She had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the mystic. She trod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy "Hush!"on the trees. At last they gained the cartshed.
"Let us stay here awhile," he said.
There was a sound of rain everywhere, smothering everything.
"I feel so strange and still," he said; "along with everything."
"Ay," she answered patiently.
He seemed again unaware of her, though he held her hand close.
"To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which isour effort--to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep--that isvery beautiful, I think; that is our after-life--our immortality."
"Yes?"
"Yes--and very beautiful to have."
"You don't usually say that."
"No."
In a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them curiously. He still kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillnessin his voice. Instinctively, they all left him alone.
About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottagein Woodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It was a beautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front,with red brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the back another garden was separated from the fields by a tallold hedge. It was very pretty. Miriam had not much to do,so she found time for her beloved reading, and for writing littleintrospective pieces which interested her.
At the holiday-time her grandmother, being better, was drivento Derby to stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was acrotchety old lady, and might return the second day or the third;so Miriam stayed alone in the cottage, which also pleased her.
Paul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rulepeaceful and happy times. He did not embarrass her much; but thenon the Monday of the holiday he was to spend a whole day with her.
It was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where hewas going. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him;but he had three days that were all his own, when he wasgoing to do as he liked. It was sweet to rushthrough the morning lanes on his bicycle.
He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busypreparing dinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with thelittle kitchen, ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was small and cosy. The sofa was covered all over with asort of linen in squares of red and pale blue, old, much washed,but pretty. There was a stuffed owl in a case over a corner cupboard. The sunlight came through the leaves of the scented geraniumsin the window. She was cooking a chicken in his honour. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man and wife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought shegave a feeling of home almost like his mother; and no one couldlook more beautiful, with her tumbled curls, when she was flushedfrom the fire.
The dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he carved. They talked all the time with unflagging zest. Then he wipedthe dishes she had washed, and they went out down the fields. There was a bright little brook that ran into a bog at the footof a very steep bank. Here they wandered, picking still a fewmarsh-marigolds and many big blue forget-me-nots. Then she sat onthe bank with her hands full of flowers, mostly golden water-blobs.As she put her face down into the marigolds, it was all overcastwith a yellow shine.
"Your face is bright," he said, "like a transfiguration."
She looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her,laying his hands on hers. Then he kissed her fingers, then her face.
The world was all steeped in sunshine, and quite still,yet not asleep, but quivering with a kind of expectancy.
"I have never seen anything more beautiful than this," he said. He held her hand fast all the time.
"And the water singing to itself as it runs--do you love it?" She looked at him full of love. His eyes were very dark,very bright.
"Don't you think it's a great day?" he asked.
She murmured her assent. She WAS happy, and he saw it.
"And our day--just between us," he said.
They lingered a little while. Then they stood up uponthe sweet thyme, and he looked down at her simply.
"Will you come?" he asked.
CHAPTER XI
THE TEST ON MIRIAM(II)
They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens came scampering down the path to her. He locked the door, and they had the little house to themselves.
He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he wasunfastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was blindwith it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imagined. He stood unable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half-smilingwith wonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went forward to her,her hands lifted in a little pleading movement, and he lookedat her face, and stopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him,still and resigned and loving; she lay as if she had given herself upto sacrifice: there was her body for him; but the look at the backof her eyes, like a creature awaiting immolation, arrested him,and all his blood fell back.
"You are sure you want me?" he asked, as if a cold shadowhad come over him.
"Yes, quite sure."
She was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that shewas doing something for him. He could hardly bear it. She layto be sacrificed for him because she loved him so much. And he hadto sacrifice her. For a second, he wished he were sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes again to her, and his blood beat back again.
And afterwards he loved her--loved her to the last fibreof his being. He loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was something he could not bear for her sake. He stayedwith her till quite late at night. As he rode home he felt thathe was finally initiated. He was a youth no longer. But whyhad he the dull pain in his soul? Why did the thought of death,the after-life, seem so sweet and consoling?
He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passionbefore it was gone. He had always, almost wilfully, to put her outof count, and act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not do it often, and there remained afterwards alwaysthe sense of failure and of death. If he were really with her,he had to put aside himself and his desire. If he would have her,he had to put her aside.
"When I come to you," he asked her, his eyes dark with painand shame, "you don't really want me, do you?"
"Ah, yes!" she replied quickly.
He looked at her.
"Nay," he said.
She began to tremble.
"You see," she said, taking his face and shutting it outagainst her shoulder--"you see--as we are--how can I get used to you? It would come all right if we were married."
He lifted her head, and looked at her.
"You mean, now, it is always too much shock?"
"Yes--and---"
"You are always clenched against me."
She was trembling with agitation.
"You see," she said, "I'm not used to the thought---"
"You are lately," he said.
"But all my life. Mother said to me: 'There is one thingin marriage that is always dreadful, but you have to bear it.' And I believed it."
"And still believe it," he said.
"No!" she cried hastily. "I believe, as you do, that loving,even in THAT way, is the high-water mark of living."
"That doesn't alter the fact that you never want it."
"No," she said, taking his head in her arms and rocking in despair. "Don't say so! You don't understand." She rocked with pain. "Don't I want your children?"
"But not me."
"How can you say so? But we must be married to have children---"
"Shall we be married, then? I want you to have my children."
He kissed her hand reverently. She pondered sadly, watching him.
"We are too young," she said at length.
"Twenty-four and twenty-three---"
"Not yet," she pleaded, as she rocked herself in distress.
"When you will," he said.
She bowed her head gravely. The tone of hopelessness inwhich he said these things grieved her deeply. It had always beena failure between them. Tacitly, she acquiesced in what he felt.
And after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly oneSunday night, just as they were going to bed:
"I shan't go so much to Miriam's, mother."
She was surprised, but she would not ask him anything.
"You please yourself," she said.
So he went to bed. But there was a new quietness abouthim which she had wondered at. She almost guessed. She wouldleave him alone, however. Precipitation might spoil things. She watched him in his loneliness, wondering where he would end. He was sick, and much too quiet for him. There was a perpetual littleknitting of his brows, such as she had seen when he was a small baby,and which had been gone for many years. Now it was the same again. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go on alone, make hisown way.
He continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved herutterly. But it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. At first it was only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could notgo on. He wanted to run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he ceasedto ask her to have him. Instead of drawing them together, it putthem apart. And then he realised, consciously, that it was no good. It was useless trying: it would never be a success between them.
For some months he had seen very little of Clara. They hadoccasionally walked out for half an hour at dinner-time. But he alwaysreserved himself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his brow cleared,and he was gay again. She treated him indulgently, as if he werea child. He thought he did not mind. But deep below the surfaceit piqued him.
Sometimes Miriam said:
"What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately."
"I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday," he replied.
"And what did she talk about?"
"I don't know. I suppose I did all the jawing--I usually do. I think I was telling her about the strike, and how the womentook it."
"Yes."
So he gave the account of himself.
But insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he feltfor Clara drew him away from Miriam, for whom he felt responsible,and to whom he felt he belonged. He thought he was being quitefaithful to her. It was not easy to estimate exactly the strengthand warmth of one's feelings for a woman till they have run awaywith one.
He began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessop,at the art school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstratorat the university; Newton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar andMiriam's younger brothers. Pleading work, he sketched and studiedwith Jessop. He called in the university for Swain, and the two went"down town" together. Having come home in the train with Newton,he called and had a game of billiards with him in the Moonand Stars. If he gave to Miriam the excuse of his men friends,he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved. He always told her where he had been.
During the summer Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cottonstuff with loose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleevesfell back, and her beautiful strong arms shone out.
"Half a minute," he cried. "Hold your arm still."
He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawingscontained some of the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always went scrupulously through his books and papers,saw the drawings.
"I think Clara has such beautiful arms," he said.
"Yes! When did you draw them?"
"On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I've got a cornerwhere I can work. Often I can do every single thing they needin the department, before dinner. Then I work for myselfin the afternoon, and just see to things at night."
"Yes," she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book.
Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forwardand pored over his things. He hated her way of patiently castinghim up, as if he were an endless psychological account. When hewas with her, he hated her for having got him, and yet not got him,and he tortured her. She took all and gave nothing, he said. At least,she gave no living warmth. She was never alive, and giving off life. Looking for her was like looking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience, not his mate. He hated her violently,and was more cruel to her. They dragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara.
At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at homeone evening. There was between him and his mother a peculiar conditionof people frankly finding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel wasstrong on her feet again. He was not going to stick to Miriam. Very well; then she would stand aloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, this bursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. This evening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense. He worked feverishly and mechanically,so that he could escape from himself. It grew late. Through theopen door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost asif it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got up and went out of doors.
The beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half-moon,dusky gold, was sinking behind the black sycamore at the end ofthe garden, making the sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a dimwhite fence of lilies went across the garden, and the air all roundseemed to stir with scent, as if it were alive. He went acrossthe bed of pinks, whose keen perfume came sharply across the rocking,heavy scent of the lilies, and stood alongside the white barrierof flowers. They flagged all loose, as if they were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field to watchthe moon sink under.
A corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moonslid quite quickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind himthe great flowers leaned as if they were calling. And then,like a shock, he caught another perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round, he found the purple iris, touched their fleshy throatsand their dark, grasping hands. At any rate, he had found something. They stood stiff in the darkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon the crest of the hill. It was gone;all was dark. The corncrake called still.
