"Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I thinkshe'd rather have the money."
"Yes," said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness,and Miriam sympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER.
He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returnedhe threw to Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-coverwith the same design.
"I did that for you," he said.
She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became embarrassed.
"By Jove, the bread!" he cried.
He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery,wetted his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion,and dropped it in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over herpainted cloth. He stood rubbing the bits of dough from his hands.
"You do like it?" he asked.
She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him the most intense pleasure in talking about hiswork to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went intothis intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his imaginations. She did not understand,any more than a woman understands when she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and for him.
While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two,small and pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her,entered the room. She was a friend at the Morel's.
"Take your things off," said Paul.
"No, I'm not stopping."
She sat down in the armchair opposite Paul and Miriam,who were on the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a scent of new bread. Brown, crisp loavesstood on the hearth.
"I shouldn't have expected to see you here to-night,Miriam Leivers," said Beatrice wickedly.
"Why not?" murmured Miriam huskily.
"Why, let's look at your shoes."
Miriam remained uncomfortably still.
"If tha doesna tha durs'na," laughed Beatrice.
Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her bootshad that queer, irresolute, rather pathetic look about them,which showed how self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with mud.
"Glory! You're a positive muck-heap," exclaimed Beatrice. "Who cleans your boots?"
"I clean them myself."
"Then you wanted a job," said Beatrice. "It would ha'taken a lot of men to ha' brought me down here to-night. But lovelaughs at sludge, doesn't it, 'Postle my duck?"
"Inter alia," he said.
"Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean, Miriam?"
There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam didnot see it.
"'Among other things,' I believe," she said humbly.
CHAPTER VIII
STRIFE IN LOVE （III）
Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly.
"'Among other things,' 'Postle?" she repeated. "Do you meanlove laughs at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers,and men friends, and lady friends, and even at the b'loved himself?"
She affected a great innocence.
"In fact, it's one big smile," he replied.
"Up its sleeve, 'Postle Morel--you believe me," she said;and she went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter.
Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul'sfriends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left herin the lurch--seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then.
"Are you still at school?" asked Miriam of Beatrice.
"Yes."
"You've not had your notice, then?"
"I expect it at Easter."
"Isn't it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because youdidn't pass the exam.?"
"I don't know," said Beatrice coldly.
"Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me ridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass."
"Short of brains, eh, 'Postle?" said Beatrice briefly.
"Only brains to bite with," replied Paul, laughing.
"Nuisance!" she cried; and, springing from her seat,she rushed and boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while she wrestled with him. At last shebroke free, and seized two handfuls of his thick, dark brown hair,which she shook.
"Beat!" he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. "I hate you!"
She laughed with glee.
"Mind!" she said. "I want to sit next to you."
"I'd as lief be neighbours with a vixen," he said,nevertheless making place for her between him and Miriam.
"Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!" she cried; and, with herhair-comb, she combed him straight. "And his nice little moustache!"she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache. "It's a wicked moustache, 'Postle," she said. "It's a red for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?"
He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice lookedinside it.
"And fancy me having Connie's last cig.," said Beatrice,putting the thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her,and she puffed daintily.
"Thanks so much, darling," she said mockingly.
It gave her a wicked delight.
"Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?" she asked.
"Oh, very!" said Miriam.
He took a cigarette for himself.
"Light, old boy?" said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him.
He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winking at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes tremblingwith mischief, and his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she could not bear it. As he was now,she had no connection with him; she might as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his full red lips. She hated his thickhair for being tumbled loose on his forehead.
"Sweet boy!" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and givinghim a little kiss on the cheek.
"I s'll kiss thee back, Beat," he said.
"Tha wunna!" she giggled, jumping up and going away. "Isn't he shameless, Miriam?"
"Quite," said Miriam. "By the way, aren't you forgettingthe bread?"
"By Jove!" he cried, flinging open the oven door.
Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.
"Oh, golly!" cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouchedbefore the oven, she peered over his shoulder. "This is what comesof the oblivion of love, my boy."
Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt blackon the hot side; another was hard as a brick.
"Poor mater!" said Paul.
"You want to grate it," said Beatrice. "Fetch me the nutmeg-grater."
She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater,and she grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing her cigarette, knocking the charcoal offthe poor loaf.
"My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time," said Beatrice.
"I!" exclaimed Miriam in amazement.
"You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. I know whyKing Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postle would fix upa tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed thebrazen thing's ears who made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred's."
She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughedin spite of herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully.
The garden gate was heard to bang.
"Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it up in a damp towel."
Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastilyblew her scrapings into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light.
"Smell of burning!" she exclaimed.
"It's the cigarettes," replied Beatrice demurely.
"Where's Paul?"
Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic faceand blue eyes, very sad.
"I suppose he's left you to settle it between you," he said. He nodded sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcasticto Beatrice.
"No," said Beatrice, "he's gone off with number nine."
"I just met number five inquiring for him," said Leonard.
"Yes--we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby,"said Beatrice.
Annie laughed.
"Oh, ay," said Leonard. "And which bit should you have?"
"I don't know," said Beatrice. "I'll let all the otherspick first."
"An' you'd have the leavings, like?" said Leonard, twisting upa comic face.
Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.
"This bread's a fine sight, our Paul," said Annie.
"Then you should stop an' look after it," said Paul.
"You mean YOU should do what you're reckoning to do,"replied Annie.
"He should, shouldn't he!" cried Beatrice.
"I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand," said Leonard.
"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie.
"Yes--but I'd been in all week---"
"And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard kindly.
"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever," Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went outwith Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy.
"Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I don't think it will rain."
When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf,unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly.
"It's a mess!" he said.
"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it,after all--twopence, ha'penny."
"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll takeit to heart. However, it's no good bothering."
He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a littledistance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her forsome moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutablereason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his forehead. Why might she notpush it back for him, and remove the marks of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands. It lookedso firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,why not her?
Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almostwith terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and cametowards her.
"Half-past eight!" he said. "We'd better buck up. Where's your French?"
Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book.Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life,in her own French. He had found this was the only way to get herto do compositions. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. Hewould read it now; she felt as if her soul's history were goingto be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered.
"'Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille,'" he read. "'Il faisaitencore un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme,et puis, jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chansonvif et resonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presquetous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dansle cri des grives. Il est si clair---'"
Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still,trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraidof her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work,humbly writing above her words.
"Look," he said quietly, "the past participle conjugatedwith avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes."
She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free,fine curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot,shuddering. He saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips partedpiteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny,ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And he knew,before he could kiss her, he must drive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back again into his heart. He returned to her exercise.
Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the ovenin a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the wayhe crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to be somethingcruel in it, something cruel in the swift way he pitched the breadout of the tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentlein his movements she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was,she was hurt.
He returned and finished the exercise.
"You've done well this week," he said.
She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repayher entirely.
"You really do blossom out sometimes," he said. "You oughtto write poetry."
She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.
