CHAPTER IX
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM （I）
PAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest of his love belonged to his mother. When he felt hehad hurt her, or wounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and there was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal against her. She was vaguely awareof it. The old feeling that she was to be a sacrifice to this love,which she had had when she prayed, was mingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she ever would have him. She didnot believe in herself primarily: doubted whether she could everbe what he would demand of her. Certainly she never saw herselfliving happily through a lifetime with him. She saw tragedy, sorrow,and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice shewas proud, in renunciation she was strong, for she did not trustherself to support everyday life. She was prepared for the bigthings and the deep things, like tragedy. It was the sufficiencyof the small day-life she could not trust.
The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she felt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stoodat her bedroom window, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood,in whose branches a twilight was tangled, below the bright skyof the afternoon. Grey-green rosettes of honeysuckle leaveshung before the window, some already, she fancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded.
Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright grey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle,which glittered as he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughedtowards the house. To-day he walked with shut lips and cold,cruel bearing, that had something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and could tell from that keen-looking,aloof young body of his what was happening inside him. There wasa cold correctness in the way he put his bicycle in its place,that made her heart sink.
She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blousethat 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 wasfull-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was still like a softrich 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 familyto a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel,conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyesthat could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancingwith laughter, now taking on one expression and then another,in imitation of various people he was mocking. His mockeryalways hurt her; it was too near the reality. He was too cleverand cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard withmocking 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 theirshirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The wholefamily loved a "take-off" more than anything.
He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remarkher new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won fromhim not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reachthe teacups from the shelves.
When the men went out to milk, she ventured to addresshim 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 lookat the daffodils?" she said.
He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden underthe 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 eyesand brows, which she loved, could look so hurting.
"Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detectedan 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 helpsme 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 forwardin silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the housewas a thorn hedge, under which daffodils were craning forward fromamong their sheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowerswere greenish with cold. But still some had burst, and their goldruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster,took a wild-looking daffodil between her hands, turned up itsface of gold to her, and bowed down, caressing it with her mouthand cheeks and brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets,watching her. One after another she turned up to him the facesof the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly, fondling them lavishlyall 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 youwanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bitmore restraint, or reserve, or something?"
She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowlyto stroke her lips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as shesmelled it, was so much kinder than he; it almost made her cry.
"You wheedle the soul out of things," he said. "I wouldnever wheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight."
He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came fromhim 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 youwere a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them---"
Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower withher mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudderas it came to her nostrils.
"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal cravingis 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 notthe faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted,tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayingslike 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 broodedand brooded.
After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking nonotice 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 theypassed 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 arabbit's throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!"
He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rathersorry for him.
"We will go back to the house," he said. "I don't wantto walk out."
They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds werecoming unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack,a monument squared and brown, like a pillar of stone. There wasa 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 hardwall of hay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowedwith 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 eastwas tender with a magenta flush under which the land lay stilland 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 dot thee one."
But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a littlebattle 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 doggrinning all over. Miriam watched them. There was something patheticabout 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 quiveredwith love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue 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 stillbeauty 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 hewas 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 band 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 fullof torment.
"You know," he said at length, rather wearily--"you know--we'dbetter break off."
It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darkenbefore 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 beingimpatient 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 neitherstops 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--it's all I'm capable of--it'sa flaw in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hatea toppling balance. Let us have done."
There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant sheloved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was thedeepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep shedared 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 shenever floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was hewho was chiefly humiliated.
"What do you want?" she asked him.
"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopoliseyou when I'm not--- You see, I'm deficient in something with regardto you---"
He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave hera chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsyhe 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 thetwilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering.
"I know," he cried, "you never will! You'll never believe thatI 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 perversityon his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid likea child. He belonged to her. His soul wanted her. She guessedsomebody had been influencing him. She felt upon him the hardness,the foreignness of another influence.
