When he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a week,but he was happy. His painting went well, and life went well enough. On the Good Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock Stone. There were three lads of his own age, then Annie and Arthur,Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur, apprenticed as an electricianin Nottingham, was home for the holiday. Morel, as usual, was up early,whistling and sawing in the yard. At seven o'clock the family heardhim buy threepennyworth of hot-cross buns; he talked with gustoto the little girl who brought them, calling her "my darling". Heturned away several boys who came with more buns, telling themthey had been "kested" by a little lass. Then Mrs. Morel got up,and the family straggled down. It was an immense luxury to everybody,this lying in bed just beyond the ordinary time on a weekday. And Paul and Arthur read before breakfast, and had the meal unwashed,sitting in their shirt-sleeves. This was another holiday luxury. The room was warm. Everything felt free of care and anxiety. There was a sense of plenty in the house.
While the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. They were now in another house, an old one, near the ScargillStreet home, which had been left soon after William had died.Directly came an excited cry from the garden:
"Paul! Paul! come and look!"
It was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went out. There was a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold day,with a sharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields awayBestwood began, with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of whichrose the church tower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel. And beyond went woods and hills, right away to the pale grey heightsof the Pennine Chain.
Paul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appearedamong the young currant-bushes.
"Come here!" she cried.
"What for?" he answered.
"Come and see."
She had been looking at the buds on the currant trees. Paul went up.
"To think," she said, "that here I might never have seen them!"
Her son went to her side. Under the fence, in a little bed,was a ravel of poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature bulbs,and three scyllas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep blue flowers.
"Now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "I was looking atthe currant bushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's somethingvery blue; is it a bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories of the snow, and such beauties! But where on earth did they come from?"
"I don't know," said Paul.
"Well, that's a marvel, now! I THOUGHT I knew every weedand blade in this garden. But HAVEN'T they done well? You see,that gooseberry-bush just shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!"
He crouched down and turned up the bells of the littleblue flowers.
"They're a glorious colour!" he said.
"Aren't they!" she cried. "I guess they come from Switzerland,where they say they have such lovely things. Fancy them againstthe snow! But where have they come from? They can't have BLOWN here,can they?"
Then he remembered having set here a lot of little trashof bulbs to mature.
"And you never told me," she said.
"No! I thought I'd leave it till they might flower."
"And now, you see! I might have missed them. And I've neverhad a glory of the snow in my garden in my life."
She was full of excitement and elation. The garden wasan endless joy to her. Paul was thankful for her sake at lastto be in a house with a long garden that went down to a field. Every morning after breakfast she went out and was happy potteringabout in it. And it was true, she knew every weed and blade.
Everybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and theyset off, a merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of themill-race, dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunneland watched it shoot out on the other. They stood on the foot-bridgeover Boathouse Station and looked at the metals gleaming coldly.
"You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six!"said Leonard, whose father was a signalman. "Lad, but she doesn'thalf buzz!" and the little party looked up the lines one way,to London, and the other way, to Scotland, and they felt the touchof these two magical places.
In Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for thepublic-houses to open. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton Gate the iron foundry blazed. Over everything there weregreat discussions. At Trowell they crossed again from Derbyshireinto Nottinghamshire. They came to the Hemlock Stone at dinner-time.Its field was crowded with folk from Nottingham and Ilkeston.
CHAPTER VII
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE （III）
They had expected a venerable and dignified monument. They found a little, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like adecayed mushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. Leonard and Dick immediately proceeded to carve their initials,"L. W." and "R. P.", in the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted,because he had read in the newspaper satirical remarks aboutinitial-carvers, who could find no other road to immortality. Then all the lads climbed to the top of the rock to look round.
Everywhere in the field below, factory girls and lads were eatinglunch or sporting about. Beyond was the garden of an old manor.It had yew-hedges and thick clumps and bordersof yellow crocuses round the lawn.
"See," said Paul to Miriam, "what a quiet garden!"
She saw the dark yews and the golden crocuses, then shelooked gratefully. He had not seemed to belong to her among allthese others; he was different then--not her Paul, who understoodthe slightest quiver of her innermost soul, but something else,speaking another language than hers. How it hurt her, and deadenedher very perceptions. Only when he came right back to her,leaving his other, his lesser self, as she thought, would shefeel alive again. And now he asked her to look at this garden,wanting the contact with her again. Impatient of the set in the field,she turned to the quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves of shut-up crocuses. A feeling of stillness, almost of ecstasy, came over her. It felt almost as if she were alone with him in this garden.
Then he left her again and joined the others. Soon theystarted home. Miriam loitered behind, alone. She did notfit in with the others; she could very rarely get into humanrelations with anyone: so her friend, her companion, her lover,was Nature. She saw the sun declining wanly. In the dusky,cold hedgerows were some red leaves. She lingered to gather them,tenderly, passionately. The love in her finger-tips caressedthe leaves; the passion in her heart came to a glow upon the leaves.
Suddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road,and she hurried forward. Turning a corner in the lane, she cameupon Paul, who stood bent over something, his mind fixed on it,working away steadily, patiently, a little hopelessly. She hesitatedin her approach, to watch.
He remained concentrated in the middle of the road. Beyond,one rift of rich gold in that colourless grey evening seemed to makehim stand out in dark relief. She saw him, slender and firm,as if the setting sun had given him to her. A deep pain took holdof her, and she knew she must love him. And she had discovered him,discovered in him a rare potentiality, discovered his loneliness. Quivering as at some "annunciation", she went slowly forward.
At last he looked up.
"Why," he exclaimed gratefully, "have you waited for me!"
She saw a deep shadow in his eyes.
"What is it?" she asked.
"The spring broken here;" and he showed her where his umbrellawas injured.
Instantly, with some shame, she knew he had not donethe damage himself, but that Geoffrey was responsible.
"It is only an old umbrella, isn't it?" she asked.
She wondered why he, who did not usually trouble over trifles,made such a mountain of this molehill.
"But it was William's an' my mother can't help but know,"he said quietly, still patiently working at the umbrella.
The words went through Miriam like a blade. This, then, was theconfirmation of her vision of him! She looked at him. But therewas about him a certain reserve, and she dared not comfort him,not even speak softly to him.
"Come on," he said. "I can't do it;" and they went in silencealong the road.
That same evening they were walking along under the treesby Nether Green. He was talking to her fretfully, seemed to bestruggling to convince himself.
"You know," he said, with an effort, "if one person loves,the other does."
"Ah!" she answered. "Like mother said to me when I was little,'Love begets love.'"
"Yes, something like that, I think it MUST be."
"I hope so, because, if it were not, love might be a veryterrible thing," she said.
"Yes, but it IS--at least with most people," he answered.
And Miriam, thinking he had assured himself, felt strongin herself. She always regarded that sudden coming upon himin the lane as a revelation. And this conversation remainedgraven in her mind as one of the letters of the law.
Now she stood with him and for him. When, about this time,he outraged the family feeling at Willey Farm by some overbearing insult,she stuck to him, and believed he was right. And at this time shedreamed dreams of him, vivid, unforgettable. These dreams cameagain later on, developed to a more subtle psychological stage.
On the Easter Monday the same party took an excursionto Wingfield Manor. It was great excitement to Miriam to catch atrain at Sethley Bridge, amid all the bustle of the Bank Holiday crowd. They left the train at Alfreton. Paul was interested in thestreet and in the colliers with their dogs. Here was a new raceof miners. Miriam did not live till they came to the church. They were all rather timid of entering, with their bags of food,for fear of being turned out. Leonard, a comic, thin fellow,went first; Paul, who would have died rather than be sent back,went last. The place was decorated for Easter. In the font hundredsof white narcissi seemed to be growing. The air was dim and colouredfrom the windows and thrilled with a subtle scent of liliesand narcissi. In that atmosphere Miriam's soul came into a glow. Paul was afraid of the things he mustn't do; and he was sensitiveto the feel of the place. Miriam turned to him. He answered. They were together. He would not go beyond the Communion-rail. Sheloved him for that. Her soul expanded into prayer beside him. He felt the strange fascination of shadowy religious places. All his latent mysticism quivered into life. She was drawn to him. He was a prayer along with her.
Miriam very rarely talked to the other lads. They at oncebecame awkward in conversation with her. So usually she was silent.
It was past midday when they climbed the steep path to the manor. All things shone softly in the sun, which was wonderfully warmand enlivening. Celandines and violets were out. Everybody wastip-top full with happiness. The glitter of the ivy, the soft,atmospheric grey of the castle walls, the gentleness of everythingnear the ruin, was perfect.
The manor is of hard, pale grey stone, and the other wallsare blank and calm. The young folk were in raptures. They wentin trepidation, almost afraid that the delight of exploring thisruin might be denied them. In the first courtyard, within the highbroken walls, were farm-carts, with their shafts lying idle onthe ground, the tyres of the wheels brilliant with gold-red rust. It was very still.
All eagerly paid their sixpences, and went timidly throughthe fine clean arch of the inner courtyard. They were shy. Here on the pavement, where the hall had been, an old thorn treewas budding. All kinds of strange openings and broken rooms werein the shadow around them.
After lunch they set off once more to explore the ruin. This time the girls went with the boys, who could act as guidesand expositors. There was one tall tower in a corner, rather tottering,where they say Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned.
"Think of the Queen going up here!" said Miriam in a low voice,as she climbed the hollow stairs.
"If she could get up," said Paul, "for she had rheumatismlike anything. I reckon they treated her rottenly."
"You don't think she deserved it?" asked Miriam.
"No, I don't. She was only lively."
They continued to mount the winding staircase. A high wind,blowing through the loopholes, went rushing up the shaft,and filled the girl's skirts like a balloon, so that she was ashamed,until he took the hem of her dress and held it down for her. He did it perfectly simply, as he would have picked up her glove. She remembered this always.
Round the broken top of the tower the ivy bushed out,old and handsome. Also, there were a few chill gillivers,in pale cold bud. Miriam wanted to lean over for some ivy,but he would not let her. Instead, she had to wait behind him,and take from him each spray as he gathered it and held it to her,each one separately, in the purest manner of chivalry. The towerseemed to rock in the wind. They looked over miles and milesof wooded country, and country with gleams of pasture.
The crypt underneath the manor was beautiful, and inperfect preservation. Paul made a drawing: Miriam stayed with him. She was thinking of Mary Queen of Scots looking with her strained,hopeless eyes, that could not understand misery, over the hillswhence no help came, or sitting in this crypt, being told of a Godas cold as the place she sat in.
They set off again gaily, looking round on their beloved manorthat stood so clean and big on its hill.
"Supposing you could have THAT farm," said Paul to Miriam.
"Yes!"
"Wouldn't it be lovely to come and see you!"
They were now in the bare country of stone walls, which he loved,and which, though only ten miles from home, seemed so foreignto Miriam. The party was straggling. As they were crossing alarge meadow that sloped away from the sun, along a path embeddedwith innumerable tiny glittering points, Paul, walkingalongside, laced his fingers in the strings of the bag Miriamwas carrying, and instantly she felt Annie behind, watchful and jealous. But the meadow was bathed in a glory of sunshine, and the pathwas jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave her any sign. She held her fingers very still among the strings of the bag,his fingers touching; and the place was golden as a vision.
