She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding her of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully a woman, and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. But her eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would notice her new blouse.
He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel, conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect.1 He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now taking on one expression and then another, in imitation of various people he was mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality. He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers, just awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in their shirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved a “take-off” more than anything.
He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups from the shelves.
When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally.
“You were late,” she said.
“Was I?” he answered.
There was silence for a while.
“Was it rough riding?” she asked.
“I didn’t notice it.”
She continued quickly to lay the table. When she had finished—
“Tea won’t be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the daffodils?” she said.
He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden under the budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows, which she loved, could look so hurting.
“Has the wind made you tired?” she asked. She detected an underneath feeling of weariness about him.
“No, I think not,” he answered.
“It must be rough on the road—the wood moans so.”
“You can see by the clouds it’s a south-west wind; that helps me here.”
“You see, I don’t cycle, so I don’t understand,” she murmured.
“Is there need to cycle to know that!” he said.
She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forward in silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house was a thorn hedge, under which daffodils were craning forward from among their sheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowers were greenish with cold. But still some had burst, and their gold ruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster, took a wildlooking daffodil between her hands, turned up its face of gold to her, and bowed down, caressing it with her mouth and cheeks and brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets, watching her. One after another she turned up to him the faces of the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly, fondling them lavishly all the while.
“Aren’t they magnificent?” she murmured.
“Magnificent! It’s a bit thick—they’re pretty!”
She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched her crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses.
“Why must you always be fondling things?” he said irritably.
“But I love to touch them,” she replied, hurt.
“Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don’t you have a bit more restraint, or reserve, or something?”
She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke her lips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was so much kinder than he; it almost made her cry.
“You wheedle the soul out of things,” he said. “I would never wheedle—at any rate, I’d go straight.”
He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from him mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm and hard against her.
“You’re always begging things to love you,” he said, “as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them—”
Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to her nostrils.
“You don’t want to love—your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren’t positive, you’re negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you’ve got a shortage somewhere.”
She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not the faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted, tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings like sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. She only sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She never realised in a flash. Over everything she brooded and brooded.
After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no notice of Miriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday, waited for him. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track this mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a mood.
“Shall we go through the wood a little way?” she asked him, knowing he never refused a direct request.
They went down to the warren. On the middle path they passed a trap, a narrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs, baited with the guts of a rabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye.
“Isn’t it dreadful?” she asked.
“I don’t know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rabbit’s throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!”
He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry for him.
“We will go back to the house,” he said. “I don’t want to walk out.”
They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds were coming unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monument squared and brown, like a pillar of stone. There was a little bed of hay from the last cutting.
“Let us sit here a minute,” said Miriam.
He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard wall of hay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowed with sunset, tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the woods dark and yet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops, distinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the east was tender with a magenta flush under which the land lay still and rich.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she pleaded.
But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then.
At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed, pranced his two paws on the youth’s shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back, laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but it came leaping back.
“Get out,” said the lad, “or I’ll doted thee one.”
But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little battle with the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, however, only floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought together, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning all over. Miriam watched them. There was something pathetic about the man. He wanted so badly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was really loving. Bill got up, panting with happiness, his brown eyes rolling in his white face, and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The lad frowned.
“Bill, I’ve had enough o’ thee,” he said.
But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongu
e at him. He drew back.
“No,” he said—“no—I’ve had enough.”
And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun.
He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beauty he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the courage to leave Miriam.
“Why are you sad?” she asked humbly.
“I’m not sad; why should I be,” he answered. “I’m only normal.”
She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was disagreeable.
“But what is the matter?” she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly.
“Nothing!”
“Nay!” she murmured.
He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it.
“You’d far better not talk,” he said.
“But I wish to know—” she replied.
He laughed resentfully.
“You always do,” he said.
“It’s not fair to me,” she murmured.
He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, digging up little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She gently and firmly laid her hand on his wrist.
“Don’t!” she said. “Put it away.”
He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was bottled up.
“What is it?” she pleaded softly.
He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they full of torment.
“You know,” he said at length, rather wearily—“you know—we’d better break off.”
It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before her eyes.
“Why!” she murmured. “What has happened?”
“Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It’s no good—”
She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatient with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him.
“We agreed on friendship,” he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. “How often have we agreed for friendship! And yet—it neither stops there, nor gets anywhere else.”
He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with him.
“I can only give friendship—its all I’m capable of—its a flaw in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side—I hate a toppling balance. Let us have done.”
There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely-subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.
“But what has happened?” she said.
“Nothing—it’s all in myself—it only comes out just now. We’re always like this towards Easter-time.”
He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she never floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chiefly humiliated.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
“Why—I mustn’t come often—that’s all. Why should I monopolise you when I’m not—You see, I’m deficient in something with regard to you—”
He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her a chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy he was! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he, ah! she loved his soul. Was he deficient in something? Perhaps he was.
“But I don’t understand,” she said huskily. “Yesterday—”
The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering.
“I know,” he cried, “you never will! You’ll never believe that I can’t-can’t physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark—”
“What?” she murmured. Now she dreaded.
“Love you.”
He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love her! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not loving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belonged to her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencing him. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreign-ness of another influence.
“What have they been saying at home?” she asked.
“It’s not that,” he answered.
And then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness, his people. They did not know what things were really worth.
He and she talked very little more that night. After all he left her to cycle with Edgar.
He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie in his life. When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unreal feel about her. And nobody else mattered. There was one place in the world that stood solid and did not melt into unreality : the place where his mother was. Everybody else could grow shadowy, almost non-existent to him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life, from which he could not escape, was his mother.2
And in the same way she waited for him. In him was established her life now. After all, the life beyond offered very little to Mrs. Morel. She saw that our chance for doing is here, and doing counted with her. Paul was going to prove that she had been right; he was going to make a man whom nothing should shift off his feet; he was going to alter the face of the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt her soul went with him. Whatever he did she felt her soul stood by him, ready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when he was with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul.
And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of the satisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She loved him first; he loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His new young life, so strong and imperious, was urged towards something else. It made him mad with restlessness. She saw this, and wished bitterly that Miriam had been a woman who could take this new life of his, and leave her the roots. He fought against his mother almost as he fought against Miriam.
It was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam had suffered a great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endure the ignominy of his abandoning her? That would only be superficial and temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. But meanwhile, how he would torture her with his battle against her. She shrank from it.
However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leivers was glad to see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that he found things hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was good to him. She did him that great kindness of treating him almost with reverence.
He met her with the young children in the front garden.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said the mother, looking at him with her great appealing brown eyes. “It is such a sunny day. I was just going down the fields for the first time this year.”
He felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went, talking simply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitude that she was deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated.
At the bottom of the Mow Close they found a thrush’s nest.
“Shall I show you the eggs?” he said.
“Do!” replied Mrs. Leivers. “They seem such a sign of spring, and so hopeful.”
He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding them in the palm of his hand.
“They are quite hot—I think we frightened her off them,” he said.
“Ay, poor thing!” said Mrs. Leivers.
Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed to her, cradled them so well.
“Isn’t it a strange warmth!” she murmured, to get near him.
“Blood heat,�
�� he answered.
She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved him; he seemed so simple and sufficient to himself. And she could not get to him.
After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf He took “Tartarin de Tarascon.”3 Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the stack. He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dog came racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzle in the man’s chest. Paul fingered his ear for a moment. Then he pushed him away.
“Go away, Bill,” he said. “I don’t want you.”
Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. There was a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. It was not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared.
Turning his face a little to one side, so that she could not see him, he began, speaking slowly and painfully:
“Do you think—if I didn’t come up so much—you might get to like somebody else—another man?”
So this was what he was still harping on.
“But I don’t know any other men. Why do you ask?” she replied, in a low tone that should have been a reproach to him.
“Why,” he blurted, “because they say I’ve no right to come up like this—without we mean to marry—”
Miriam was indignant at anybody’s forcing the issues between them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much.
“Who says?” she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with it. They had not.
“Mother—and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it’s not fair to you. And I’ve tried to find out—and I don’t think I love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?”
Sons and Lovers Page 29
