She sat half-guessing what was coming.
"But I want to marry now---"
"You want to marry?" she repeated.
"A woman--you know what I mean."
She was silent.
"Now, at last, I must," he said.
"Ay," she answered.
"And you love me?"
She laughed bitterly.
"Why are you ashamed of it," he answered. "You wouldn'tbe ashamed before your God, why are you before people?"
"Nay," she answered deeply, "I am not ashamed."
"You are," he replied bitterly; "and it's my fault. But youknow I can't help being--as I am--don't you?"
"I know you can't help it," she replied.
"I love you an awful lot--then there is something short."
"Where?" she answered, looking at him.
"Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed--likea spiritual cripple. And I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?"
"I don't know," replied Miriam.
"And I don't know," he repeated. "Don't you think we havebeen too fierce in our what they call purity? Don't you thinkthat to be so much afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness?"
She looked at him with startled dark eyes.
"You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I tookthe motion from you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse."
There was silence in the room for some time.
"Yes," she said, "it is so."
"There is between us," he said, "all these years of intimacy. I feel naked enough before you. Do you understand?"
"I think so," she answered.
"And you love me?"
She laughed.
"Don't be bitter," he pleaded.
She looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were darkwith torture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have thisdeflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. He might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her.
"Nay," she said softly, "I am not bitter."
She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him. She put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he wasputting himself aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity,which felt more like nullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately,when it would drive her away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowlyhe drew her to him and kissed her.
They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him, she watched his eyes; they were staring acrossthe room, with a peculiar dark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. She could feel his heart throbbing heavilyin his breast.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
The blaze in his eyes shuddered, became uncertain.
"I was thinking, all the while, I love you. I have been obstinate."
She sank her head on his breast.
"Yes," she answered.
"That's all," he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouthwas kissing her throat.
Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with herfull gaze of love. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get awayfrom her, and then was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment of anguish.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
He shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded hercloser and closer.
When she walked home with him over the fields, he said:
"I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you--asif there was nothing to hide. We will be happy?"
"Yes," she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes.
"Some sort of perversity in our souls," he said, "makes usnot want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fightagainst that."
"Yes," she said, and she felt stunned.
As she stood under the drooping-thorn tree, in the darkness bythe roadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. In the darkness, where he could not see her but only feel her,his passion flooded him. He clasped her very close.
"Sometime you will have me?" he murmured, hiding his faceon her shoulder. It was so difficult.
"Not now," she said.
His hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him.
"No," he said.
His clasp of her slackened.
"I love to feel your arm THERE!" she said, pressing his armagainst her back, where it went round her waist. "It rests me so."
He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of herback to rest her.
"We belong to each other," he said.
"Yes."
"Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether?"
"But---" she faltered.
"I know it's a lot to ask," he said; "but there's not much riskfor you really--not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?"
"Oh, I can trust you." The answer came quick and strong. "It's not that--it's not that at all--but---"
"What?"
She hid her face in his neck with a little cry of misery.
"I don't know!" she cried.
She seemed slightly hysterical, but with a sort of horror. His heart died in him.
"You don't think it ugly?" he asked.
"No, not now. You have TAUGHT me it isn't."
"You are afraid?"
She calmed herself hastily.
"Yes, I am only afraid," she said.
He kissed her tenderly.
"Never mind," he said. "You should please yourself."
Suddenly she gripped his arms round her, and clenched herbody stiff.
"You SHALL have me," she said, through her shut teeth.
His heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close, and hismouth was on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. He disengaged her.
"Won't you be late?" she asked gently.
He sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited,wishing he would go. At last he kissed her quickly and climbedthe fence. Looking round he saw the pale blotch of her face downin the darkness under the hanging tree. There was no more of herbut this pale blotch.
"Good-bye!" she called softly. She had no body, only avoice and a dim face. He turned away and ran down the road,his fists clenched; and when he came to the wall over the lakehe leaned there, almost stunned, looking up the black water.
Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraidof people, what they might say; but she dreaded the issuewith him. Yes, she would let him have her if he insisted;and then, when she thought of it afterwards, her heart went down. He would be disappointed, he would find no satisfaction, and then hewould go away. Yet he was so insistent; and over this, which didnot seem so all-important to her, was their love to break down. After all, he was only like other men, seeking his satisfaction. Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper! She couldtrust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession wasa great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there. Perhaps it was so. There was something divine in it; then shewould submit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And at the thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily,hard, as if against something; but Life forced her through thisgate of suffering, too, and she would submit. At any rate,it would give him what he wanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded and brooded herself towards accepting him.
He courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot,she put his face from her, held it between her hands, and looked inhis eyes. He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love,earnest and searching, made him turn away. Not for an instantwould she let him forget. Back again he had to torture himselfinto a sense of his responsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leaving himself to the great hunger and impersonalityof passion; he must be brought back to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if from a swoon of passion she caged him back to the littleness,the personal relationship. He could not bear it. "Leave mealone--leave me alone!" he wanted to cry; but she wanted him tolook at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full of the dark,impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her.
There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees atthe back of the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarletand crimson drops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gatheringthe fruit one evening. It had been a hot day, and now the cloudswere rolling in the sky, dark and warm. Paul combed high in the tree,above the scarlet roofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily,made the whole tree rock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirredthe blood. The young man, perched insecurely in the slender branches,rocked till he felt slightly drunk, reached down the boughs,where the scarlet beady cherries hung thick underneath, and toreoff handful after handful of the sleek, cool-fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck as he stretched forward,their chill finger-tips sending a flash down his blood. All shadesof red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson, glowed and methis eyes under a darkness of leaves.
The sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Immense piles of gold flared out in the south-east, heaped in soft,glowing yellow right up the sky. The world, till now dusk and grey,reflected the gold glow, astonished. Everywhere the trees,and the grass, and the far-off water, seemed roused from the twilightand shining.
Miriam came out wondering.
"Oh!" Paul heard her mellow voice call, "isn't it wonderful?"
He looked down. There was a faint gold glimmer on her face,that looked very soft, turned up to him.
"How high you are!" she said.
Beside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds,thieves that had been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hangingquite bleached, like skeletons, picked clear of flesh. He lookeddown again to Miriam.
"Clouds are on fire," he said.
"Beautiful!" she cried.
She seemed so small, so soft, so tender, down there. He threwa handful of cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He laughed with a low, chuckling sound, and pelted her. She ranfor shelter, picking up some cherries. Two fine red pairs she hungover her ears; then she looked up again.
"Haven't you got enough?" she asked.
"Nearly. It is like being on a ship up here."
"And how long will you stay?"
"While the sunset lasts."
She went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds fallto pieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the darkness. Gold flamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarlet sank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quicklythe passion went out of the sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul scrambled quickly down with his basket, tearing his shirt-sleeveas he did so.
"They are lovely," said Miriam, fingering the cherries.
"I've torn my sleeve," he answered.
She took the three-cornered rip, saying:
"I shall have to mend it." It was near the shoulder. She put her fingers through the tear. "How warm!" she said.
He laughed. There was a new, strange note in his voice,one that made her pant.
"Shall we stay out?" he said.
"Won't it rain?" she asked.
"No, let us walk a little way."
They went down the fields and into the thick plantationof trees and pines.
"Shall we go in among the trees?" he asked.
"Do you want to?"
"Yes."
It was very dark among the firs, and the sharp spines prickedher face. She was afraid. Paul was silent and strange.
"I like the darkness," he said. "I wish it were thicker--good,thick darkness."
He seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person: she wasonly to him then a woman. She was afraid.
He stood against a pine-tree trunk and took her in his arms. She relinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which shefelt something of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man wasa stranger to her.
Later it began to rain. The pine-trees smelled very strong. Paul lay with his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles,listening to the sharp hiss of the rain--a steady, keen noise. His heart was down, very heavy. Now he realised that she hadnot been with him all the time, that her soul had stood apart,in a sort of horror. He was physically at rest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very sad, and very tender, his fingers wanderedover her face pitifully. Now again she loved him deeply. He was tenderand beautiful.
"The rain!" he said.
"Yes--is it coming on you?"
She put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feelif the raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he laywith his face on the dead pine-leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. He did not mind if the raindrops came on him: he would have lainand got wet through: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if hisliving were smeared away into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentle reaching-out to death was new to him.
"We must go," said Miriam.
"Yes," he answered, but did not move.
To him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night,and death, and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be urgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. Thehighest of all was to melt out into the darkness and sway there,identified with the great Being.
"The rain is coming in on us," said Miriam.
He rose, and assisted her.
"It is a pity," he said.
"What?"
"To have to go. I feel so still."
"Still!" she repeated.
"Stiller than I have ever been in my life."
He was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers,feeling a slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fearlest she should lose him.
"The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each oneonly a presence."
She was afraid, and said nothing.
"A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that's what we do in death--sleep in wonder."
