When he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the frontwheel punctured.
"Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl," he said to her. "I shall be late, and then I s'll catch it."
He lighted the hurricane lamp, took off his coat, turned upthe bicycle, and set speedily to work. Miriam came with the bowlof water and stood close to him, watching. She loved to seehis hands doing things. He was slim and vigorous, with a kindof easiness even in his most hasty movements. And busy at his workhe seemed to forget her. She loved him absorbedly. She wantedto run her hands down his sides. She always wanted to embrace him,so long as he did not want her.
"There!" he said, rising suddenly. "Now, could you have doneit quicker?"
"No!" she laughed.
He straightened himself. His back was towards her. She puther two hands on his sides, and ran them quickly down.
"You are so FINE!" she said.
He laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a waveof flame by her hands. She did not seem to realise HIM in all this. He might have been an object. She never realised the male he was.
He lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the barnfloor to see that the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat.
"That's all right!" he said.
She was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken.
"Did you have them mended?" she asked.
"No!"
"But why didn't you?"
"The back one goes on a bit."
"But it's not safe."
"I can use my toe."
"I wish you'd had them mended," she murmured.
"Don't worry--come to tea tomorrow, with Edgar."
"Shall we?"
"Do--about four. I'll come to meet you."
"Very well."
She was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. Looking across, he saw through the uncurtained window of thekitchen the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow. It looked very cosy. The road, with pine trees, was quite blackin front.
"Till tomorrow," he said, jumping on his bicycle.
"You'll take care, won't you?" she pleaded.
"Yes."
His voice already came out of the darkness. She stood a momentwatching the light from his lamp race into obscurity along the ground. She turned very slowly indoors. Orion was wheeling up over the wood,his dog twinkling after him, half smothered. For the rest the worldwas full of darkness, and silent, save for the breathing of cattlein their stalls. She prayed earnestly for his safety that night. When he left her, she often lay in anxiety, wondering if he had gothome safely.
He dropped down the hills on his bicycle. The roads were greasy,so he had to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plungedover the second, steeper drop in the hill. "Here goes!" he said. It was risky, because of the curve in the darkness at the bottom,and because of the brewers' waggons with drunken waggoners asleep. His bicycle seemed to fall beneath him, and he loved it. Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself todeprive her altogether.
CHAPTER VIII
STRIFE IN LOVE （II）
The stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers,silver upon the blackness, as he spun past. Then there was the longclimb home.
"See, mother!" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaveson to the table.
"H'm!" she said, glancing at them, then away again. She sat reading, alone, as she always did.
"Aren't they pretty?"
"Yes."
He knew she was cross with him. After a few minutes he said:
"Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea tomorrow."
She did not answer.
"You don't mind?"
Still she did not answer.
"Do you?" he asked.
"You know whether I mind or not."
"I don't see why you should. I have plenty of meals there."
"You do."
"Then why do you begrudge them tea?"
"I begrudge whom tea?"
"What are you so horrid for?"
"Oh, say no more! You've asked her to tea, it's quite sufficient. She'll come."
He was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merelyMiriam she objected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed.
Paul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was gladto see them coming. They arrived home at about four o'clock.Everywhere was clean and still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Morel satin her black dress and black apron. She rose to meet the visitors. With Edgar she was cordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging. Yet Paul thought the girl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock.
He helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would havegladly proffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. There was about it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The chairs were only wooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrugand cushions were cosy; the pictures were prints in good taste;there was a simplicity in everything, and plenty of books. He was never ashamed in the least of his home, nor was Miriamof hers, because both were what they should be, and warm. And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty,the cloth was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were notsilver nor the knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managed wonderfully while her children were growing up,so that nothing was out of place.
Miriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But Mrs. Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar.
At first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew. Morel never went to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs. Morel,like a little champion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul at the other end;and at first Miriam sat next to him. Then the chapel was like home. It was a pretty place, with dark pews and slim, elegant pillars,and flowers. And the same people had sat in the same places eversince he was a boy. It was wonderfully sweet and soothing to sitthere for an hour and a half, next to Miriam, and near to his mother,uniting his two loves under the spell of the place of worship. Then he felt warm and happy and religious at once. And afterchapel he walked home with Miriam, whilst Mrs. Morel spent the restof the evening with her old friend, Mrs. Burns. He was keenlyalive on his walks on Sunday nights with Edgar and Miriam. He never went past the pits at night, by the lighted lamp-house,the tall black headstocks and lines of trucks, past the fans spinningslowly like shadows, without the feeling of Miriam returning to him,keen and almost unbearable.
She did not very long occupy the Morels' pew. Her father tookone for themselves once more. It was under the little gallery,opposite the Morels'. When Paul and his mother came in the chapelthe Leivers's pew was always empty. He was anxious for fear she wouldnot come: it was so far, and there were so many rainy Sundays. Then, often very late indeed, she came in, with her long stride,her head bowed, her face hidden under her bat of dark green velvet. Her face, as she sat opposite, was always in shadow. But it gavehim a very keen feeling, as if all his soul stirred within him,to see her there. It was not the same glow, happiness, and pride,that he felt in having his mother in charge: something morewonderful, less human, and tinged to intensity by a pain,as if there were something he could not get to.
At this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed. He was twenty-one, and she was twenty. She was beginningto dread the spring: he became so wild, and hurt her so much. All the way he went cruelly smashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. He was by nature critical and rather dispassionate. But Miriamsuffered exquisite pain, as, with an intellect like a knife, the manshe loved examined her religion in which she lived and moved and hadher being. But he did not spare her. He was cruel. And when theywent alone he was even more fierce, as if he would kill her soul. He bled her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness.
"She exults--she exults as she carries him off from me,"Mrs. Morel cried in her heart when Paul had gone. "She's notlike an ordinary woman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She wants to draw him out and absorbhim till there is nothing left of him, even for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet--she will suck him up." So the mother sat, and battled and brooded bitterly.
And he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wildwith torture. He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists,going at a great rate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood forsome minutes, and did not move. There was a great hollow of darknessfronting him, and on the black upslopes patches of tiny lights,and in the lowest trough of the night, a flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful. Why was he torn so, almost bewildered,and unable to move? Why did his mother sit at home and suffer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And why didhe hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thoughtof his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then hehated her--and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feelas if he were uncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing,as if he had not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night and thespace breaking into him? How he hated her! And then, what a rushof tenderness and humility!
Suddenly he plunged on again, running home. His mothersaw on him the marks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had to make her talk to him. Then she was angry with himfor going so far with Miriam.
"Why don't you like her, mother?" he cried in despair.
"I don't know, my boy," she replied piteously. "I'm sure I'vetried to like her. I've tried and tried, but I can't--I can't!"
And he felt dreary and hopeless between the two.
Spring was the worst time. He was changeable, and intenseand cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then came thehours when he knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother watchedhim growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He coulddo nothing. It was as if something were drawing his soul out towardsWilley Farm. Then he put on his hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. And as soon as he was on the wayhe sighed with relief. And when he was with her he was cruel again.
One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriamsitting beside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, so brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stolealong on the water. The clear spaces in the sky were of clean,cold blue. Paul lay on his back in the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. She seemed to want him,and he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted now to giveher passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that she wantedthe soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and energyshe drew into herself through some channel which united them. She did not want to meet him, so that there were two of them,man and woman together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an intensity like madness, which fascinated him,as drug-taking might.
He was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she werefingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life,as she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the endit frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search,and his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was,almost inhuman, as if in a trance.
"Don't talk any more," she pleaded softly, laying her handon his forehead.
He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body wassomewhere discarded.
"Why not? Are you tired?"
"Yes, and it wears you out."
He laughed shortly, realising.
"Yet you always make me like it," he said.
"I don't wish to," she said, very low.
"Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it. But your unconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose Iwant it."
He went on, in his dead fashion:
"If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel offfor you! "
"I!" she cried bitterly--"I! Why, when would you let me take you?"
"Then it's my fault," he said, and, gathering himself together,he got up and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague way he hated her for it. And he knew he was as much toblame himself. This, however, did not prevent his hating her.
One evening about this time he had walked along the home roadwith her. They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood,unable to part. As the stars came out the clouds closed. They hadglimpses of their own constellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a moment, his dog ran low, struggling withdifficulty through the spume of cloud.
Orion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. They had gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling,until they seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This evening Paul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed justan ordinary constellation to him. He had fought against his glamourand fascination. Miriam was watching her lover's mood carefully. But he said nothing that gave him away, till the moment came to part,when he stood frowning gloomily at the gathered clouds, behind whichthe great constellation must be striding still.
There was to be a little party at his house the next day,at which she was to attend.
"I shan't come and meet you," he said.
"Oh, very well; it's not very nice out," she replied slowly.
"It's not that--only they don't like me to. They say I caremore for you than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's only friendship."
Miriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him aneffort. She left him, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blew in her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down; and she despised him for being blownabout by any wind of authority. And in her heart of hearts,unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to get away from her. This she would never have acknowledged. She pitied him.
At this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's warehouse. Mr. Pappleworth left to set up a business of his own, and Paulremained with Mr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages wereto be raised to thirty shillings at the year-end, if things went well.
