"Are you home again, my boy!" she said tenderly to the horse,not to the man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She smuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she hadbeen hiding behind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh of pleasure. She held his head in her armsagainst her breast.
"Isn't he splendid!" said Miriam to her.
Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul.
"Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers," she said. "It's agessince you've been down."
Miriam introduced her friends.
"Your horse IS a fine fellow!" said Clara.
"Isn't he!" Again she kissed him. "As loving as any man!"
"More loving than most men, I should think," replied Clara.
"He's a nice boy!" cried the woman, again embracing the horse.
Clara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck.
"He's quite gentle," said Miss Limb. "Don't you think bigfellows are?"
"He's a beauty!" replied Clara.
She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her.
"It's a pity he can't talk," she said.
"Oh, but he can--all but," replied the other woman.
Then her brother moved on with the horse.
"Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr.--I didn't catch it."
"Morel," said Miriam. "No, we won't come in, but we shouldlike to go by the mill-pond."
"Yes--yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?"
"No," said Paul.
"Because if you do you might come and fish any time,"said Miss Limb. "We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I should be thankful."
"What fish are there in the pond?" he asked.
They went through the front garden, over the sluice,and up the steep bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with itstwo wooded islets. Paul walked with Miss Limb.
"I shouldn't mind swimming here," he said.
"Do," she replied. "Come when you like. My brother will beawfully pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because thereis no one to talk to. Do come and swim."
Clara came up.
"It's a fine depth," she said, "and so clear."
"Yes," said Miss Limb.
"Do you swim?" said Paul. "Miss Limb was just saying we couldcome when we liked."
"Of course there's the farm-hands," said Miss Limb.
They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill,leaving the lonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank.
The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky,given over to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then:
"She makes me feel uncomfortable," said Paul.
"You mean Miss Limb?" asked Miriam. "Yes."
"What's a matter with her? Is she going dotty with beingtoo lonely?"
"Yes," said Miriam. "It's not the right sort of life for her. I think it's cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and seeher more. But--she upsets me."
"She makes me feel sorry for her--yes, and she bothers me,"he said.
"I suppose," blurted Clara suddenly, "she wants a man."
The other two were silent for a few moments.
"But it's the loneliness sends her cracked," said Paul.
Clara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walkingwith her hand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked throughthe dead thistles and the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, her handsome body seemed to be blundering upthe hill. A hot wave went over Paul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. He forgot Miriam, who was walkingbeside him talking to him. She glanced at him, finding he did notanswer her. His eyes were fixed ahead on Clara.
"Do you still think she is disagreeable?" she asked.
He did not notice that the question was sudden. It ranwith his thoughts.
"Something's the matter with her," he said.
"Yes," answered Miriam.
They found at the top of the hill a hidden wild field,two sides of which were backed by the wood, the other sides by highloose hedges of hawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrownbushes were gaps that the cattle might have walked through hadthere been any cattle now. There the turf was smooth as velveteen,padded and holed by the rabbits. The field itself was coarse,and crowded with tall, big cowslips that had never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above the coarsetussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan,fairy shipping.
"Ah!" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. He smiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara,a little way off, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayed close together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee, quickly gathering the best blossoms,moving from tuft to tuft restlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers lovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and almost scientific.Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers.He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a rightto them. She had more reverence for them: they held something she had not.
The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As he gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her,he said:
"Why don't you get some?"
"I don't believe in it. They look better growing."
"But you'd like some?"
"They want to be left."
"I don't believe they do."
"I don't want the corpses of flowers about me," she said.
"That's a stiff, artificial notion," he said. "They don't dieany quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOKnice in a bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpsebecause it looks corpse-like."
"Whether it is one or not?" she argued.
"It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower."
Clara now ignored him.
"And even so--what right have you to pull them?" she asked.
"Because I like them, and want them--and there's plenty of them."
"And that is sufficient?"
"Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your roomin Nottingham."
"And I should have the pleasure of watching them die."
"But then--it does not matter if they do die."
Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumpsof tangled flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale,luminous foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling,breathing some scent from the cowslips.
"I think," said Miriam, "if you treat them with reverence youdon't do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters."
"Yes," he said. "But no, you get 'em because you want 'em,and that's all." He held out his bunch.
Miriam was silent. He picked some more.
"Look at these!" he continued; "sturdy and lusty like littletrees and like boys with fat legs."
Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling,bending forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave hima sharp pang, such a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itselfjust now. Her breasts swung slightly in her blouse. The archingcurve of her back was beautiful and strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering a handful of cowslipsover her hair and neck, saying:
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, If the Lord won't have you the devil must."
The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him,with almost pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on her face, and she shut her eyes.
Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.
"I thought you wanted a funeral," he said, ill at ease.
Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips fromher hair. She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower hadremained tangled in her hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he had sprinkled over her.
At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into thefield and stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up to them. He wandered after her. The bluebellspleased him.
"Look how they've come out of the wood!" he said.
Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.
"Yes," she smiled.
His blood beat up.
"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrifiedthey would be when they got breast to breast with the open space."
"Do you think they were?" she asked.
"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes--thosebursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light,or those from the open tiptoeing into the forests."
"I should think the second," she answered.
"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying toforce yourself into the dark, don't you?"
"How should I know?" she answered queerly.
The conversation ended there.
The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley wasfull of shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at CrossleighBank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly, her face in her big, loose bunch of flowers,walking ankle-deep through the scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming into shape, all shadow.
"Shall we go?" she asked.
And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path they could see the light of home right across,and on the ridge of the hill a thin dark outline with little lights,where the colliery village touched the sky.
"It has been nice, hasn't it?" he asked.
Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent.
"Don't you think so?" he persisted.
CHAPTER IX
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM （III）
But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell by the way she moved, as if she didn't care,that she suffered.
At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was brightand enthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in therailway carriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentarysensation as if she were slipping away from him. Then hewanted to get hold of her, to fasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with his hand.
They drew near to the city. Both were at the window lookingfor the cathedral.
"There she is, mother!" he cried.
They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain.
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "So she is!"
He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching thecathedral quietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something inthe eternal repose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and nobleagainst the sky, was reflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his young will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh and pink and downy,but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, sinking a little,her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there was on her the sameeternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat against itwith all the strength of his soul.
"Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streetsand streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether."
"So she does!" exclaimed his mother, breaking brightinto life again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steadyout of the window at the cathedral, her face and eyes fixed,reflecting the relentlessness of life. And the crow's-feet nearher eyes, and her mouth shut so hard, made him feel he would go mad.
They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant.
"Don't imagine I like it," she said, as she ate her cutlet. "I DON'T like it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!"
"You never mind my money," he said. "You forget I'm a fellowtaking his girl for an outing."
And he bought her some blue violets.
"Stop it at once, sir!" she commanded. "How can I do it?"
"You've got nothing to do. Stand still!"
And in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her coat.
"An old thing like me!" she said, sniffing.
"You see," he said, "I want people to think we're awful swells. So look ikey."
"I'll jowl your head," she laughed.
"Strut!" he commanded. "Be a fantail pigeon."
It took him an hour to get her through the street. She stoodabove Glory Hole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood everywhere,and exclaimed.
A man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her.
"Can I show you the town, madam?"
"No, thank you," she answered. "I've got my son."
Then Paul was cross with her for not answering with more dignity.
"You go away with you!" she exclaimed. "Ha! that'sthe Jew's House. Now, do you remember that lecture, Paul--?"
But she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not notice. Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little public-house, where she rested.
"It's nothing," she said. "My heart is only a bit old;one must expect it."
He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart wascrushed in a hot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash thingsin fury.
They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And everystep seemed like a weight on his chest. He felt as if his heartwould burst. At last they came to the top. She stood enchanted,looking at the castle gate, looking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself.
"Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!" she cried.
But he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together in the cathedral. They attended a little servicein the choir. She was timid.
"I suppose it is open to anybody?" she asked him.
