"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 heleft her to cycle with Edgar.
He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongesttie 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 meltinto unreality: the place where his mother was. Everybody elsecould 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 couldnot escape, was his mother.
And in the same way she waited for him. In him was establishedher life now. After all, the life beyond offered very little toMrs. Morel. She saw that our chance for DOING is here, and doingcounted 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 shefelt 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 thesatisfaction 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 towardssomething else. It made him mad with restlessness. She saw this,and wished bitterly that Miriam had been a woman who could take thisnew life of his, and leave her the roots. He fought against his motheralmost 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 tortureher with his battle against her. She shrank from it.
However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leiverswas 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 treatinghim 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 himwith 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 gratitudethat 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 themin 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 againstthe hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his handfolded carefully over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved him; he seemed so simple and sufficientto himself. And she could not get to him.
After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took"Tartarin de Tarascon". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the footof 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 earfor a moment. Then he pushed him away.
"Go away, Bill," he said. "I don't want you."
Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreadedwhat was coming. There was a silence about theyouth 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 couldnot see him, he began, speaking slowly and painfully:
"Do you think--if I didn't come up so much--you might getto 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 uplike 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 anythingto do with it. They had not.
"Mother--and the others. They say at this rate everybody willconsider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it'snot fair to you. And I've tried to find out--and I don't think Ilove you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?"
Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at havingthis struggle. People should leave him and her alone.
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?"he asked definitely. It made her tremble.
"No," she answered truthfully. "I don't think so--we'retoo young."
"I thought perhaps," he went on miserably, "that you, with yourintensity in things, might have given me more--than I could ever makeup to you. And even now--if you think it better--we'll be engaged."
Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He wasalways such a child for people to do as they liked with.
"No, I don't think so," she said firmly.
He pondered a minute.
"You see," he said, "with me--I don't think one person wouldever monopolize me--be everything to me--I think never."
This she did not consider.
"No," she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him,and her dark eyes flashed.
"This is your mother," she said. "I know she never liked me."
"No, no, it isn't," he said hastily. "It was for your sakeshe spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on, I oughtto consider myself engaged." There was a silence. "And if I askyou to come down any time, you won't stop away, will you?"
She did not answer. By this time she was very angry.
"Well, what shall we do?" she said shortly. "I suppose I'dbetter drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go on alone."
"I don't see that we need," he said. "I can give youa French lesson, surely."
"Well--and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop comingto chapel, because I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've no need to come home with me. I can go alone."
"All right," he answered, rather taken aback. "But if I ask Edgar,he'll always come with us, and then they can say nothing."
There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She wished they would mind their own business.
"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?"he asked.
"Oh no," replied Miriam, without looking at him.
He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixityof purpose, no anchor of righteousness that held him.
"Because," he continued, "a man gets across his bicycle--andgoes to work--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods."
"No, I shan't bother," said Miriam. And she meant it.
It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors.
"How white Paul looks!" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. "Miriam, youshouldn't have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you'vetaken cold, Paul?"
"Oh, no!" he laughed.
But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he roseto go.
"You're not going home, are you?" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously.
"Yes," he replied. "I said I'd be early." He was very awkward.
"But this IS early," said Mrs. Leivers.
Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barnas usual for his bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss.
"Well--good-night, all!" he faltered.
She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past the window he looked in. She saw him pale,his brows knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him,his eyes dark with pain.
She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as hepassed through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees,feeling a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting downthe hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck.
Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note,urging her to read and be busy.
At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family so much, he loved the farm so much; it wasthe dearest place on earth to him. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would have been just as happy withhis mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots tramped,and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden on;where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of romance,its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the gardensand the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the nakededges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness,the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills ofthe other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism;he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar,who lit up when he came, and the boys and the children andBill--even the sow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides Miriam. He could not give it up.
So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only allthe family, including the father, joined in charades and gamesat evening. And later, Miriam drew them together, and they readMacbeth out of penny books, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. Leivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learned songs together from tonic sol-fa, singingin a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely alonewith Miriam. She waited. When she and Edgar and he walked hometogether from chapel or from the literary society in Bestwood,she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox nowadays,was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with Paul,his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Fridaynights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone,walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently.
One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had stayed to Communion--he wondered what it was like--withMrs. Morel. So Paul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He wasmore or less under her spell again. As usual, they were discussingthe sermon. He was setting now full sail towards Agnosticism,but such a religious Agnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the Renan Vie de Jesus stage. Miriam was thethreshing-floor on which he threshed out all his beliefs. While hetrampled his ideas upon her soul, the truth came out for him. She alonewas his threshing-floor. She alone helped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to his argument and expounding.And somehow, because of her, he gradually realized where he was wrong.And what he realized, she realized. She felt he could not do without her.
They came to the silent house. He took the key out ofthe scullery window, and they entered. All the time he wenton with his discussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire,and brought her some cakes from the pantry. She sat on the sofa,quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore a large white hatwith some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but he liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown and ruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him.
She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed thelithe movement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. Miriam liked the way he reached up--so sharp, straight to the mark. He turned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John. As he sat in the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking,she felt as if he were using her unconsciously as a man uses histools at some work he is bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulnessof his voice was like a reaching to something, and it was as if shewere what he reached with. She sat back on the sofa away from him,and yet feeling herself the very instrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure.
Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when hecame to the verse, "A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrowbecause her hour is come", he missed it out. Miriam had felt himgrowing uncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words didnot follow. He went on reading, but she did not hear. A griefand shame made her bend her head. Six months ago he would haveread it simply. Now there was a scotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something hostile between them,something of which they were ashamed.
CHAPTER IX
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM （II）
She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument,but could not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel had gone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey Farm.
