shelter of the sandhills.\n\n\"It seems,\" she said, as they stared over the darkness of the sea, where\nno light was to be seen--\"it seemed as if you only loved me at night--as\nif you didn't love me in the daytime.\"\n\nHe ran the cold sand through his fingers, feeling guilty under the\naccusation.\n\n\"The night is free to you,\" he replied. \"In the daytime I want to be by\nmyself.\"\n\n\"But why?\" she said. \"Why, even now, when we are on this short holiday?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Love-making stifles me in the daytime.\"\n\n\"But it needn't be always love-making,\" she said.\n\n\"It always is,\" he answered, \"when you and I are together.\"\n\nShe sat feeling very bitter.\n\n\"Do you ever want to marry me?\" he asked curiously.\n\n\"Do you me?\" she replied.\n\n\"Yes, yes; I should like us to have children,\" he answered slowly.\n\nShe sat with her head bent, fingering the sand.\n\n\"But you don't really want a divorce from Baxter, do you?\" he said.\n\nIt was some minutes before she replied.\n\n\"No,\" she said, very deliberately; \"I don't think I do.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Do you feel as if you belonged to him?\"\n\n\"No; I don't think so.\"\n\n\"What, then?\"\n\n\"I think he belongs to me,\" she replied.\n\nHe was silent for some minutes, listening to the wind blowing over the\nhoarse, dark sea.\n\n\"And you never really intended to belong to ME?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, I do belong to you,\" she answered.\n\n\"No,\" he said; \"because you don't want to be divorced.\"\n\nIt was a knot they could not untie, so they left it, took what they\ncould get, and what they could not attain they ignored.\n\n\"I consider you treated Baxter rottenly,\" he said another time.\n\nHe half-expected Clara to answer him, as his mother would: \"You consider\nyour own affairs, and don't know so much about other people's.\" But she\ntook him seriously, almost to his own surprise.\n\n\"Why?\" she said.\n\n\"I suppose you thought he was a lily of the valley, and so you put him\nin an appropriate pot, and tended him according. You made up your mind\nhe was a lily of the valley and it was no good his being a cow-parsnip.\nYou wouldn't have it.\"\n\n\"I certainly never imagined him a lily of the valley.\"\n\n\"You imagined him something he wasn't. That's just what a woman is. She\nthinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's going to see he gets\nit; and no matter if he's starving, he may sit and whistle for what he\nneeds, while she's got him, and is giving him what's good for him.\"\n\n\"And what are you doing?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'm thinking what tune I shall whistle,\" he laughed.\n\nAnd instead of boxing his ears, she considered him in earnest.\n\n\"You think I want to give you what's good for you?\" she asked.\n\n\"I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom, not of prison.\nMiriam made me feel tied up like a donkey to a stake. I must feed on her\npatch, and nowhere else. It's sickening!\"\n\n\"And would YOU let a WOMAN do as she likes?\"\n\n\"Yes; I'll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn't--well, I don't\nhold her.\"\n\n\"If you were as wonderful as you say--,\" replied Clara.\n\n\"I should be the marvel I am,\" he laughed.\n\nThere was a silence in which they hated each other, though they laughed.\n\n\"Love's a dog in a manger,\" he said.\n\n\"And which of us is the dog?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh well, you, of course.\"\n\nSo there went on a battle between them. She knew she never fully had\nhim. Some part, big and vital in him, she had no hold over; nor did she\never try to get it, or even to realise what it was. And he knew in some\nway that she held herself still as Mrs. Dawes. She did not love Dawes,\nnever had loved him; but she believed he loved her, at least depended on\nher. She felt a certain surety about him that she never felt with Paul\nMorel. Her passion for the young man had filled her soul, given her\na certain satisfaction, eased her of her self-mistrust, her doubt.\nWhatever else she was, she was inwardly assured. It was almost as if\nshe had gained HERSELF, and stood now distinct and complete. She had\nreceived her confirmation; but she never believed that her life belonged\nto Paul Morel, nor his to her. They would separate in the end, and the\nrest of her life would be an ache after him. But at any rate, she knew\nnow, she was sure of herself. And the same could almost be said of him.\nTogether they had received the baptism of life, each through the other;\nbut now their missions were separate. Where he wanted to go she could\nnot come with him. They would have to part sooner or later. Even if they\nmarried, and were faithful to each other, still he would have to leave\nher, go on alone, and she would only have to attend to him when he came\nhome. But it was not possible. Each wanted a mate to go side by side\nwith.\n\nClara had gone to live with her mother upon Mapperley Plains. One\nevening, as Paul and she were walking along Woodborough Road, they met\nDawes. Morel knew something about the bearing of the man approaching,\nbut he was absorbed in his thinking at the moment, so that only his\nartist's eye watched the form of the stranger. Then he suddenly turned\nto Clara with a laugh, and put his hand on her shoulder, saying,\nlaughing:\n\n\"But we walk side by side, and yet I'm in London arguing with an\nimaginary Orpen; and where are you?\"\n\nAt that instant Dawes passed, almost touching Morel. The young man\nglanced, saw the dark brown eyes burning, full of hate and yet tired.\n\n\"Who was that?\" he asked of Clara.\n\n\"It was Baxter,\" she replied.\n\nPaul took his hand from her shoulder and glanced round; then he saw\nagain distinctly the man's form as it approached him. Dawes still walked\nerect, with his fine shoulders flung back, and his face lifted; but\nthere was a furtive look in his eyes that gave one the impression he was\ntrying to get unnoticed past every person he met, glancing suspiciously\nto see what they thought of him. And his hands seemed to be wanting to\nhide. He wore old clothes, the trousers were torn at the knee, and the\nhandkerchief tied round his throat was dirty; but his cap was still\ndefiantly over one eye. As she saw him, Clara felt guilty. There was\na tiredness and despair on his face that made her hate him, because it\nhurt her.\n\n\"He looks shady,\" said Paul.\n\nBut the note of pity in his voice reproached her, and made her feel\nhard.\n\n\"His true commonness comes out,\" she answered.\n\n\"Do you hate him?\" he asked.\n\n\"You talk,\" she said, \"about the cruelty of women; I wish you knew the\ncruelty of men in their brute force. They simply don't know that the\nwoman exists.\"\n\n\"Don't I?\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" she answered.\n\n\"Don't I know you exist?\"\n\n\"About ME you know nothing,\" she said bitterly--\"about ME!\"\n\n\"No more than Baxter knew?\" he asked.\n\n\"Perhaps not as much.\"\n\nHe felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry. There she walked unknown to\nhim, though they had been through such experience together.\n\n\"But you know ME pretty well,\" he said.\n\nShe did not answer.\n\n\"Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?\" he asked.\n\n\"He wouldn't let me,\" she said.\n\n\"And I have let you know me?\"\n\n\"It's what men WON'T let you do. They won't let you get really near to\nthem,\" she said.\n\n\"And haven't I let you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered slowly; \"but you've never come near to me. You can't\ncome out of yourself, you can't. Baxter could do that better than you.\"\n\nHe walked on pondering. He was angry with her for preferring Baxter to\nhim.\n\n\"You begin to value Baxter now you've not got him,\" he said.\n\n\"No; I can only see where he was different from you.\"\n\nBut he felt she had a grudge against him.\n\nOne evening, as they were coming home over the fields, she startled him\nby asking:\n\n\"Do you think it's worth it--the--the sex part?\"\n\n\"The act of loving, itself?\"\n\n\"Yes; is it worth anything to you?\"\n\n\"But how can you separate it?\" he said. \"It's the culmination of\neverything. All our intimacy culminates then.\"\n\n\"Not for me,\" she said.\n\nHe was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all, she was\ndissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought they fulfilled each\nother. But he believed her too implicitly.\n\n\"I feel,\" she continued slowly, \"as if I hadn't got you, as if all of\nyou weren't there, and as if it weren't ME you were taking--\"\n\n\"Who, then?\"\n\n\"Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that I daren't think\nof it. But is it ME you want, or is it IT?\"\n\nHe again felt guilty. Did he leave Clara out of count, and take simply\nwomen? But he thought that was splitting a hair.\n\n\"When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I DID feel as if I had all of\nhim,\" she said.\n\n\"And it was better?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don't say you haven't given me more than\nhe ever gave me.\"\n\n\"Or could give you.\"\n\n\"Yes, perhaps; but you've never given me yourself.\"\n\nHe knitted his brows angrily.\n\n\"If I start to make love to you,\" he said, \"I just go like a leaf down\nthe wind.\"\n\n\"And leave me out of count,\" she said.\n\n\"And then is it nothing to you?\" he asked, almost rigid with chagrin.\n\n\"It's something; and sometimes you have carried me away--right away--I\nknow--and--I reverence you for it--but--\"\n\n\"Don't 'but' me,\" he said, kissing her quickly, as a fire ran through\nhim.\n\nShe submitted, and was silent.\n\nIt was true as he said. As a rule, when he started love-making, the\nemotion was strong enough to carry with it everything--reason, soul,\nblood--in a great sweep, like the Trent carries bodily its back-swirls\nand intertwinings, noiselessly. Gradually the little criticisms, the\nlittle sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything borne along\nin one flood. He became, not a man with a mind, but a great instinct.\nHis hands were like creatures, living; his limbs, his body, were\nall life and consciousness, subject to no will of his, but living in\nthemselves. Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous, wintry stars were\nstrong also with life. He and they struck with the same pulse of fire,\nand the same joy of strength which held the bracken-frond stiff near\nhis eyes held his own body firm. It was as if he, and the stars, and the\ndark herbage, and Clara were licked up in an immense tongue of flame,\nwhich tore onwards and upwards. Everything rushed along in living beside\nhim; everything was still, perfect in itself, along with him. This\nwonderful stillness in each thing in itself, while it was being borne\nalong in a very ecstasy of living, seemed the highest point of bliss.\n\nAnd Clara knew this held him to her, so she trusted altogether to the\npassion. It, however, failed her very often. They did not often reach\nagain the height of that once when the peewits had called. Gradually,\nsome mechanical effort spoilt their loving, or, when they had splendid\nmoments, they had them separately, and not so satisfactorily. So often\nhe seemed merely to be running on alone; often they realised it had been\na failure, not what they had wanted. He left her, knowing THAT evening\nhad only made a little split between them. Their loving grew more\nmechanical, without the marvellous glamour. Gradually they began to\nintroduce novelties, to get back some of the feeling of satisfaction.\nThey would be very near, almost dangerously near to the river, so that\nthe black water ran not far from his face, and it gave a little thrill;\nor they loved sometimes in a little hollow below the fence of the path\nwhere people were passing occasionally, on the edge of the town, and\nthey heard footsteps coming, almost felt the vibration of the tread,\nand they heard what the passersby said--strange little things that\nwere never intended to be heard. And afterwards each of them was rather\nashamed, and these things caused a distance between the two of them. He\nbegan to despise her a little, as if she had merited it!\n\nOne night he left her to go to Daybrook Station over the fields. It\nwas very dark, with an attempt at snow, although the spring was so far\nadvanced. Morel had not much time; he plunged forward. The town ceases\nalmost abruptly on the edge of a steep hollow; there the houses with\ntheir yellow lights stand up against the darkness. He went over the\nstile, and dropped quickly into the hollow of the fields. Under the\norchard one warm window shone in Swineshead Farm. Paul glanced round.\nBehind, the houses stood on the brim of the dip, black against the\nsky, like wild beasts glaring curiously with yellow eyes down into the\ndarkness. It was the town that seemed savage and uncouth, glaring on the\nclouds at the back of him. Some creature stirred under the willows of\nthe farm pond. It was too dark to distinguish anything.\n\nHe was close up to the next stile before he saw a dark shape leaning\nagainst it. The man moved aside.\n\n\"Good-evening!\" he said.\n\n\"Good-evening!\" Morel answered, not noticing.\n\n\"Paul Morel?\" said the man.\n\nThen he knew it was Dawes. The man stopped his way.\n\n\"I've got yer, have I?\" he said awkwardly.\n\n\"I shall miss my train,\" said Paul.\n\nHe could see nothing of Dawes's face. The man's teeth seemed to chatter\nas he talked.\n\n\"You're going to get it from me now,\" said Dawes.\n\nMorel attempted to move forward; the other man stepped in front of him.\n\n\"Are yer goin' to take that top-coat off,\" he said, \"or are you goin' to\nlie down to it?\"\n\nPaul was afraid the man was mad.\n\n\"But,\" he said, \"I don't know how to fight.\"\n\n\"All right, then,\" answered Dawes, and before the younger man knew where\nhe was, he was staggering backwards from a blow across the face.\n\nThe whole night went black. He tore off his overcoat and coat, dodging\na blow, and flung the garments over Dawes. The latter swore savagely.\nMorel, in his shirt-sleeves, was now alert and furious. He felt his\nwhole body unsheath itself like a claw. He could not fight, so he would\nuse his wits. The other man became more distinct to him; he could see\nparticularly the shirt-breast. Dawes stumbled over Paul's coats, then\ncame rushing forward. The young man's mouth was bleeding. It was the\nother man's mouth he was dying to get at, and the desire was anguish\nin its strength. He stepped quickly through the stile, and as Dawes was\ncoming through after him, like a flash he got a blow in over the other's\nmouth. He shivered with pleasure. Dawes advanced slowly, spitting. Paul\nwas afraid; he moved round to get to the stile again. Suddenly, from\nout of nowhere, came a great blow against his ear, that sent him falling\nhelpless backwards. He heard Dawes's heavy panting, like a wild beast's,\nthen came a kick on the knee, giving him such agony that he got up and,\nquite blind, leapt clean under his enemy's guard. He felt blows and\nkicks, but they did not hurt. He hung on to the bigger man like a wild\ncat, till at last Dawes fell with a crash, losing his presence of mind.\nPaul went down with him. Pure instinct brought his hands to the man's\nneck, and before Dawes, in frenzy and agony, could wrench him free,\nhe had got his fists twisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug in the\nthroat of the other man. He was a pure instinct, without reason or\nfeeling. His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against the\nstruggling body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He was\nquite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to kill this\nother man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He lay\npressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itself to its one\npure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactly at the right\nmoment, with exactly the right amount of strength, the struggles of\nthe other, silent, intent, unchanging, gradually pressing its knuckles\ndeeper, feeling the struggles of the other body become wilder and\nmore frenzied. Tighter and tighter grew his body, like a screw that is\ngradually increasing in pressure, till something breaks.\n\nThen suddenly he relaxed, full of wonder and misgiving. Dawes had been\nyielding. Morel felt his body flame with pain, as he realised what he\nwas doing; he was all bewildered. Dawes's struggles suddenly renewed\nthemselves in a furious spasm. Paul's hands were wrenched, torn out of\nthe scarf in which they were knotted, and he was flung away, helpless.\nHe heard the horrid sound of the other's gasping, but he lay stunned;\nthen, still dazed, he felt the blows of the other's feet, and lost\nconsciousness.\n\nDawes, grunting with pain like a beast, was kicking the prostrate body\nof his rival. Suddenly the whistle of the train shrieked two fields\naway. He turned round and glared suspiciously. What was coming? He saw\nthe lights of the train draw across his vision. It seemed to him people\nwere approaching. He made off across the field into Nottingham, and\ndimly in his consciousness as he went, he felt on his foot the place\nwhere his boot had knocked against one of the lad's bones. The knock\nseemed to re-echo inside him; he hurried to get away from it.\n\nMorel gradually came to himself. He knew where he was and what had\nhappened, but he did not want to move. He lay still, with tiny bits of\nsnow tickling his face. It was pleasant to lie quite, quite still. The\ntime passed. It was the bits of snow that kept rousing him when he did\nnot want to be roused. At last his will clicked into action.\n\n\"I mustn't lie here,\" he said; \"it's silly.\"\n\nBut still he did not move.\n\n\"I said I was going to get up,\" he repeated. \"Why don't I?\"\n\nAnd still it was some time before he had sufficiently pulled himself\ntogether to stir; then gradually he got up. Pain made him sick and\ndazed, but his brain was clear. Reeling, he groped for his coats and got\nthem on, buttoning his overcoat up to his ears. It was some time before\nhe found his cap. He did not know whether his face was still bleeding.\nWalking blindly, every step making him sick with pain, he went back to\nthe pond and washed his face and hands. The icy water hurt, but helped\nto bring him back to himself. He crawled back up the hill to the tram.\nHe wanted to get to his mother--he must get to his mother--that was his\nblind intention. He covered his face as much as he could, and struggled\nsickly along. Continually the ground seemed to fall away from him as\nhe walked, and he felt himself dropping with a sickening feeling into\nspace; so, like a nightmare, he got through with the journey home.\n\nEverybody was in bed. He looked at himself. His face was discoloured\nand smeared with blood, almost like a dead man's face. He washed it, and\nwent to bed. The night went by in delirium. In the morning he found his\nmother looking at him. Her blue eyes--they were all he wanted to see.\nShe was there; he was in her hands.\n\n\"It's not much, mother,\" he said. \"It was Baxter Dawes.\"\n\n\"Tell me where it hurts you,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"I don't know--my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother.\"\n\nHe could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant, came\nupstairs with some tea.\n\n\"Your mother's nearly frightened me out of my wits--fainted away,\" she\nsaid.\n\nHe felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he told her about\nit.\n\n\"And now I should have done with them all,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"I will, mother.\"\n\nShe covered him up.\n\n\"And don't think about it,\" she said--\"only try to go to sleep. The\ndoctor won't be here till eleven.\"\n\nHe had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bronchitis set\nin. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She would sit and\nlook at him, then away into space. There was something between them that\nneither dared mention. Clara came to see him. Afterwards he said to his\nmother:\n\n\"She makes me tired, mother.\"\n\n\"Yes; I wish she wouldn't come,\" Mrs. Morel replied.\n\nAnother day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a stranger to him.\n\n\"You know, I don't care about them, mother,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm afraid you don't, my son,\" she replied sadly.\n\nIt was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon he\nwas able to go to work again, but now there was a constant sickness and\ngnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, as it were,\nnobody there. He could not work. He and his mother seemed almost to\navoid each other. There was some secret between them which they could\nnot bear. He was not aware of it. He only knew that his life seemed\nunbalanced, as if it were going to smash into pieces.\n\nClara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised that he\nseemed unaware of her. Even when he came to her he seemed unaware of\nher; always he was somewhere else. She felt she was clutching for him,\nand he was somewhere else. It tortured her, and so she tortured him. For\na month at a time she kept him at arm's length. He almost hated her, and\nwas driven to her in spite of himself. He went mostly into the company\nof men, was always at the George or the White Horse. His mother was ill,\ndistant, quiet, shadowy. He was terrified of something; he dared not\nlook at her. Her eyes seemed to grow darker, her face more waxen; still\nshe dragged about at her work.\n\nAt Whitsuntide he said he would go to Blackpool for four days with his\nfriend Newton. The latter was a big, jolly fellow, with a touch of the\nbounder about him. Paul said his mother must go to Sheffield to stay a\nweek with Annie, who lived there. Perhaps the change would do her good.\nMrs. Morel was attending a woman's doctor in Nottingham. He said her\nheart and her digestion were wrong. She consented to go to Sheffield,\nthough she did not want to; but now she would do everything her son\nwished of her. Paul said he would come for her on the fifth day, and\nstay also in Sheffield till the holiday was up. It was agreed.\n\nThe two young men set off gaily for Blackpool. Mrs. Morel was quite\nlively as Paul kissed her and left her. Once at the station, he forgot\neverything. Four days were clear--not an anxiety, not a thought. The two\nyoung men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was like another man. None of\nhimself remained--no Clara, no Miriam, no mother that fretted him. He\nwrote to them all, and long letters to his mother; but they were jolly\nletters that made her laugh. He was having a good time, as young fellows\nwill in a place like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadow for\nher.\n\nPaul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with his mother in\nSheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their train was late.\nJoking, laughing, with their pipes between their teeth, the young men\nswung their bags on to the tram-car. Paul had bought his mother a little\ncollar of real lace that he wanted to see her wear, so that he could\ntease her about it.\n\nAnnie lived in a nice house, and had a little maid. Paul ran gaily up\nthe steps. He expected his mother laughing in the hall, but it was\nAnnie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He stood a second in\ndismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek.\n\n\"Is my mother ill?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes; she's not very well. Don't upset her.\"\n\n\"Is she in bed?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAnd then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine had\ngone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag and ran\nupstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat up in bed,\nwearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked at him almost as\nif she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashy\nlook about her.\n\n\"Mother!\" he said.\n\n\"I thought you were never coming,\" she answered gaily.\n\nBut he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face in the\nbedclothes, crying in agony, and saying:\n\n\"Mother--mother--mother!\"\n\nShe stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand.\n\n\"Don't cry,\" she said. \"Don't cry--it's nothing.\"\n\nBut he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried in\nterror and pain.\n\n\"Don't--don't cry,\" his mother faltered.\n\nSlowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, and the\ntears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, but he dared\nnot lift his face out of the bedclothes.\n\n\"You ARE late. Where have you been?\" his mother asked.\n\n\"The train was late,\" he replied, muffled in the sheet.\n\n\"Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting.\"\n\nWith a wrench he looked up at her.\n\n\"What is it, mother?\" he asked brutally.\n\nShe averted her eyes as she answered:\n\n\"Only a bit of a tumour, my boy. You needn't trouble. It's been\nthere--the lump has--a long time.\"\n\nUp came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard, but his body was\ncrying.\n\n\"Where?\" he said.\n\nShe put her hand on her side.\n\n\"Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away.\"\n\nHe stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thought perhaps it\nwas as she said. Yes; he reassured himself it was so. But all the while\nhis blood and his body knew definitely what it was. He sat down on\nthe bed, and took her hand. She had never had but the one ring--her\nwedding-ring.\n\n\"When were you poorly?\" he asked.\n\n\"It was yesterday it began,\" she answered submissively.\n\n\"Pains?\"\n\n\"Yes; but not more than I've often had at home. I believe Dr. Ansell is\nan alarmist.\"\n\n\"You ought not to have travelled alone,\" he said, to himself more than\nto her.\n\n\"As if that had anything to do with it!\" she answered quickly.\n\nThey were silent for a while.\n\n\"Now go and have your dinner,\" she said. \"You MUST be hungry.\"\n\n\"Have you had yours?\"\n\n\"Yes; a beautiful sole I had. Annie IS good to me.\"\n\nThey talked a little while, then he went downstairs. He was very white\nand strained. Newton sat in miserable sympathy.\n\nAfter dinner he went into the scullery to help Annie to wash up. The\nlittle maid had gone on an errand.\n\n\"Is it really a tumour?\" he asked.\n\nAnnie began to cry again.\n\n\"The pain she had yesterday--I never saw anybody suffer like it!\" she\ncried. \"Leonard ran like a madman for Dr. Ansell, and when she'd got to\nbed she said to me: 'Annie, look at this lump on my side. I wonder what\nit is?' And there I looked, and I thought I should have dropped. Paul,\nas true as I'm here, it's a lump as big as my double fist. I said: 'Good\ngracious, mother, whenever did that come?' 'Why, child,' she said, 'it's\nbeen there a long time.' I thought I should have died, our Paul, I did.\nShe's been having these pains for months at home, and nobody looking\nafter her.\"\n\nThe tears came to his eyes, then dried suddenly.\n\n\"But she's been attending the doctor in Nottingham--and she never told\nme,\" he said.\n\n\"If I'd have been at home,\" said Annie, \"I should have seen for myself.\"\n\nHe felt like a man walking in unrealities. In the afternoon he went to\nsee the doctor. The latter was a shrewd, lovable man.\n\n\"But what is it?\" he said.\n\nThe doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers.\n\n\"It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane,\" he said\nslowly, \"and which we MAY be able to make go away.\"\n\n\"Can't you operate?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"Not there,\" replied the doctor.\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"QUITE!\"\n\nPaul meditated a while.\n\n\"Are you sure it's a tumour?\" he asked. \"Why did Dr. Jameson in\nNottingham never find out anything about it? She's been going to him for\nweeks, and he's treated her for heart and indigestion.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"And do you KNOW it's a tumour?\"\n\n\"No, I am not sure.\"\n\n\"What else MIGHT it be? You asked my sister if there was cancer in the\nfamily. Might it be cancer?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"And what shall you do?\"\n\n\"I should like an examination, with Dr. Jameson.\"\n\n\"Then have one.\"\n\n\"You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn't be less than ten guineas\nto come here from Nottingham.\"\n\n\"When would you like him to come?\"\n\n\"I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over.\"\n\nPaul went away, biting his lip.\n\nHis mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her son went\nupstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressing-gown that Leonard\nhad given Annie, and, with a little colour in her face, was quite young\nagain.\n\n\"But you look quite pretty in that,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself,\" she answered.\n\nBut when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped her,\nhalf-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He lifted her\nup and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the couch. She was\nlight and frail. Her face looked as if she were dead, with blue lips\nshut tight. Her eyes opened--her blue, unfailing eyes--and she looked at\nhim pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive her. He held brandy to\nher lips, but her mouth would not open. All the time she watched him\nlovingly. She was only sorry for him. The tears ran down his face\nwithout ceasing, but not a muscle moved. He was intent on getting\na little brandy between her lips. Soon she was able to swallow a\nteaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. The tears continued to run down his\nface.\n\n\"But,\" she panted, \"it'll go off. Don't cry!\"\n\n\"I'm not doing,\" he said.\n\nAfter a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the couch.\nThey looked into each other's eyes.\n\n\"I don't want you to make a trouble of it,\" she said.\n\n\"No, mother. You'll have to be quite still, and then you'll get better\nsoon.\"\n\nBut he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at each\nother understood. Her eyes were so blue--such a wonderful forget-me-not\nblue! He felt if only they had been of a different colour he could have\nborne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping slowly in his breast. He\nkneeled there, holding her hand, and neither said anything. Then Annie\ncame in.\n\n\"Are you all right?\" she murmured timidly to her mother.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\nPaul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious.\n\nA day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham, to arrange\nfor a consultation. Paul had practically no money in the world. But he\ncould borrow.\n\nHis mother had been used to go to the public consultation on Saturday\nmorning, when she could see the doctor for only a nominal sum. Her son\nwent on the same day. The waiting-room was full of poor women, who sat\npatiently on a bench around the wall. Paul thought of his mother, in her\nlittle black costume, sitting waiting likewise. The doctor was late. The\nwomen all looked rather frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendance\nif he could see the doctor immediately he came. It was arranged so. The\nwomen sitting patiently round the walls of the room eyed the young man\ncuriously.\n\nAt last the doctor came. He was about forty, good-looking,\nbrown-skinned. His wife had died, and he, who had loved her, had\nspecialised on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his mother's.\nThe doctor did not remember.\n\n\"Number forty-six M.,\" said the nurse; and the doctor looked up the case\nin his book.\n\n\"There is a big lump that may be a tumour,\" said Paul. \"But Dr. Ansell\nwas going to write you a letter.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes!\" replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. He\nwas very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Sheffield the\nnext day.\n\n\"What is your father?\" he asked.\n\n\"He is a coal-miner,\" replied Paul.\n\n\"Not very well off, I suppose?\"\n\n\"This--I see after this,\" said Paul.\n\n\"And you?\" smiled the doctor.\n\n\"I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory.\"\n\nThe doctor smiled at him.\n\n\"Er--to go to Sheffield!\" he said, putting the tips of his fingers\ntogether, and smiling with his eyes. \"Eight guineas?\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" said Paul, flushing and rising. \"And you'll come\nto-morrow?\"\n\n\"To-morrow--Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time there is a\ntrain in the afternoon?\"\n\n\"There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen.\"\n\n\"And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to\nwalk?\" The doctor smiled.\n\n\"There is the tram,\" said Paul; \"the Western Park tram.\"\n\nThe doctor made a note of it.\n\n\"Thank you!\" he said, and shook hands.\n\nThen Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the charge of\nMinnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging\nin the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with his\nfather.\n\n\"Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?\" said the father.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the son. \"But I'm going back to-night.\"\n\n\"Are ter, beguy!\" exclaimed the collier. \"An' has ter eaten owt?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"That's just like thee,\" said Morel. \"Come thy ways in.\"\n\nThe father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The two went indoors.\nPaul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands, and sleeves rolled\nup, sat in the arm-chair opposite and looked at him.\n\n\"Well, an' how is she?\" asked the miner at length, in a little voice.\n\n\"She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea,\" said Paul.\n\n\"That's a blessin'!\" exclaimed Morel. \"I hope we s'll soon be havin' her\nwhoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?\"\n\n\"He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her.\"\n\n\"Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!\"\n\n\"Eight guineas.\"\n\n\"Eight guineas!\" the miner spoke breathlessly. \"Well, we mun find it\nfrom somewhere.\"\n\n\"I can pay that,\" said Paul.\n\nThere was silence between them for some time.\n\n\"She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie,\" Paul said.\n\n\"Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was,\" answered Morel. \"But\nMinnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!\" He sat looking dismal.\n\n\"I s'll have to be going at half-past three,\" said Paul.\n\n\"It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dost think she'll\nbe able to get as far as this?\"\n\n\"We must see what the doctors say to-morrow,\" Paul said.\n\nMorel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and Paul thought\nhis father looked lost, forlorn, and old.\n\n\"You'll have to go and see her next week, father,\" he said.\n\n\"I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time,\" said Morel.\n\n\"If she's not,\" said Paul, \"then you must come.\"\n\n\"I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money,\" said Morel.\n\n\"And I'll write to you what the doctor says,\" said Paul.\n\n\"But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out,\" said Morel.\n\n\"Well, I'll write plain.\"\n\nIt was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do more\nthan write his own name.\n\nThe doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The\nexamination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard were\nwaiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at\nthem. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself.\n\n\"It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see,\" said Dr. Jameson.\n\n\"And if it is,\" said Annie, \"can you sweal it away?\"\n\n\"Probably,\" said the doctor.\n\nPaul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor\ncounted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down.\n\n\"Thank you!\" he said. \"I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see\nwhat we can do.\"\n\n\"There can't be an operation?\" said Paul.\n\nThe doctor shook his head.\n\n\"No,\" he said; \"and even if there could, her heart wouldn't stand it.\"\n\n\"Is her heart risky?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"Yes; you must be careful with her.\"\n\n\"Very risky?\"\n\n\"No--er--no, no! Just take care.\"\n\nAnd the doctor was gone.\n\nThen Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply, like a\nchild. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms round his neck,\nclinging.\n\n\"I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs,\" she said.\n\nAnd he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do it another time. He\nfelt he could not carry her.\n\n\"He thinks it's only a tumour!\" cried Annie to her mother. \"And he can\nsweal it away.\"\n\n\"I KNEW he could,\" protested Mrs. Morel scornfully.\n\nShe pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat\nin the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ash off his\ncoat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It was\nso long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The\nlong grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness of the chimney.\n\nThe next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early\nin the morning, and they were alone.\n\n\"You won't fret, my boy!\" she said.\n\n\"No, mother.\"\n\n\"No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered. Then, after a while: \"And I shall come next\nSaturday, and shall bring my father?\"\n\n\"I suppose he wants to come,\" she replied. \"At any rate, if he does\nyou'll have to let him.\"\n\nHe kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gently,\ntenderly, as if she were a lover.\n\n\"Shan't you be late?\" she murmured.\n\n\"I'm going,\" he said, very low.\n\nStill he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hair from her\ntemples.\n\n\"And you won't be any worse, mother?\"\n\n\"No, my son.\"\n\n\"You promise me?\"\n\n\"Yes; I won't be any worse.\"\n\nHe kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. In the\nearly sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way; he\ndid not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and staring as she\nthought of him.\n\nIn the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They sat in the little wood\nwhere bluebells were standing. He took her hand.\n\n\"You'll see,\" he said to Clara, \"she'll never be better.\"\n\n\"Oh, you don't know!\" replied the other.\n\n\"I do,\" he said.\n\nShe caught him impulsively to her breast.\n\n\"Try and forget it, dear,\" she said; \"try and forget it.\"\n\n\"I will,\" he answered.\n\nHer breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. It was\ncomforting, and he held his arms round her. But he did not forget. He\nonly talked to Clara of something else. And it was always so. When she\nfelt it coming, the agony, she cried to him:\n\n\"Don't think of it, Paul! Don't think of it, my darling!\"\n\nAnd she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed him like a\nchild. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take it up again\nimmediately he was alone. All the time, as he went about, he cried\nmechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried, he did not know\nwhy. It was his blood weeping. He was just as much alone whether he was\nwith Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and this\npressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read sometimes. He\nhad to keep his mind occupied. And Clara was a way of occupying his\nmind.\n\nOn the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was a forlorn figure,\nlooking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs.\n\n\"My father's come,\" he said, kissing his mother.\n\n\"Has he?\" she answered wearily.\n\nThe old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom.\n\n\"How dun I find thee, lass?\" he said, going forward and kissing her in a\nhasty, timid fashion.\n\n\"Well, I'm middlin',\" she replied.\n\n\"I see tha art,\" he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wiped\nhis eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as if nobody owned him, he\nlooked.\n\n\"Have you gone on all right?\" asked the wife, rather wearily, as if it\nwere an effort to talk to him.\n\n\"Yis,\" he answered. \"'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, as yer might\nexpect.\"\n\n\"Does she have your dinner ready?\" asked Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Well, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice,\" he said.\n\n\"And you MUST shout at her if she's not ready. She WILL leave things to\nthe last minute.\"\n\nShe gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her as if she were\nalmost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkward and humble, and\nalso as if he had lost his presence of mind, and wanted to run. This\nfeeling that he wanted to run away, that he was on thorns to be gone\nfrom so trying a situation, and yet must linger because it looked\nbetter, made his presence so trying. He put up his eyebrows for misery,\nand clenched his fists on his knees, feeling so awkward in presence of\nbig trouble.\n\nMrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed in Sheffield for two months.\nIf anything, at the end she was rather worse. But she wanted to go home.\nAnnie had her children. Mrs. Morel wanted to go home. So they got a\nmotor-car from Nottingham--for she was too ill to go by train--and she\nwas driven through the sunshine. It was just August; everything was\nbright and warm. Under the blue sky they could all see she was dying.\nYet she was jollier than she had been for weeks. They all laughed and\ntalked.\n\n\"Annie,\" she exclaimed, \"I saw a lizard dart on that rock!\"\n\nHer eyes were so quick; she was still so full of life.\n\nMorel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. Everybody was on\ntiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heard the sound of the great\nmotor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove home down the street.\n\n\"And just look at them all come out to see me!\" she said. \"But there,\nI suppose I should have done the same. How do you do, Mrs. Mathews? How\nare you, Mrs. Harrison?\"\n\nThey none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. And\nthey all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great event in the\nstreet.\n\nMorel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur took her\nas if she were a child. They had set her a big, deep chair by the\nhearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she was unwrapped and\nseated, and had drunk a little brandy, she looked round the room.\n\n\"Don't think I don't like your house, Annie,\" she said; \"but it's nice\nto be in my own home again.\"\n\nAnd Morel answered huskily:\n\n\"It is, lass, it is.\"\n\nAnd Minnie, the little quaint maid, said:\n\n\"An' we glad t' 'ave yer.\"\n\nThere was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. She looked\nout of the window.\n\n\"There are my sunflowers!\" she said.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE RELEASE\n\n\"By the way,\" said Dr. Ansell one evening when Morel was in\nSheffield, \"we've got a man in the fever hospital here who comes from\nNottingham--Dawes. He doesn't seem to have many belongings in this\nworld.\"\n\n\"Baxter Dawes!\" Paul exclaimed.\n\n\"That's the man--has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think.\nBeen in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?\"\n\n\"He used to work at the place where I am.\"\n\n\"Did he? Do you know anything about him? He's just sulking, or he'd be a\nlot better than he is by now.\"\n\n\"I don't know anything of his home circumstances, except that he's\nseparated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell him\nabout me, will you? Tell him I'll come and see him.\"\n\nThe next time Morel saw the doctor he said:\n\n\"And what about Dawes?\"\n\n\"I said to him,\" answered the other, \"'Do you know a man from Nottingham\nnamed Morel?' and he looked at me as if he'd jump at my throat. So I\nsaid: 'I see you know the name; it's Paul Morel.' Then I told him about\nyour saying you would go and see him. 'What does he want?' he said, as\nif you were a policeman.\"\n\n\"And did he say he would see me?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"He wouldn't say anything--good, bad or indifferent,\" replied the\ndoctor.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"That's what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in, day out.\nCan't get a word of information out of him.\"\n\n\"Do you think I might go?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"You might.\"\n\nThere was a feeling of connection between the rival men, more than ever\nsince they had fought. In a way Morel felt guilty towards the other, and\nmore or less responsible. And being in such a state of soul himself,\nhe felt an almost painful nearness to Dawes, who was suffering and\ndespairing, too. Besides, they had met in a naked extremity of hate, and\nit was a bond. At any rate, the elemental man in each had met.\n\nHe went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. Ansell's card. This\nsister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him down the ward.\n\n\"A visitor to see you, Jim Crow,\" she said.\n\nDawes turned over suddenly with a startled grunt.\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Caw!\" she mocked. \"He can only say 'Caw!' I have brought you a\ngentleman to see you. Now say 'Thank you,' and show some manners.\"\n\nDawes looked swiftly with his dark, startled eyes beyond the sister at\nPaul. His look was full of fear, mistrust, hate, and misery. Morel met\nthe swift, dark eyes, and hesitated. The two men were afraid of the\nnaked selves they had been.\n\n\"Dr. Ansell told me you were here,\" said Morel, holding out his hand.\n\nDawes mechanically shook hands.\n\n\"So I thought I'd come in,\" continued Paul.\n\nThere was no answer. Dawes lay staring at the opposite wall.\n\n\"Say 'Caw!\"' mocked the nurse. \"Say 'Caw!' Jim Crow.\"\n\n\"He is getting on all right?\" said Paul to her.\n\n\"Oh yes! He lies and imagines he's going to die,\" said the nurse, \"and\nit frightens every word out of his mouth.\"\n\n\"And you MUST have somebody to talk to,\" laughed Morel.\n\n\"That's it!\" laughed the nurse. \"Only two old men and a boy who always\ncries. It is hard lines! Here am I dying to hear Jim Crow's voice, and\nnothing but an odd 'Caw!' will he give!\"\n\n\"So rough on you!\" said Morel.\n\n\"Isn't it?\" said the nurse.\n\n\"I suppose I am a godsend,\" he laughed.\n\n\"Oh, dropped straight from heaven!\" laughed the nurse.\n\nPresently she left the two men alone. Dawes was thinner, and handsome\nagain, but life seemed low in him. As the doctor said, he was lying\nsulking, and would not move forward towards convalescence. He seemed to\ngrudge every beat of his heart.\n\n\"Have you had a bad time?\" asked Paul.\n\nSuddenly again Dawes looked at him.\n\n\"What are you doing in Sheffield?\" he asked.\n\n\"My mother was taken ill at my sister's in Thurston Street. What are you\ndoing here?\"\n\nThere was no answer.\n\n\"How long have you been in?\" Morel asked.\n\n\"I couldn't say for sure,\" Dawes answered grudgingly.\n\nHe lay staring across at the wall opposite, as if trying to believe\nMorel was not there. Paul felt his heart go hard and angry.\n\n\"Dr. Ansell told me you were here,\" he said coldly.\n\nThe other man did not answer.\n\n\"Typhoid's pretty bad, I know,\" Morel persisted.\n\nSuddenly Dawes said:\n\n\"What did you come for?\"\n\n\"Because Dr. Ansell said you didn't know anybody here. Do you?\"\n\n\"I know nobody nowhere,\" said Dawes.\n\n\"Well,\" said Paul, \"it's because you don't choose to, then.\"\n\nThere was another silence.\n\n\"We s'll be taking my mother home as soon as we can,\" said Paul.\n\n\"What's a-matter with her?\" asked Dawes, with a sick man's interest in\nillness.\n\n\"She's got a cancer.\"\n\nThere was another silence.\n\n\"But we want to get her home,\" said Paul. \"We s'll have to get a\nmotor-car.\"\n\nDawes lay thinking.\n\n\"Why don't you ask Thomas Jordan to lend you his?\" said Dawes.\n\n\"It's not big enough,\" Morel answered.\n\nDawes blinked his dark eyes as he lay thinking.\n\n\"Then ask Jack Pilkington; he'd lend it you. You know him.\"\n\n\"I think I s'll hire one,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You're a fool if you do,\" said Dawes.\n\nThe sick man was gaunt and handsome again. Paul was sorry for him\nbecause his eyes looked so tired.\n\n\"Did you get a job here?\" he asked.\n\n\"I was only here a day or two before I was taken bad,\" Dawes replied.\n\n\"You want to get in a convalescent home,\" said Paul.\n\nThe other's face clouded again.\n\n\"I'm goin' in no convalescent home,\" he said.\n\n\"My father's been in the one at Seathorpe, an' he liked it. Dr. Ansell\nwould get you a recommend.\"\n\nDawes lay thinking. It was evident he dared not face the world again.\n\n\"The seaside would be all right just now,\" Morel said. \"Sun on those\nsandhills, and the waves not far out.\"\n\nThe other did not answer.\n\n\"By Gad!\" Paul concluded, too miserable to bother much; \"it's all right\nwhen you know you're going to walk again, and swim!\"\n\nDawes glanced at him quickly. The man's dark eyes were afraid to meet\nany other eyes in the world. But the real misery and helplessness in\nPaul's tone gave him a feeling of relief.\n\n\"Is she far gone?\" he asked.\n\n\"She's going like wax,\" Paul answered; \"but cheerful--lively!\"\n\nHe bit his lip. After a minute he rose.\n\n\"Well, I'll be going,\" he said. \"I'll leave you this half-crown.\"\n\n\"I don't want it,\" Dawes muttered.\n\nMorel did not answer, but left the coin on the table.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I'll try and run in when I'm back in Sheffield. Happen\nyou might like to see my brother-in-law? He works in Pyecrofts.\"\n\n\"I don't know him,\" said Dawes.\n\n\"He's all right. Should I tell him to come? He might bring you some\npapers to look at.\"\n\nThe other man did not answer. Paul went. The strong emotion that Dawes\naroused in him, repressed, made him shiver.\n\nHe did not tell his mother, but next day he spoke to Clara about this\ninterview. It was in the dinner-hour. The two did not often go out\ntogether now, but this day he asked her to go with him to the Castle\ngrounds. There they sat while the scarlet geraniums and the yellow\ncalceolarias blazed in the sunlight. She was now always rather\nprotective, and rather resentful towards him.\n\n\"Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?\" he asked.\n\nShe looked at him with startled grey eyes, and her face went pale.\n\n\"No,\" she said, frightened.\n\n\"He's getting better. I went to see him yesterday--the doctor told me.\"\n\nClara seemed stricken by the news.\n\n\"Is he very bad?\" she asked guiltily.\n\n\"He has been. He's mending now.\"\n\n\"What did he say to you?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking.\"\n\nThere was a distance between the two of them. He gave her more\ninformation.\n\nShe went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk\ntogether, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance\nfrom him. He was wanting her comfort badly.\n\n\"Won't you be nice with me?\" he asked.\n\nShe did not answer.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he said, putting his arm across her shoulder.\n\n\"Don't!\" she said, disengaging herself.\n\nHe left her alone, and returned to his own brooding.\n\n\"Is it Baxter that upsets you?\" he asked at length.\n\n\"I HAVE been VILE to him!\" she said.\n\n\"I've said many a time you haven't treated him well,\" he replied.\n\nAnd there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of\nthought.\n\n\"I've treated him--no, I've treated him badly,\" she said. \"And now you\ntreat ME badly. It serves me right.\"\n\n\"How do I treat you badly?\" he said.\n\n\"It serves me right,\" she repeated. \"I never considered him worth\nhaving, and now you don't consider ME. But it serves me right. He loved\nme a thousand times better than you ever did.\"\n\n\"He didn't!\" protested Paul.\n\n\"He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that's what you don't do.\"\n\n\"It looked as if he respected you!\" he said.\n\n\"He did! And I MADE him horrid--I know I did! You've taught me that. And\nhe loved me a thousand times better than ever you do.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Paul.\n\nHe only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was\nalmost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He\nwas not sorry when he left her.\n\nShe went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. The\nmeeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money.\nShe wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As she\nlooked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only she\nwanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now to\nbe self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel really\nlove her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So she\nkneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distance\nbetween them was still very great--too great. It frightened the man. It\nalmost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him across\nan insuperable distance. She was proud now.\n\nMorel went to see Dawes once or twice. There was a sort of friendship\nbetween the two men, who were all the while deadly rivals. But they\nnever mentioned the woman who was between them.\n\nMrs. Morel got gradually worse. At first they used to carry her\ndownstairs, sometimes even into the garden. She sat propped in her\nchair, smiling, and so pretty. The gold wedding-ring shone on her\nwhite hand; her hair was carefully brushed. And she watched the tangled\nsunflowers dying, the chrysanthemums coming out, and the dahlias.\n\nPaul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that she\nwas dying. But they kept up a pretence of cheerfulness. Every morning,\nwhen he got up, he went into her room in his pyjamas.\n\n\"Did you sleep, my dear?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\n\"Not very well?\"\n\n\"Well, yes!\"\n\nThen he knew she had lain awake. He saw her hand under the bedclothes,\npressing the place on her side where the pain was.\n\n\"Has it been bad?\" he asked.\n\n\"No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention.\"\n\nAnd she sniffed in her old scornful way. As she lay she looked like a\ngirl. And all the while her blue eyes watched him. But there were the\ndark pain-circles beneath that made him ache again.\n\n\"It's a sunny day,\" he said.\n\n\"It's a beautiful day.\"\n\n\"Do you think you'll be carried down?\"\n\n\"I shall see.\"\n\nThen he went away to get her breakfast. All day long he was conscious of\nnothing but her. It was a long ache that made him feverish. Then, when\nhe got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window.\nShe was not there; she had not got up.\n\nHe ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask:\n\n\"Didn't you get up, pigeon?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"it was that morphia; it made me tired.\"\n\n\"I think he gives you too much,\" he said.\n\n\"I think he does,\" she answered.\n\nHe sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying on\nher side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear.\n\n\"Doesn't it tickle you?\" he said, gently putting it back.\n\n\"It does,\" she replied.\n\nHis face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like a\ngirl's--warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror,\nagony, and love.\n\n\"You want your hair doing in a plait,\" he said. \"Lie still.\"\n\nAnd going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. It\nwas like fine long silk of brown and grey. Her head was snuggled between\nher shoulders. As he lightly brushed and plaited her hair, he bit his\nlip and felt dazed. It all seemed unreal, he could not understand it.\n\nAt night he often worked in her room, looking up from time to time. And\nso often he found her blue eyes fixed on him. And when their eyes met,\nshe smiled. He worked away again mechanically, producing good stuff\nwithout knowing what he was doing.\n\nSometimes he came in, very pale and still, with watchful, sudden eyes,\nlike a man who is drunk almost to death. They were both afraid of the\nveils that were ripping between them.\n\nThen she pretended to be better, chattered to him gaily, made a great\nfuss over some scraps of news. For they had both come to the condition\nwhen they had to make much of the trifles, lest they should give in to\nthe big thing, and their human independence would go smash. They were\nafraid, so they made light of things and were gay.\n\nSometimes as she lay he knew she was thinking of the past. Her mouth\ngradually shut hard in a line. She was holding herself rigid, so that\nshe might die without ever uttering the great cry that was tearing from\nher. He never forgot that hard, utterly lonely and stubborn clenching\nof her mouth, which persisted for weeks. Sometimes, when it was lighter,\nshe talked about her husband. Now she hated him. She did not forgive\nhim. She could not bear him to be in the room. And a few things, the\nthings that had been most bitter to her, came up again so strongly that\nthey broke from her, and she told her son.\n\nHe felt as if his life were being destroyed, piece by piece, within him.\nOften the tears came suddenly. He ran to the station, the tear-drops\nfalling on the pavement. Often he could not go on with his work. The\npen stopped writing. He sat staring, quite unconscious. And when he came\nround again he felt sick, and trembled in his limbs. He never questioned\nwhat it was. His mind did not try to analyse or understand. He merely\nsubmitted, and kept his eyes shut; let the thing go over him.\n\nHis mother did the same. She thought of the pain, of the morphia, of the\nnext day; hardly ever of the death. That was coming, she knew. She had\nto submit to it. But she would never entreat it or make friends with\nit. Blind, with her face shut hard and blind, she was pushed towards the\ndoor. The days passed, the weeks, the months.\n\nSometimes, in the sunny afternoons, she seemed almost happy.\n\n\"I try to think of the nice times--when we went to Mablethorpe, and\nRobin Hood's Bay, and Shanklin,\" she said. \"After all, not everybody has\nseen those beautiful places. And wasn't it beautiful! I try to think of\nthat, not of the other things.\"\n\nThen, again, for a whole evening she spoke not a word; neither did he.\nThey were together, rigid, stubborn, silent. He went into his room\nat last to go to bed, and leaned against the doorway as if paralysed,\nunable to go any farther. His consciousness went. A furious storm, he\nknew not what, seemed to ravage inside him. He stood leaning there,\nsubmitting, never questioning.\n\nIn the morning they were both normal again, though her face was grey\nwith the morphia, and her body felt like ash. But they were bright\nagain, nevertheless. Often, especially if Annie or Arthur were at home,\nhe neglected her. He did not see much of Clara. Usually he was with\nmen. He was quick and active and lively; but when his friends saw him\ngo white to the gills, his eyes dark and glittering, they had a certain\nmistrust of him. Sometimes he went to Clara, but she was almost cold to\nhim.\n\n\"Take me!\" he said simply.\n\nOccasionally she would. But she was afraid. When he had her then,\nthere was something in it that made her shrink away from him--something\nunnatural. She grew to dread him. He was so quiet, yet so strange. She\nwas afraid of the man who was not there with her, whom she could feel\nbehind this make-belief lover; somebody sinister, that filled her with\nhorror. She began to have a kind of horror of him. It was almost as if\nhe were a criminal. He wanted her--he had her--and it made her feel as\nif death itself had her in its grip. She lay in horror. There was no\nman there loving her. She almost hated him. Then came little bouts of\ntenderness. But she dared not pity him.\n\nDawes had come to Colonel Seely's Home near Nottingham. There Paul\nvisited him sometimes, Clara very occasionally. Between the two men\nthe friendship developed peculiarly. Dawes, who mended very slowly and\nseemed very feeble, seemed to leave himself in the hands of Morel.\n\nIn the beginning of November Clara reminded Paul that it was her\nbirthday.\n\n\"I'd nearly forgotten,\" he said.\n\n\"I'd thought quite,\" she replied.\n\n\"No. Shall we go to the seaside for the week-end?\"\n\nThey went. It was cold and rather dismal. She waited for him to be warm\nand tender with her, instead of which he seemed hardly aware of her.\nHe sat in the railway-carriage, looking out, and was startled when she\nspoke to him. He was not definitely thinking. Things seemed as if they\ndid not exist. She went across to him.\n\n\"What is it dear?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing!\" he said. \"Don't those windmill sails look monotonous?\"\n\nHe sat holding her hand. He could not talk nor think. It was a comfort,\nhowever, to sit holding her hand. She was dissatisfied and miserable. He\nwas not with her; she was nothing.\n\nAnd in the evening they sat among the sandhills, looking at the black,\nheavy sea.\n\n\"She will never give in,\" he said quietly.\n\nClara's heart sank.\n\n\"No,\" she replied.\n\n\"There are different ways of dying. My father's people are frightened,\nand have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into a\nslaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother's people are pushed\nfrom behind, inch by inch. They are stubborn people, and won't die.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Clara.\n\n\"And she won't die. She can't. Mr. Renshaw, the parson, was in the other\nday. 'Think!' he said to her; 'you will have your mother and father, and\nyour sisters, and your son, in the Other Land.' And she said: 'I have\ndone without them for a long time, and CAN do without them now. It is\nthe living I want, not the dead.' She wants to live even now.\"\n\n\"Oh, how horrible!\" said Clara, too frightened to speak.\n\n\"And she looks at me, and she wants to stay with me,\" he went on\nmonotonously. \"She's got such a will, it seems as if she would never\ngo--never!\"\n\n\"Don't think of it!\" cried Clara.\n\n\"And she was religious--she is religious now--but it is no good. She\nsimply won't give in. And do you know, I said to her on Thursday:\n'Mother, if I had to die, I'd die. I'd WILL to die.' And she said to\nme, sharp: 'Do you think I haven't? Do you think you can die when you\nlike?'\"\n\nHis voice ceased. He did not cry, only went on speaking monotonously.\nClara wanted to run. She looked round. There was the black, re-echoing\nshore, the dark sky down on her. She got up terrified. She wanted to be\nwhere there was light, where there were other people. She wanted to be\naway from him. He sat with his head dropped, not moving a muscle.\n\n\"And I don't want her to eat,\" he said, \"and she knows it. When I ask\nher: 'Shall you have anything' she's almost afraid to say 'Yes.' 'I'll\nhave a cup of Benger's,' she says. 'It'll only keep your strength up,'\nI said to her. 'Yes'--and she almost cried--'but there's such a gnawing\nwhen I eat nothing, I can't bear it.' So I went and made her the food.\nIt's the cancer that gnaws like that at her. I wish she'd die!\"\n\n\"Come!\" said Clara roughly. \"I'm going.\"\n\nHe followed her down the darkness of the sands. He did not come to her.\nHe seemed scarcely aware of her existence. And she was afraid of him,\nand disliked him.\n\nIn the same acute daze they went back to Nottingham. He was always\nbusy, always doing something, always going from one to the other of his\nfriends.\n\nOn the Monday he went to see Baxter Dawes. Listless and pale, the man\nrose to greet the other, clinging to his chair as he held out his hand.\n\n\"You shouldn't get up,\" said Paul.\n\nDawes sat down heavily, eyeing Morel with a sort of suspicion.\n\n\"Don't you waste your time on me,\" he said, \"if you've owt better to\ndo.\"\n\n\"I wanted to come,\" said Paul. \"Here! I brought you some sweets.\"\n\nThe invalid put them aside.\n\n\"It's not been much of a week-end,\" said Morel.\n\n\"How's your mother?\" asked the other.\n\n\"Hardly any different.\"\n\n\"I thought she was perhaps worse, being as you didn't come on Sunday.\"\n\n\"I was at Skegness,\" said Paul. \"I wanted a change.\"\n\nThe other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be waiting, not\nquite daring to ask, trusting to be told.\n\n\"I went with Clara,\" said Paul.\n\n\"I knew as much,\" said Dawes quietly.\n\n\"It was an old promise,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You have it your own way,\" said Dawes.\n\nThis was the first time Clara had been definitely mentioned between\nthem.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Morel slowly; \"she's tired of me.\"\n\nAgain Dawes looked at him.\n\n\"Since August she's been getting tired of me,\" Morel repeated.\n\nThe two men were very quiet together. Paul suggested a game of draughts.\nThey played in silence.\n\n\"I s'll go abroad when my mother's dead,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Abroad!\" repeated Dawes.\n\n\"Yes; I don't care what I do.\"\n\nThey continued the game. Dawes was winning.\n\n\"I s'll have to begin a new start of some sort,\" said Paul; \"and you as\nwell, I suppose.\"\n\nHe took one of Dawes's pieces.\n\n\"I dunno where,\" said the other.\n\n\"Things have to happen,\" Morel said. \"It's no good doing anything--at\nleast--no, I don't know. Give me some toffee.\"\n\nThe two men ate sweets, and began another game of draughts.\n\n\"What made that scar on your mouth?\" asked Dawes.\n\nPaul put his hand hastily to his lips, and looked over the garden.\n\n\"I had a bicycle accident,\" he said.\n\nDawes's hand trembled as he moved the piece.\n\n\"You shouldn't ha' laughed at me,\" he said, very low.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me--you with\nyour hand on her shoulder.\"\n\n\"I never laughed at you,\" said Paul.\n\nDawes kept his fingers on the draught-piece.\n\n\"I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed,\" said\nMorel.\n\n\"It was that as did me,\" Dawes said, very low.\n\nPaul took another sweet.\n\n\"I never laughed,\" he said, \"except as I'm always laughing.\"\n\nThey finished the game.\n\nThat night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have something\nto do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the black\nclouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles of\nhighroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the black\nlevels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick-room.\nIf he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to.\n\nHe was not tired when he got near home, or He did not know it. Across\nthe field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window.\n\n\"When she's dead,\" he said to himself, \"that fire will go out.\"\n\nHe took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mothers door was\nwide open, because she slept alone still. The red firelight dashed its\nglow on the landing. Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway.\n\n\"Paul!\" she murmured.\n\nHis heart seemed to break again. He went in and sat by the bed.\n\n\"How late you are!\" she murmured.\n\n\"Not very,\" he said.\n\n\"Why, what time is it?\" The murmur came plaintive and helpless.\n\n\"It's only just gone eleven.\"\n\nThat was not true; it was nearly one o'clock.\n\n\"Oh!\" she said; \"I thought it was later.\"\n\nAnd he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go.\n\n\"Can't you sleep, my pigeon?\" he said.\n\n\"No, I can't,\" she wailed.\n\n\"Never mind, Little!\" He said crooning. \"Never mind, my love. I'll stop\nwith you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better.\"\n\nAnd he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her brows\nwith his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding her\nfingers in his free hand. They could hear the sleepers' breathing in the\nother rooms.\n\n\"Now go to bed,\" she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers and\nhis love.\n\n\"Will you sleep?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, I think so.\"\n\n\"You feel better, my Little, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child.\n\nStill the days and the weeks went by. He hardly ever went to see Clara\nnow. But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for some\nhelp, and there was none anywhere. Miriam had written to him tenderly.\nHe went to see her. Her heart was very sore when she saw him, white,\ngaunt, with his eyes dark and bewildered. Her pity came up, hurting her\ntill she could not bear it.\n\n\"How is she?\" she asked.\n\n\"The same--the same!\" he said. \"The doctor says she can't last, but I\nknow she will. She'll be here at Christmas.\"\n\nMiriam shuddered. She drew him to her; she pressed him to her bosom; she\nkissed him and kissed him. He submitted, but it was torture. She could\nnot kiss his agony. That remained alone and apart. She kissed his face,\nand roused his blood, while his soul was apart writhing with the agony\nof death. And she kissed him and fingered his body, till at last,\nfeeling he would go mad, he got away from her. It was not what he wanted\njust then--not that. And she thought she had soothed him and done him\ngood.\n\nDecember came, and some snow. He stayed at home all the while now.\nThey could not afford a nurse. Annie came to look after her mother; the\nparish nurse, whom they loved, came in morning and evening. Paul shared\nthe nursing with Annie. Often, in the evenings, when friends were in the\nkitchen with them, they all laughed together and shook with laughter. It\nwas reaction. Paul was so comical, Annie was so quaint. The whole party\nlaughed till they cried, trying to subdue the sound. And Mrs. Morel,\nlying alone in the darkness heard them, and among her bitterness was a\nfeeling of relief.\n\nThen Paul would go upstairs gingerly, guiltily, to see if she had heard.\n\n\"Shall I give you some milk?\" he asked.\n\n\"A little,\" she replied plaintively.\n\nAnd he would put some water with it, so that it should not nourish her.\nYet he loved her more than his own life.\n\nShe had morphia every night, and her heart got fitful. Annie slept\nbeside her. Paul would go in in the early morning, when his sister\ngot up. His mother was wasted and almost ashen in the morning with the\nmorphia. Darker and darker grew her eyes, all pupil, with the torture.\nIn the mornings the weariness and ache were too much to bear. Yet she\ncould not--would not--weep, or even complain much.\n\n\"You slept a bit later this morning, little one,\" he would say to her.\n\n\"Did I?\" she answered, with fretful weariness.\n\n\"Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock.\"\n\nHe stood looking out of the window. The whole country was bleak and\npallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse. There was a strong stroke\nand a weak one, like a sound and its echo. That was supposed to betoken\nthe end. She let him feel her wrist, knowing what he wanted.\n\nSometimes they looked in each other's eyes. Then they almost seemed to\nmake an agreement. It was almost as if he were agreeing to die also.\nBut she did not consent to die; she would not. Her body was wasted to a\nfragment of ash. Her eyes were dark and full of torture.\n\n\"Can't you give her something to put an end to it?\" he asked the doctor\nat last.\n\nBut the doctor shook his head.\n\n\"She can't last many days now, Mr. Morel,\" he said.\n\nPaul went indoors.\n\n\"I can't bear it much longer; we shall all go mad,\" said Annie.\n\nThe two sat down to breakfast.\n\n\"Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie,\" said Annie. But\nthe girl was frightened.\n\nPaul went through the country, through the woods, over the snow. He saw\nthe marks of rabbits and birds in the white snow. He wandered miles\nand miles. A smoky red sunset came on slowly, painfully, lingering. He\nthought she would die that day. There was a donkey that came up to him\nover the snow by the wood's edge, and put its head against him, and\nwalked with him alongside. He put his arms round the donkey's neck, and\nstroked his cheeks against his ears.\n\nHis mother, silent, was still alive, with her hard mouth gripped grimly,\nher eyes of dark torture only living.\n\nIt was nearing Christmas; there was more snow. Annie and he felt as if\nthey could go on no more. Still her dark eyes were alive. Morel, silent\nand frightened, obliterated himself. Sometimes he would go into the\nsick-room and look at her. Then he backed out, bewildered.\n\nShe kept her hold on life still. The miners had been out on strike, and\nreturned a fortnight or so before Christmas. Minnie went upstairs with\nthe feeding-cup. It was two days after the men had been in.\n\n\"Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?\" she asked,\nin the faint, querulous voice that would not give in. Minnie stood\nsurprised.\n\n\"Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel,\" she answered.\n\n\"But I'll bet they are sore,\" said the dying woman, as she moved her\nhead with a sigh of weariness. \"But, at any rate, there'll be something\nto buy in with this week.\"\n\nNot a thing did she let slip.\n\n\"Your father's pit things will want well airing, Annie,\" she said, when\nthe men were going back to work.\n\n\"Don't you bother about that, my dear,\" said Annie.\n\nOne night Annie and Paul were alone. Nurse was upstairs.\n\n\"She'll live over Christmas,\" said Annie. They were both full of horror.\n\"She won't,\" he replied grimly. \"I s'll give her morphia.\"\n\n\"Which?\" said Annie.\n\n\"All that came from Sheffield,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Ay--do!\" said Annie.\n\nThe next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to be asleep.\nHe stepped softly backwards and forwards at his painting. Suddenly her\nsmall voice wailed:\n\n\"Don't walk about, Paul.\"\n\nHe looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles in her face, were looking\nat him.\n\n\"No, my dear,\" he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap in his\nheart.\n\nThat evening he got all the morphia pills there were, and took them\ndownstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" said Annie.\n\n\"I s'll put 'em in her night milk.\"\n\nThen they both laughed together like two conspiring children. On top of\nall their horror flicked this little sanity.\n\nNurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul went up\nwith the hot milk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock.\n\nShe was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between her lips\nthat he would have died to save from any hurt. She took a sip, then put\nthe spout of the cup away and looked at him with her dark, wondering\neyes. He looked at her.\n\n\"Oh, it IS bitter, Paul!\" she said, making a little grimace.\n\n\"It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you,\" he said. \"He\nthought it would leave you in such a state in the morning.\"\n\n\"And I hope it won't,\" she said, like a child.\n\nShe drank some more of the milk.\n\n\"But it IS horrid!\" she said.\n\nHe saw her frail fingers over the cup, her lips making a little move.\n\n\"I know--I tasted it,\" he said. \"But I'll give you some clean milk\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"I think so,\" she said, and she went on with the draught. She was\nobedient to him like a child. He wondered if she knew. He saw her\npoor wasted throat moving as she drank with difficulty. Then he ran\ndownstairs for more milk. There were no grains in the bottom of the cup.\n\n\"Has she had it?\" whispered Annie.\n\n\"Yes--and she said it was bitter.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" laughed Annie, putting her under lip between her teeth.\n\n\"And I told her it was a new draught. Where's that milk?\"\n\nThey both went upstairs.\n\n\"I wonder why nurse didn't come to settle me down?\" complained the\nmother, like a child, wistfully.\n\n\"She said she was going to a concert, my love,\" replied Annie.\n\n\"Did she?\"\n\nThey were silent a minute. Mrs. Morel gulped the little clean milk.\n\n\"Annie, that draught WAS horrid!\" she said plaintively.\n\n\"Was it, my love? Well, never mind.\"\n\nThe mother sighed again with weariness. Her pulse was very irregular.\n\n\"Let US settle you down,\" said Annie. \"Perhaps nurse will be so late.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the mother--\"try.\"\n\nThey turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl curled up\nin her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half of the bed, moved\nher, made the other, straightened her nightgown over her small feet, and\ncovered her up.\n\n\"There,\" said Paul, stroking her softly. \"There!--now you'll sleep.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"I didn't think you could do the bed so nicely,\" she\nadded, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her hand, her\nhead snugged between her shoulders. Paul put the long thin plait of grey\nhair over her shoulder and kissed her.\n\n\"You'll sleep, my love,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered trustfully. \"Good-night.\"\n\nThey put out the light, and it was still.\n\nMorel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came to look at her\nat about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual after her draught.\nHer mouth had come a bit open.\n\n\"Shall we sit up?\" said Paul.\n\n\"I s'll lie with her as I always do,\" said Annie. \"She might wake up.\"\n\n\"All right. And call me if you see any difference.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThey lingered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big and black\nand snowy outside, their two selves alone in the world. At last he went\ninto the next room and went to bed.\n\nHe slept almost immediately, but kept waking every now and again. Then\nhe went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie's whispered, \"Paul,\nPaul!\" He saw his sister in her white nightdress, with her long plait of\nhair down her back, standing in the darkness.\n\n\"Yes?\" he whispered, sitting up.\n\n\"Come and look at her.\"\n\nHe slipped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick chamber.\nHis mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up as she had gone\nto sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she breathed with great,\nhoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were long intervals between.\n\n\"She's going!\" he whispered.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Annie.\n\n\"How long has she been like it?\"\n\n\"I only just woke up.\"\n\nAnnie huddled into the dressing-gown, Paul wrapped himself in a brown\nblanket. It was three o'clock. He mended the fire. Then the two sat\nwaiting. The great, snoring breath was taken--held awhile--then given\nback. There was a space--a long space. Then they started. The great,\nsnoring breath was taken again. He bent close down and looked at her.\n\n\"Isn't it awful!\" whispered Annie.\n\nHe nodded. They sat down again helplessly. Again came the great, snoring\nbreath. Again they hung suspended. Again it was given back, long and\nharsh. The sound, so irregular, at such wide intervals, sounded through\nthe house. Morel, in his room, slept on. Paul and Annie sat crouched,\nhuddled, motionless. The great snoring sound began again--there was a\npainful pause while the breath was held--back came the rasping breath.\nMinute after minute passed. Paul looked at her again, bending low over\nher.\n\n\"She may last like this,\" he said.\n\nThey were both silent. He looked out of the window, and could faintly\ndiscern the snow on the garden.\n\n\"You go to my bed,\" he said to Annie. \"I'll sit up.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"I'll stop with you.\"\n\n\"I'd rather you didn't,\" he said.\n\nAt last Annie crept out of the room, and he was alone. He hugged himself\nin his brown blanket, crouched in front of his mother, watching. She\nlooked dreadful, with the bottom jaw fallen back. He watched. Sometimes\nhe thought the great breath would never begin again. He could not bear\nit--the waiting. Then suddenly, startling him, came the great harsh\nsound. He mended the fire again, noiselessly. She must not be disturbed.\nThe minutes went by. The night was going, breath by breath. Each time\nthe sound came he felt it wring him, till at last he could not feel so\nmuch.\n\nHis father got up. Paul heard the miner drawing his stockings on,\nyawning. Then Morel, in shirt and stockings, entered.\n\n\"Hush!\" said Paul.\n\nMorel stood watching. Then he looked at his son, helplessly, and in\nhorror.\n\n\"Had I better stop a-whoam?\" he whispered.\n\n\"No. Go to work. She'll last through to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Yes. Go to work.\"\n\nThe miner looked at her again, in fear, and went obediently out of the\nroom. Paul saw the tape of his garters swinging against his legs.\n\nAfter another half-hour Paul went downstairs and drank a cup of tea,\nthen returned. Morel, dressed for the pit, came upstairs again.\n\n\"Am I to go?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAnd in a few minutes Paul heard his father's heavy steps go thudding\nover the deadening snow. Miners called in the streets as they\ntramped in gangs to work. The terrible, long-drawn breaths\ncontinued--heave--heave--heave; then a long pause--then--ah-h-h-h-h!\nas it came back. Far away over the snow sounded the hooters of the\nironworks. One after another they crowed and boomed, some small and far\naway, some near, the blowers of the collieries and the other works.\nThen there was silence. He mended the fire. The great breaths broke the\nsilence--she looked just the same. He put back the blind and peered out.\nStill it was dark. Perhaps there was a lighter tinge. Perhaps the snow\nwas bluer. He drew up the blind and got dressed. Then, shuddering, he\ndrank brandy from the bottle on the wash-stand. The snow WAS growing\nblue. He heard a cart clanking down the street. Yes, it was seven\no'clock, and it was coming a little bit light. He heard some people\ncalling. The world was waking. A grey, deathly dawn crept over the snow.\nYes, he could see the houses. He put out the gas. It seemed very dark.\nThe breathing came still, but he was almost used to it. He could see\nher. She was just the same. He wondered if he piled heavy clothes on top\nof her it would stop. He looked at her. That was not her--not her a bit.\nIf he piled the blanket and heavy coats on her--\n\nSuddenly the door opened, and Annie entered. She looked at him\nquestioningly.\n\n\"Just the same,\" he said calmly.\n\nThey whispered together a minute, then he went downstairs to get\nbreakfast. It was twenty to eight. Soon Annie came down.\n\n\"Isn't it awful! Doesn't she look awful!\" she whispered, dazed with\nhorror.\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"If she looks like that!\" said Annie.\n\n\"Drink some tea,\" he said.\n\nThey went upstairs again. Soon the neighbours came with their frightened\nquestion:\n\n\"How is she?\"\n\nIt went on just the same. She lay with her cheek in her hand, her mouth\nfallen open, and the great, ghastly snores came and went.\n\nAt ten o'clock nurse came. She looked strange and woebegone.\n\n\"Nurse,\" cried Paul, \"she'll last like this for days?\"\n\n\"She can't, Mr. Morel,\" said nurse. \"She can't.\"\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n\"Isn't it dreadful!\" wailed the nurse. \"Who would have thought she could\nstand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down.\"\n\nAt last, at about eleven o'clock, he went downstairs and sat in the\nneighbour's house. Annie was downstairs also. Nurse and Arthur were\nupstairs. Paul sat with his head in his hand. Suddenly Annie came flying\nacross the yard crying, half mad:\n\n\"Paul--Paul--she's gone!\"\n\nIn a second he was back in his own house and upstairs. She lay curled\nup and still, with her face on her hand, and nurse was wiping her mouth.\nThey all stood back. He kneeled down, and put his face to hers and his\narms round her:\n\n\"My love--my love--oh, my love!\" he whispered again and again. \"My\nlove--oh, my love!\"\n\nThen he heard the nurse behind him, crying, saying:\n\n\"She's better, Mr. Morel, she's better.\"\n\nWhen he took his face up from his warm, dead mother he went straight\ndownstairs and began blacking his boots.\n\nThere was a good deal to do, letters to write, and so on. The doctor\ncame and glanced at her, and sighed.\n\n\"Ay--poor thing!\" he said, then turned away. \"Well, call at the surgery\nabout six for the certificate.\"\n\nThe father came home from work at about four o'clock. He dragged\nsilently into the house and sat down. Minnie bustled to give him his\ndinner. Tired, he laid his black arms on the table. There were swede\nturnips for his dinner, which he liked. Paul wondered if he knew. It was\nsome time, and nobody had spoken. At last the son said:\n\n\"You noticed the blinds were down?\"\n\nMorel looked up.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"Why--has she gone?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When wor that?\"\n\n\"About twelve this morning.\"\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nThe miner sat still for a moment, then began his dinner. It was as\nif nothing had happened. He ate his turnips in silence. Afterwards he\nwashed and went upstairs to dress. The door of her room was shut.\n\n\"Have you seen her?\" Annie asked of him when he came down.\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nIn a little while he went out. Annie went away, and Paul called on the\nundertaker, the clergyman, the doctor, the registrar. It was a long\nbusiness. He got back at nearly eight o'clock. The undertaker was coming\nsoon to measure for the coffin. The house was empty except for her. He\ntook a candle and went upstairs.\n\nThe room was cold, that had been warm for so long. Flowers, bottles,\nplates, all sick-room litter was taken away; everything was harsh and\naustere. She lay raised on the bed, the sweep of the sheet from the\nraised feet was like a clean curve of snow, so silent. She lay like a\nmaiden asleep. With his candle in his hand, he bent over her. She lay\nlike a girl asleep and dreaming of her love. The mouth was a little open\nas if wondering from the suffering, but her face was young, her brow\nclear and white as if life had never touched it. He looked again at the\neyebrows, at the small, winsome nose a bit on one side. She was young\nagain. Only the hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples was\nmixed with silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulders\nwere filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift her\neyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately.\nBut there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror.\nLooking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He stroked\nthe hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumb\nand wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering to\nher:\n\n\"Mother, mother!\"\n\nHe was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who had\nbeen to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet,\nbusinesslike fashion. They did not look at her. He watched jealously. He\nand Annie guarded her fiercely. They would not let anybody come to see\nher, and the neighbours were offended.\n\nAfter a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at a\nfriend's. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from the\ncouch as he entered, saying in a plaintive way:\n\n\"I thought tha wor niver comin', lad.\"\n\n\"I didn't think you'd sit up,\" said Paul.\n\nHis father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without fear--simply\nnothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start that he had been\nafraid to go to bed, alone in the house with his dead. He was sorry.\n\n\"I forgot you'd be alone, father,\" he said.\n\n\"Dost want owt to eat?\" asked Morel.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Sithee--I made thee a drop o' hot milk. Get it down thee; it's cold\nenough for owt.\"\n\nPaul drank it.\n\nAfter a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, and\nleft his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in to\nkiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they had\nkept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she would\nbe cold.\n\n\"My dear!\" he whispered. \"My dear!\"\n\nAnd he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange to him.\nIt eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her door softly, not to\nwake her, and went to bed.\n\nIn the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie downstairs and\nPaul coughing in the room across the landing. He opened her door, and\nwent into the darkened room. He saw the white uplifted form in the\ntwilight, but her he dared not see. Bewildered, too frightened to\npossess any of his faculties, he got out of the room again and left her.\nHe never looked at her again. He had not seen her for months, because he\nhad not dared to look. And she looked like his young wife again.\n\n\"Have you seen her?\" Annie asked of him sharply after breakfast.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\n\"And don't you think she looks nice?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe went out of the house soon after. And all the time he seemed to be\ncreeping aside to avoid it.\n\nPaul went about from place to place, doing the business of the death. He\nmet Clara in Nottingham, and they had tea together in a cafe, when they\nwere quite jolly again. She was infinitely relieved to find he did not\ntake it tragically.\n\nLater, when the relatives began to come for the funeral, the affair\nbecame public, and the children became social beings. They put\nthemselves aside. They buried her in a furious storm of rain and wind.\nThe wet clay glistened, all the white flowers were soaked. Annie\ngripped his arm and leaned forward. Down below she saw a dark corner\nof William's coffin. The oak box sank steadily. She was gone. The\nrain poured in the grave. The procession of black, with its umbrellas\nglistening, turned away. The cemetery was deserted under the drenching\ncold rain.\n\nPaul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with drinks.\nHis father sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Morel's relatives, \"superior\"\npeople, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'd\ntried to do everything he could for her--everything. He had striven\nall his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach\nhimself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped his\neyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for,\nhe repeated. All his life he'd done his best for her.\n\nAnd that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought of her\npersonally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated his father\nfor sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would do it in\nthe public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel in spite of\nhimself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, white\nand cowering.\n\n\"I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother,\" he said in a small voice.\n\n\"Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was when\nshe was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural,\nas if nothing had altered.\"\n\nBut Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror.\n\nThe weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhaps\na little relief, mostly a _nuit blanche_. Paul went restless from place\nto place. For some months, since his mother had been worse, he had not\nmade love to Clara. She was, as it were, dumb to him, rather distant.\nDawes saw her very occasionally, but the two could not get an inch\nacross the great distance between them. The three of them were drifting\nforward.\n\nDawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home at Skegness at\nChristmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the seaside for a few days.\nHis father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes came to Paul's lodgings.\nHis time in the home was up. The two men, between whom was such a big\nreserve, seemed faithful to each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. He\nknew Paul and Clara had practically separated.\n\nTwo days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. The evening\nbefore he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire.\n\n\"You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?\" he said.\n\nThe other man glanced at him.\n\n\"Yes, you told me,\" he replied.\n\nPaul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky.\n\n\"I told the landlady your wife was coming,\" he said.\n\n\"Did you?\" said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself in the\nother's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for Morel's glass.\n\n\"Let me fill you up,\" he said.\n\nPaul jumped up.\n\n\"You sit still,\" he said.\n\nBut Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink.\n\n\"Say when,\" he said.\n\n\"Thanks!\" replied the other. \"But you've no business to get up.\"\n\n\"It does me good, lad,\" replied Dawes. \"I begin to think I'm right\nagain, then.\"\n\n\"You are about right, you know.\"\n\n\"I am, certainly I am,\" said Dawes, nodding to him.\n\n\"And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield.\"\n\nDawes glanced at him again, with dark eyes that agreed with everything\nthe other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by him.\n\n\"It's funny,\" said Paul, \"starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess\nthan you.\"\n\n\"In what way, lad?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort of hole,\nrather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere.\"\n\n\"I know--I understand it,\" Dawes said, nodding. \"But you'll find it'll\ncome all right.\"\n\nHe spoke caressingly.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said Paul.\n\nDawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion.\n\n\"You've not done for yourself like I have,\" he said.\n\nMorel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man gripping the\nstem of the pipe and knocking out the ash, as if he had given up.\n\n\"How old are you?\" Paul asked.\n\n\"Thirty-nine,\" replied Dawes, glancing at him.\n\nThose brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleading\nfor reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warm\nhim, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul.\n\n\"You'll just be in your prime,\" said Morel. \"You don't look as if much\nlife had gone out of you.\"\n\nThe brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly.\n\n\"It hasn't,\" he said. \"The go is there.\"\n\nPaul looked up and laughed.\n\n\"We've both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly,\" he said.\n\nThe eyes of the two men met. They exchanged one look. Having recognised\nthe stress of passion each in the other, they both drank their whisky.\n\n\"Yes, begod!\" said Dawes, breathless.\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"And I don't see,\" said Paul, \"why you shouldn't go on where you left\noff.\"\n\n\"What--\" said Dawes, suggestively.\n\n\"Yes--fit your old home together again.\"\n\nDawes hid his face and shook his head.\n\n\"Couldn't be done,\" he said, and looked up with an ironic smile.\n\n\"Why? Because you don't want?\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\nThey smoked in silence. Dawes showed his teeth as he bit his pipe stem.\n\n\"You mean you don't want her?\" asked Paul.\n\nDawes stared up at the picture with a caustic expression on his face.\n\n\"I hardly know,\" he said.\n\nThe smoke floated softly up.\n\n\"I believe she wants you,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Do you?\" replied the other, soft, satirical, abstract.\n\n\"Yes. She never really hitched on to me--you were always there in the\nbackground. That's why she wouldn't get a divorce.\"\n\nDawes continued to stare in a satirical fashion at the picture over the\nmantelpiece.\n\n\"That's how women are with me,\" said Paul. \"They want me like mad, but\nthey don't want to belong to me. And she BELONGED to you all the time. I\nknew.\"\n\nThe triumphant male came up in Dawes. He showed his teeth more\ndistinctly.\n\n\"Perhaps I was a fool,\" he said.\n\n\"You were a big fool,\" said Morel.\n\n\"But perhaps even THEN you were a bigger fool,\" said Dawes.\n\nThere was a touch of triumph and malice in it.\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Paul.\n\nThey were silent for some time.\n\n\"At any rate, I'm clearing out to-morrow,\" said Morel.\n\n\"I see,\" answered Dawes.\n\nThen they did not talk any more. The instinct to murder each other had\nreturned. They almost avoided each other.\n\nThey shared the same bedroom. When they retired Dawes seemed abstract,\nthinking of something. He sat on the side of the bed in his shirt,\nlooking at his legs.\n\n\"Aren't you getting cold?\" asked Morel.\n\n\"I was lookin' at these legs,\" replied the other.\n\n\"What's up with 'em? They look all right,\" replied Paul, from his bed.\n\n\"They look all right. But there's some water in 'em yet.\"\n\n\"And what about it?\"\n\n\"Come and look.\"\n\nPaul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather handsome\nlegs of the other man that were covered with glistening, dark gold hair.\n\n\"Look here,\" said Dawes, pointing to his shin. \"Look at the water under\nhere.\"\n\n\"Where?\" said Paul.\n\nThe man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that filled\nup slowly.\n\n\"It's nothing,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You feel,\" said Dawes.\n\nPaul tried with his fingers. It made little dents.\n\n\"H'm!\" he said.\n\n\"Rotten, isn't it?\" said Dawes.\n\n\"Why? It's nothing much.\"\n\n\"You're not much of a man with water in your legs.\"\n\n\"I can't see as it makes any difference,\" said Morel. \"I've got a weak\nchest.\"\n\nHe returned to his own bed.\n\n\"I suppose the rest of me's all right,\" said Dawes, and he put out the\nlight.\n\nIn the morning it was raining. Morel packed his bag. The sea was grey\nand shaggy and dismal. He seemed to be cutting himself off from life\nmore and more. It gave him a wicked pleasure to do it.\n\nThe two men were at the station. Clara stepped out of the train, and\ncame along the platform, very erect and coldly composed. She wore a long\ncoat and a tweed hat. Both men hated her for her composure. Paul shook\nhands with her at the barrier. Dawes was leaning against the bookstall,\nwatching. His black overcoat was buttoned up to the chin because of the\nrain. He was pale, with almost a touch of nobility in his quietness. He\ncame forward, limping slightly.\n\n\"You ought to look better than this,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, I'm all right now.\"\n\nThe three stood at a loss. She kept the two men hesitating near her.\n\n\"Shall we go to the lodging straight off,\" said Paul, \"or somewhere\nelse?\"\n\n\"We may as well go home,\" said Dawes.\n\nPaul walked on the outside of the pavement, then Dawes, then Clara. They\nmade polite conversation. The sitting-room faced the sea, whose tide,\ngrey and shaggy, hissed not far off.\n\nMorel swung up the big arm-chair.\n\n\"Sit down, Jack,\" he said.\n\n\"I don't want that chair,\" said Dawes.\n\n\"Sit down!\" Morel repeated.\n\nClara took off her things and laid them on the couch. She had a slight\nair of resentment. Lifting her hair with her fingers, she sat down,\nrather aloof and composed. Paul ran downstairs to speak to the landlady.\n\n\"I should think you're cold,\" said Dawes to his wife. \"Come nearer to\nthe fire.\"\n\n\"Thank you, I'm quite warm,\" she answered.\n\nShe looked out of the window at the rain and at the sea.\n\n\"When are you going back?\" she asked.\n\n\"Well, the rooms are taken until to-morrow, so he wants me to stop. He's\ngoing back to-night.\"\n\n\"And then you're thinking of going to Sheffield?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Are you fit to start work?\"\n\n\"I'm going to start.\"\n\n\"You've really got a place?\"\n\n\"Yes--begin on Monday.\"\n\n\"You don't look fit.\"\n\n\"Why don't I?\"\n\nShe looked again out of the window instead of answering.\n\n\"And have you got lodgings in Sheffield?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAgain she looked away out of the window. The panes were blurred with\nstreaming rain.\n\n\"And can you manage all right?\" she asked.\n\n\"I s'd think so. I s'll have to!\"\n\nThey were silent when Morel returned.\n\n\"I shall go by the four-twenty,\" he said as he entered.\n\nNobody answered.\n\n\"I wish you'd take your boots off,\" he said to Clara.\n\n\"There's a pair of slippers of mine.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said. \"They aren't wet.\"\n\nHe put the slippers near her feet. She left them there.\n\nMorel sat down. Both the men seemed helpless, and each of them had a\nrather hunted look. But Dawes now carried himself quietly, seemed to\nyield himself, while Paul seemed to screw himself up. Clara thought she\nhad never seen him look so small and mean. He was as if trying to\nget himself into the smallest possible compass. And as he went about\narranging, and as he sat talking, there seemed something false about him\nand out of tune. Watching him unknown, she said to herself there was\nno stability about him. He was fine in his way, passionate, and able to\ngive her drinks of pure life when he was in one mood. And now he looked\npaltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about him. Her\nhusband had more manly dignity. At any rate HE did not waft about with\nany wind. There was something evanescent about Morel, she thought,\nsomething shifting and false. He would never make sure ground for any\nwoman to stand on. She despised him rather for his shrinking together,\ngetting smaller. Her husband at least was manly, and when he was beaten\ngave in. But this other would never own to being beaten. He would shift\nround and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet she\nwatched him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three fates lay\nin his hands. She hated him for it.\n\nShe seemed to understand better now about men, and what they could or\nwould do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself. That\nthey were not the small egoists she had imagined them made her more\ncomfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as much as she wanted\nto learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full as she could\ncarry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he was gone.\n\nThey had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Not\na serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel was\nwithdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay with her\nhusband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all, to take what\nhe wanted and then give her back. She did not remember that she herself\nhad had what she wanted, and really, at the bottom of her heart, wished\nto be given back.\n\nPaul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really supported his\nlife. He had loved her; they two had, in fact, faced the world together.\nNow she was gone, and for ever behind him was the gap in life, the tear\nin the veil, through which his life seemed to drift slowly, as if he\nwere drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiative\nto help him. The lesser things he began to let go from him, for fear of\nthis big thing, the lapse towards death, following in the wake of his\nbeloved. Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him,\nbut not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not the\nreal him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; he\ndared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed.\nSo, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, because his own hold\non life was so unsure, because nobody held him, feeling unsubstantial,\nshadowy, as if he did not count for much in this concrete world, he drew\nhimself together smaller and smaller. He did not want to die; he would\nnot give in. But he was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, he\nwould go on alone.\n\nDawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was afraid. He\ncould go to the brink of death, he could lie on the edge and look in.\nThen, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and like a beggar take what\noffered. There was a certain nobility in it. As Clara saw, he owned\nhimself beaten, and he wanted to be taken back whether or not. That she\ncould do for him. It was three o'clock.\n\n\"I am going by the four-twenty,\" said Paul again to Clara. \"Are you\ncoming then or later?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen,\" he said.\n\n\"Then,\" she answered, \"I'll come later.\"\n\nDawes jerked suddenly, as if he had been held on a strain. He looked out\nover the sea, but he saw nothing.\n\n\"There are one or two books in the corner,\" said Morel. \"I've done with\n'em.\"\n\nAt about four o'clock he went.\n\n\"I shall see you both later,\" he said, as he shook hands.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said Dawes. \"An' perhaps--one day--I s'll be able to pay\nyou back the money as--\"\n\n\"I shall come for it, you'll see,\" laughed Paul. \"I s'll be on the rocks\nbefore I'm very much older.\"\n\n\"Ay--well--\" said Dawes.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" he said to Clara.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she said, giving him her hand. Then she glanced at him for\nthe last time, dumb and humble.\n\nHe was gone. Dawes and his wife sat down again.\n\n\"It's a nasty day for travelling,\" said the man.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\nThey talked in a desultory fashion until it grew dark. The landlady\nbrought in the tea. Dawes drew up his chair to the table without being\ninvited, like a husband. Then he sat humbly waiting for his cup. She\nserved him as she would, like a wife, not consulting his wish.\n\nAfter tea, as it drew near to six o'clock, he went to the window. All\nwas dark outside. The sea was roaring.\n\n\"It's raining yet,\" he said.\n\n\"Is it?\" she answered.\n\n\"You won't go to-night, shall you?\" he said, hesitating.\n\nShe did not answer. He waited.\n\n\"I shouldn't go in this rain,\" he said.\n\n\"Do you WANT me to stay?\" she asked.\n\nHis hand as he held the dark curtain trembled.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\nHe remained with his back to her. She rose and went slowly to him. He\nlet go the curtain, turned, hesitating, towards her. She stood with\nher hands behind her back, looking up at him in a heavy, inscrutable\nfashion.\n\n\"Do you want me, Baxter?\" she asked.\n\nHis voice was hoarse as he answered:\n\n\"Do you want to come back to me?\"\n\nShe made a moaning noise, lifted her arms, and put them round his\nneck, drawing him to her. He hid his face on her shoulder, holding her\nclasped.\n\n\"Take me back!\" she whispered, ecstatic. \"Take me back, take me back!\"\nAnd she put her fingers through his fine, thin dark hair, as if she were\nonly semi-conscious. He tightened his grasp on her.\n\n\"Do you want me again?\" he murmured, broken.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nDERELICT\n\nCLARA went with her husband to Sheffield, and Paul scarcely saw her\nagain. Walter Morel seemed to have let all the trouble go over him, and\nthere he was, crawling about on the mud of it, just the same. There was\nscarcely any bond between father and son, save that each felt he must\nnot let the other go in any actual want. As there was no one to keep on\nthe home, and as they could neither of them bear the emptiness of the\nhouse, Paul took lodgings in Nottingham, and Morel went to live with a\nfriendly family in Bestwood.\n\nEverything seemed to have gone smash for the young man. He could not\npaint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's death--one\nthat satisfied him--was the last thing he did. At work there was no\nClara. When he came home he could not take up his brushes again. There\nwas nothing left.\n\nSo he was always in the town at one place or another, drinking,\nknocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked to\nbarmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark, strained look in\nhis eyes, as if he were hunting something.\n\nEverything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemed no reason why\npeople should go along the street, and houses pile up in the daylight.\nThere seemed no reason why these things should occupy the space, instead\nof leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and\nhe answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could not\nunderstand.\n\nHe was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and mechanically\nat the factory. In the latter case there was pure forgetfulness, when he\nlapsed from consciousness. But it had to come to an end. It hurt him so,\nthat things had lost their reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw the\ntiny drop-pearls among the grey. They would have given him the liveliest\nemotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean\nanything. In a few moments they would cease to occupy that place, and\njust the space would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant tram-cars\nran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder they should\ntrouble to rustle backwards and forwards. \"Why trouble to go tilting\ndown to Trent Bridges?\" he asked of the big trams. It seemed they just\nas well might NOT be as be.\n\nThe realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed to him\nwhole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself to it.\nSuddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blew along down the\npavement. He stood still, rigid, with clenched fists, a flame of agony\ngoing over him. And he saw again the sick-room, his mother, her eyes.\nUnconsciously he had been with her, in her company. The swift hop of\nthe paper reminded him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wanted\neverything to stand still, so that he could be with her again.\n\nThe days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused, gone\ninto a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one day from another, one\nweek from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was distinct\nor distinguishable. Often he lost himself for an hour at a time, could\nnot remember what he had done.\n\nOne evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire was burning low;\neverybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal, glanced at the table,\nand decided he wanted no supper. Then he sat down in the arm-chair. It\nwas perfectly still. He did not know anything, yet he saw the dim\nsmoke wavering up the chimney. Presently two mice came out, cautiously,\nnibbling the fallen crumbs. He watched them as it were from a long\nway off. The church clock struck two. Far away he could hear the sharp\nclinking of the trucks on the railway. No, it was not they that were far\naway. They were there in their places. But where was he himself?\n\nThe time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scampered cheekily over\nhis slippers. He had not moved a muscle. He did not want to move. He\nwas not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench of\nknowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other consciousness,\nworking mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases.\n\n\"What am I doing?\"\n\nAnd out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer:\n\n\"Destroying myself.\"\n\nThen a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was\nwrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:\n\n\"Why wrong?\"\n\nAgain there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside his\nchest resisted his own annihilation.\n\nThere was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenly\nthe electric light went out; there was a bruising thud in the\npenny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazing in front of\nhim. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red in the dark\nroom.\n\nThen, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation began\nagain inside him.\n\n\"She's dead. What was it all for--her struggle?\"\n\nThat was his despair wanting to go after her.\n\n\"You're alive.\"\n\n\"She's not.\"\n\n\"She is--in you.\"\n\nSuddenly he felt tired with the burden of it.\n\n\"You've got to keep alive for her sake,\" said his will in him.\n\nSomething felt sulky, as if it would not rouse.\n\n\"You've got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on\nwith it.\"\n\nBut he did not want to. He wanted to give up.\n\n\"But you can go on with your painting,\" said the will in him. \"Or else\nyou can beget children. They both carry on her effort.\"\n\n\"Painting is not living.\"\n\n\"Then live.\"\n\n\"Marry whom?\" came the sulky question.\n\n\"As best you can.\"\n\n\"Miriam?\"\n\nBut he did not trust that.\n\nHe rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got inside his bedroom\nand closed the door, he stood with clenched fist.\n\n\"Mater, my dear--\" he began, with the whole force of his soul. Then he\nstopped. He would not say it. He would not admit that he wanted to die,\nto have done. He would not own that life had beaten him, or that death\nhad beaten him. Going straight to bed, he slept at once, abandoning\nhimself to the sleep.\n\nSo the weeks went on. Always alone, his soul oscillated, first on the\nside of death, then on the side of life, doggedly. The real agony\nwas that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and WAS\nnothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were mad:\nsometimes he was mad; things weren't there, things were there. It made\nhim pant. Sometimes he stood before the bar of the public-house where he\ncalled for a drink. Everything suddenly stood back away from him. He\nsaw the face of the barmaid, the gobbling drinkers, his own glass on the\nslopped, mahogany board, in the distance. There was something between\nhim and them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them; he did\nnot want his drink. Turning abruptly, he went out. On the threshold he\nstood and looked at the lighted street. But he was not of it or in it.\nSomething separated him. Everything went on there below those lamps,\nshut away from him. He could not get at them. He felt he couldn't touch\nthe lamp-posts, not if he reached. Where could he go? There was nowhere\nto go, neither back into the inn, or forward anywhere. He felt stifled.\nThere was nowhere for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt he should\nsmash.\n\n\"I mustn't,\" he said; and, turning blindly, he went in and drank.\nSometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. He ran\ndown the road. For ever restless, he went here, there, everywhere. He\ndetermined to work. But when he had made six strokes, he loathed the\npencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried off to a club where he\ncould play cards or billiards, to a place where he could flirt with a\nbarmaid who was no more to him than the brass pump-handle she drew.\n\nHe was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his own eyes\nin the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away from\nhimself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In despair he thought of\nMiriam. Perhaps--perhaps--?\n\nThen, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening, when\nthey stood up to sing the second hymn he saw her before him. The light\nglistened on her lower lip as she sang. She looked as if she had got\nsomething, at any rate: some hope in heaven, if not in earth. Her\ncomfort and her life seemed in the after-world. A warm, strong feeling\nfor her came up. She seemed to yearn, as she sang, for the mystery and\ncomfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over, to\nspeak to her.\n\nThe throng carried her out just before him. He could nearly touch her.\nShe did not know he was there. He saw the brown, humble nape of her neck\nunder its black curls. He would leave himself to her. She was better and\nbigger than he. He would depend on her.\n\nShe went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngs of\npeople outside the church. She always looked so lost and out of place\namong people. He went forward and put his hand on her arm. She started\nviolently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear, then went questioning\nat the sight of him. He shrank slightly from her.\n\n\"I didn't know--\" she faltered.\n\n\"Nor I,\" he said.\n\nHe looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again.\n\n\"What are you doing in town?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's.\"\n\n\"Ha! For long?\"\n\n\"No; only till to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Must you go straight home?\"\n\nShe looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim.\n\n\"No,\" she said--\"no; it's not necessary.\"\n\nHe turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through the throng\nof church people. The organ was still sounding in St. Mary's. Dark\nfigures came through the lighted doors; people were coming down the\nsteps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church was\nlike a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took\nthe car for the Bridges.\n\n\"You will just have supper with me,\" he said: \"then I'll bring you\nback.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" she replied, low and husky.\n\nThey scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark and\nfull under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was black night. He\nlived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of the town, facing across the\nriver meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the steep scrap of Colwick\nWood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness spread away\non their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses.\n\nSupper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowl\nof freesias and scarlet anemones on the table. She bent to them. Still\ntouching them with her finger-tips, she looked up at him, saying:\n\n\"Aren't they beautiful?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"What will you drink--coffee?\"\n\n\"I should like it,\" she said.\n\n\"Then excuse me a moment.\"\n\nHe went out to the kitchen.\n\nMiriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, severe\nroom. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked on\nthe drawing-board to see what he was doing. There were only a few\nmeaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading.\nEvidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she saw\nwere from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know.\nEverything he had touched, everything that was in the least personal to\nhim, she examined with lingering absorption. He had been gone from her\nfor so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he was\nnow. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made her\nfeel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless.\n\nShe was curiously examining a sketch-book when he returned with the\ncoffee.\n\n\"There's nothing new in it,\" he said, \"and nothing very interesting.\"\n\nHe put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned the\npages slowly, intent on examining everything.\n\n\"H'm!\" he said, as she paused at a sketch. \"I'd forgotten that. It's not\nbad, is it?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"I don't quite understand it.\"\n\nHe took the book from her and went through it. Again he made a curious\nsound of surprise and pleasure.\n\n\"There's some not bad stuff in there,\" he said.\n\n\"Not at all bad,\" she answered gravely.\n\nHe felt again her interest in his work. Or was it for himself? Why was\nshe always most interested in him as he appeared in his work?\n\nThey sat down to supper.\n\n\"By the way,\" he said, \"didn't I hear something about your earning your\nown living?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. \"And what of it?\"\n\n\"I'm merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three months,\nand I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there.\"\n\n\"I say--that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to be\nindependent.\"\n\n\"Yes.\n\n\"Why didn't you tell me?\"\n\n\"I only knew last week.\"\n\n\"But I heard a month ago,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes; but nothing was settled then.\"\n\n\"I should have thought,\" he said, \"you'd have told me you were trying.\"\n\nShe ate her food in the deliberate, constrained way, almost as if she\nrecoiled a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew so well.\n\n\"I suppose you're glad,\" he said.\n\n\"Very glad.\"\n\n\"Yes--it will be something.\"\n\nHe was rather disappointed.\n\n\"I think it will be a great deal,\" she said, almost haughtily,\nresentfully.\n\nHe laughed shortly.\n\n\"Why do you think it won't?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, I don't think it won't be a great deal. Only you'll find earning\nyour own living isn't everything.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, swallowing with difficulty; \"I don't suppose it is.\"\n\n\"I suppose work CAN be nearly everything to a man,\" he said, \"though it\nisn't to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real and\nvital part is covered up.\"\n\n\"But a man can give ALL himself to work?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, practically.\"\n\n\"And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?\"\n\n\"That's it.\"\n\nShe looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger.\n\n\"Then,\" she said, \"if it's true, it's a great shame.\"\n\n\"It is. But I don't know everything,\" he answered.\n\nAfter supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair facing him,\nand they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret colour, that\nsuited her dark complexion and her large features. Still, the curls\nwere fine and free, but her face was much older, the brown throat much\nthinner. She seemed old to him, older than Clara. Her bloom of youth had\nquickly gone. A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come upon\nher. She meditated a little while, then looked at him.\n\n\"And how are things with you?\" she asked.\n\n\"About all right,\" he answered.\n\nShe looked at him, waiting.\n\n\"Nay,\" she said, very low.\n\nHer brown, nervous hands were clasped over her knee. They had still the\nlack of confidence or repose, the almost hysterical look. He winced as\nhe saw them. Then he laughed mirthlessly. She put her fingers between\nher lips. His slim, black, tortured body lay quite still in the chair.\nShe suddenly took her finger from her mouth and looked at him.\n\n\"And you have broken off with Clara?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHis body lay like an abandoned thing, strewn in the chair.\n\n\"You know,\" she said, \"I think we ought to be married.\"\n\nHe opened his eyes for the first time since many months, and attended to\nher with respect.\n\n\"Why?\" he said.\n\n\"See,\" she said, \"how you waste yourself! You might be ill, you might\ndie, and I never know--be no more then than if I had never known you.\"\n\n\"And if we married?\" he asked.\n\n\"At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a prey to\nother women--like--like Clara.\"\n\n\"A prey?\" he repeated, smiling.\n\nShe bowed her head in silence. He lay feeling his despair come up again.\n\n\"I'm not sure,\" he said slowly, \"that marriage would be much good.\"\n\n\"I only think of you,\" she replied.\n\n\"I know you do. But--you love me so much, you want to put me in your\npocket. And I should die there smothered.\"\n\nShe bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while the\nbitterness surged up in her heart.\n\n\"And what will you do otherwise?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know--go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go abroad.\"\n\nThe despairing doggedness in his tone made her go on her knees on the\nrug before the fire, very near to him. There she crouched as if she were\ncrushed by something, and could not raise her head. His hands lay quite\ninert on the arms of his chair. She was aware of them. She felt that\nnow he lay at her mercy. If she could rise, take him, put her arms round\nhim, and say, \"You are mine,\" then he would leave himself to her.\nBut dare she? She could easily sacrifice herself. But dare she assert\nherself? She was aware of his dark-clothed, slender body, that seemed\none stroke of life, sprawled in the chair close to her. But no; she\ndared not put her arms round it, take it up, and say, \"It is mine, this\nbody. Leave it to me.\" And she wanted to. It called to all her woman's\ninstinct. But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he would\nnot let her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body,\nabandoned. She knew she ought to take it up and claim it, and claim\nevery right to it. But--could she do it? Her impotence before him,\nbefore the strong demand of some unknown thing in him, was her\nextremity. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes,\nshuddering, appealing, gone, almost distracted, pleaded to him suddenly.\nHis heart caught with pity. He took her hands, drew her to him, and\ncomforted her.\n\n\"Will you have me, to marry me?\" he said very low.\n\nOh, why did not he take her? Her very soul belonged to him. Why would he\nnot take what was his? She had borne so long the cruelty of belonging to\nhim and not being claimed by him. Now he was straining her again. It\nwas too much for her. She drew back her head, held his face between her\nhands, and looked him in the eyes. No, he was hard. He wanted something\nelse. She pleaded to him with all her love not to make it her choice.\nShe could not cope with it, with him, she knew not with what. But it\nstrained her till she felt she would break.\n\n\"Do you want it?\" she asked, very gravely.\n\n\"Not much,\" he replied, with pain.\n\nShe turned her face aside; then, raising herself with dignity, she took\nhis head to her bosom, and rocked him softly. She was not to have him,\nthen! So she could comfort him. She put her fingers through his hair.\nFor her, the anguished sweetness of self-sacrifice. For him, the hate\nand misery of another failure. He could not bear it--that breast which\nwas warm and which cradled him without taking the burden of him. So much\nhe wanted to rest on her that the feint of rest only tortured him. He\ndrew away.\n\n\"And without marriage we can do nothing?\" he asked.\n\nHis mouth was lifted from his teeth with pain. She put her little finger\nbetween her lips.\n\n\"No,\" she said, low and like the toll of a bell. \"No, I think not.\"\n\nIt was the end then between them. She could not take him and relieve him\nof the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself to\nhim--sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He\nwanted her to hold him and say, with joy and authority: \"Stop all this\nrestlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate.\" She\nhad not the strength. Or was it a mate she wanted? or did she want a\nChrist in him?\n\nHe felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew\nthat, in staying, stilling the inner, desperate man, he was denying his\nown life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own.\n\nShe sat very quiet. He lit a cigarette. The smoke went up from it,\nwavering. He was thinking of his mother, and had forgotten Miriam. She\nsuddenly looked at him. Her bitterness came surging up. Her sacrifice,\nthen, was useless. He lay there aloof, careless about her. Suddenly\nshe saw again his lack of religion, his restless instability. He would\ndestroy himself like a perverse child. Well, then, he would!\n\n\"I think I must go,\" she said softly.\n\nBy her tone he knew she was despising him. He rose quietly.\n\n\"I'll come along with you,\" he answered.\n\nShe stood before the mirror pinning on her hat. How bitter, how\nunutterably bitter, it made her that he rejected her sacrifice! Life\nahead looked dead, as if the glow were gone out. She bowed her face over\nthe flowers--the freesias so sweet and spring-like, the scarlet anemones\nflaunting over the table. It was like him to have those flowers.\n\nHe moved about the room with a certain sureness of touch, swift and\nrelentless and quiet. She knew she could not cope with him. He would\nescape like a weasel out of her hands. Yet without him her life would\ntrail on lifeless. Brooding, she touched the flowers.\n\n\"Have them!\" he said; and he took them out of the jar, dripping as they\nwere, and went quickly into the kitchen. She waited for him, took the\nflowers, and they went out together, he talking, she feeling dead.\n\nShe was going from him now. In her misery she leaned against him as they\nsat on the car. He was unresponsive. Where would he go? What would\nbe the end of him? She could not bear it, the vacant feeling where he\nshould be. He was so foolish, so wasteful, never at peace with himself.\nAnd now where would he go? And what did he care that he wasted her? He\nhad no religion; it was all for the moment's attraction that he cared,\nnothing else, nothing deeper. Well, she would wait and see how it turned\nout with him. When he had had enough he would give in and come to her.\n\nHe shook hands and left her at the door of her cousin's house. When he\nturned away he felt the last hold for him had gone. The town, as he sat\nupon the car, stretched away over the bay of railway, a level fume of\nlights. Beyond the town the country, little smouldering spots for\nmore towns--the sea--the night--on and on! And he had no place in it!\nWhatever spot he stood on, there he stood alone. From his breast,\nfrom his mouth, sprang the endless space, and it was there behind him,\neverywhere. The people hurrying along the streets offered no obstruction\nto the void in which he found himself. They were small shadows whose\nfootsteps and voices could be heard, but in each of them the same night,\nthe same silence. He got off the car. In the country all was dead\nstill. Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away in the\nflood-waters, a firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and terror of\nthe immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while by\nthe day, but which returns, and will remain at last eternal, holding\neverything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no Time, only\nSpace. Who could say his mother had lived and did not live? She had been\nin one place, and was in another; that was all. And his soul could not\nleave her, wherever she was. Now she was gone abroad into the night, and\nhe was with her still. They were together. But yet there was his body,\nhis chest, that leaned against the stile, his hands on the wooden bar.\nThey seemed something. Where was he?--one tiny upright speck of flesh,\nless than an ear of wheat lost in the field. He could not bear it.\nOn every side the immense dark silence seemed pressing him, so tiny\na spark, into extinction, and yet, almost nothing, he could not be\nextinct. Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond\nstars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning round\nfor terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness\nthat outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and\nhimself, infinitesimal, at the core a nothingness, and yet not nothing.\n\n\"Mother!\" he whispered--\"mother!\"\n\nShe was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. And\nshe was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch him, have him\nalongside with her.\n\nBut no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the\ncity's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He\nwould not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked\ntowards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly.\n\n\nTHE END"