Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something elsehe wanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There was between them now always a ground for strife.She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in lifewas herself. If she could prove it, both to herself and to him,the rest might go; she could simply trust to the future.
So in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meetMrs. Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him,whenever they spoke of Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like her. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to the test. She believed that therewere in him desires for higher things, and desires for lower, and thatthe desire for the higher would conquer. At any rate, he should try. She forgot that her "higher" and "lower" were arbitrary.
He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. Mrs. Dawes came for the day. Her heavy, dun-coloured hair wascoiled on top of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt,and somehow, wherever she was, seemed to make things look paltryand insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen seemedtoo small and mean altogether. Miriam's beautiful twilightyparlour looked stiff and stupid. All the Leivers were eclipsedlike candles. They found her rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but indifferent, and rather hard.
Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swungoff his bicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be disappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam wentout to meet him, bowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming out crimson under the cool green shadowof their leaves. The girl stood, dark-haired, glad to see him.
"Hasn't Clara come?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Miriam in her musical tone. "She's reading."
He wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had puton a handsome tie, of which he was rather proud, and socks to match.
"She came this morning?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. "You said you'dbring me that letter from the man at Liberty's. Have you remembered?"
"Oh, dash, no!" he said. "But nag at me till you get it."
"I don't like to nag at you."
"Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?"he continued.
"You know I always think she is quite agreeable."
He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-dayhad been the newcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They wenttogether towards the house. He took the clips off his trousers,but was too lazy to brush the dust from his shoes, in spite of thesocks and tie.
Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of herwhite neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking athim indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight,in a manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance,and yet to fling something to him. He noticed how her breastsswelled inside her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomelyunder the thin muslin at the top of her arm.
"You have chosen a fine day," he said.
"It happens so," she said.
"Yes," he said; "I am glad."
She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness.
"What have you been doing all morning?" asked Paul of Miriam.
"Well, you see," said Miriam, coughing huskily, "Clara onlycame with father--and so--she's not been here very long."
Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticedher hands were large, but well kept. And the skin on them seemedalmost coarse, opaque, and white, with fine golden hairs. She didnot mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the table. Her mouth was closedas if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted.
"You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening,"he said to her.
Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him.
"Yes," she said.
"Why," asked Miriam, "how do you know?"
"I went in for a few minutes before the train came," he answered.
Clara turned away again rather disdainfully.
"I think she's a lovable little woman," said Paul.
"Margaret Bonford!" exclaimed Clara. "She's a great dealcleverer than most men."
"Well, I didn't say she wasn't," he said, deprecating. "She's lovable for all that."
"And, of course, that is all that matters," said Clara witheringly.
He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed.
"I suppose it matters more than her cleverness," he said;"which, after all, would never get her to heaven."
"It's not heaven she wants to get--it's her fair share on earth,"retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for somedeprivation which Miss Bonford suffered.
"Well," he said, "I thought she was warm, and awfully nice--onlytoo frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace---"
"'Darning her husband's stockings,'" said Clara scathingly.
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings," he said. "And I'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blackingher boots if she wanted me to."
But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talkedto Miriam for a little while. The other woman held aloof.
"Well," he said, "I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is heon the land?"
"I believe," said Miriam, "he's gone for a load of coal. He should be back directly."
"Then," he said, "I'll go and meet him."
Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and left them.
On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walkinglazily beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred foreheadas she dragged the clanking load of coal. The young farmer's facelighted up as he saw his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark,warm eyes. His clothes were old and rather disreputable, and hewalked with considerable pride.
"Hello!" he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. "Where are you going?"
"Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore.'"
Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement.
"Who is 'Nevermore'?" he asked.
"The lady--Mrs. Dawes--it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed'Nevermore.'"
Edgar laughed with glee.
"Don't you like her?" he asked.
"Not a fat lot," said Paul. "Why, do you?"
"No!" The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. "No!"Edgar pursed up his lips. "I can't say she's much in my line." He mused a little. Then: "But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?"he asked.
"Well," said Paul, "if she looks at a man she says haughtily'Nevermore,' and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass shesays disdainfully 'Nevermore,' and if she thinks back she says itin disgust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically."
Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it,and said, laughing:
"You think she's a man-hater?"
"SHE thinks she is," replied Paul.
"But you don't think so?"
"No," replied Paul.
"Wasn't she nice with you, then?"
"Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?" asked the young man.
Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if shelooked out of the window. She didn't look.
On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that camefrom the pelts of Jimmy and Flower.
"Do you know a new song to teach me?" said Edgar.
He continued to work all the time. The back of his neckwas sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brushwere thick. Paul watched him sometimes.
"'Mary Morrison'?" suggested the younger.
Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learnall the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could singwhilst he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice,but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a clear tenor. At times they both brokeoff to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused his horse.
Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amusethem--even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he couldbe so thoroughly absorbed in a triviality.
It was tea-time when they had finished.
"What song was that?" asked Miriam.
Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing.
"We have such jolly times," Miriam said to Clara.
Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were present she grew distant.
"Do you like singing?" Miriam asked her.
"If it is good," she said.
Paul, of course, coloured.
"You mean if it is high-class and trained?" he said.
"I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,"she said.
"You might as well insist on having people's voices trainedbefore you allowed them to talk," he replied. "Really, people singfor their own pleasure, as a rule."
"And it may be for other people's discomfort."
"Then the other people should have flaps to their ears,"he replied.
The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply,and ate in silence.
After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leiverssaid to Clara:
"And you find life happier now?"
"Infinitely."
"And you are satisfied?"
"So long as I can be free and independent."
"And you don't MISS anything in your life?"asked Mrs. Leivers gently.
"I've put all that behind me."
Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up.
"You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've putbehind you," he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistledas he went down the brick track.
Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go withClara and her for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were going beside the brook, on the Willey Water side,looking through the brake at the edge of the wood, where pink campionsglowed under a few sunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunksand the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay horse throughthe gullies. The big red beast seemed to dance romanticallythrough that dimness of green hazel drift, away therewhere the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past,among the fading bluebells that might have bloomedfor Deidre or Iseult.
The three stood charmed.
"What a treat to be a knight," he said, "and to havea pavilion here."
"And to have us shut up safely?" replied Clara.
"Yes," he answered, "singing with your maids at your broidery. I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I wouldhave 'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant."
"I have no doubt," said Clara, "that you would much ratherfight for a woman than let her fight for herself."
"I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dogbefore a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow."
"And YOU are the looking-glass?" she asked, with a curlof the lip.
"Or the shadow," he replied.
"I am afraid," she said, "that you are too clever."
"Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD," he retorted, laughing. "Be good, sweet maid, and just let ME be clever."
But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her,he saw that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentlewith Miriam, whom he had neglected till then.
At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty,tenant of Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the halter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if hewere tired. The three stood to let him pass over the stepping-stonesof the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal shouldwalk on such springy toes, with an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them.
"Tell your father, Miss Leivers," he said, in a peculiarpiping voice, "that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fencethree days an' runnin'."
"Which?" asked Miriam, tremulous.
The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks,and looking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards fromunder its lowered head and falling mane.
"Come along a bit," replied Limb, "an' I'll show you."
The man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways,shaking its white fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itselfin the brook.
"No hanky-pankyin'," said the man affectionately to the beast.
It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely throughthe second brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon,watched it half-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stoppedand pointed to the fence under some willows.
"There, you see where they got through," he said. "My man'sdruv 'em back three times."
"Yes," answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault.
"Are you comin' in?" asked the man.
"No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond."
"Well, just as you've a mind," he said.
The horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home.
"He is glad to be back," said Clara, who was interestedin the creature.
"Yes--'e's been a tidy step to-day."
They went through the gate, and saw approaching them fromthe big farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking womanof about thirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her darkeyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As it saw her, the big bay stallionwhinneyed again. She came up excitedly.
