Mrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her blacksilk blouse. Her grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her browand her high temples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering,followed Paul into the kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thoughther a lady, even rather stiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look, almost resigned.
"Mother--Clara," said Paul.
Mrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled.
"He has told me a good deal about you," she said.
The blood flamed in Clara's cheek.
"I hope you don't mind my coming," she faltered.
"I was pleased when he said he would bring you," replied Mrs. Morel.
Paul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His motherlooked so small, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara.
"It's such a pretty day, mother!" he said. "And we saw a jay."
His mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thoughtwhat a man he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was paleand detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart glowed; then she was sorry for Clara.
"Perhaps you'll leave your things in the parlour,"said Mrs. Morel nicely to the young woman.
"Oh, thank you," she replied.
"Come on," said Paul, and he led the way into the littlefront room, with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowingmarble mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was litteredwith books and drawing-boards. "I leave my things lying about,"he said. "It's so much easier."
She loved his artist's paraphernalia, and the books, and thephotos of people. Soon he was telling her: this was William,this was William's young lady in the evening dress, this was Annieand her husband, this was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being taken into the family. He showedher photos, books, sketches, and they talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow black-and-whitestripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her head. She looked rather stately and reserved.
"You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?" said Mrs. Morel. "When I was a girl--girl, I say!--when I was a young woman WE livedin Minerva Terrace."
"Oh, did you!" said Clara. "I have a friend in number 6."
And the conversation had started. They talked Nottinghamand Nottingham people; it interested them both. Clara was stillrather nervous; Mrs. Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very clear and precise. But they were goingto get on well together, Paul saw.
Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman,and found herself easily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul's surprising regard for his mother, and she haddreaded the meeting, expecting someone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this little interested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as she felt with Paul, that she would notcare to stand in Mrs. Morel's way. There was something so hardand certain in his mother, as if she never had a misgiving in her life.
Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from hisafternoon sleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he ploddedin his stocking feet, his waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous.
"This is Mrs. Dawes, father," said Paul.
Then Morel pulled himself together. Clara saw Paul's mannerof bowing and shaking hands.
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Morel. "I am very glad to see you--I am,I assure you. But don't disturb yourself. No, no make yourselfquite comfortable, and be very welcome."
Clara was astonished at this flood of hospitality fromthe old collier. He was so courteous, so gallant! She thoughthim most delightful.
"And may you have come far?" he asked.
"Only from Nottingham," she said.
"From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful dayfor your journey."
Then he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face,and from force of habit came on to the hearth with the towel todry himself.
At tea Clara felt the refinement and sang-froid of the household. Mrs. Morel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea andattending to the people went on unconsciously, without interruptingher in her talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the chinaof dark blue willow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little bowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the circle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the self-possession of the Morels,father and all. She took their tone; there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where everyone was himself,and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a fear deep at thebottom of her.
Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was conscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went,seeming blown quickly by a wind at its work. It was almost likethe hither and thither of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herselfwent with him. By the way she leaned forward, as if listening,Mrs. Morel could see she was possessed elsewhere as she talked,and again the elder woman was sorry for her.
Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the twowomen to talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced through the window after him as he loitered amongthe chrysanthemums. She felt as if something almost tangible fastenedher to him; yet he seemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement,so detached as he tied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes,that she wanted to shriek in her helplessness.
Mrs. Morel rose.
"You will let me help you wash up," said Clara.
"Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute," said the other.
Clara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be onsuch good terms with his mother; but it was torture not to be ableto follow him down the garden. At last she allowed herself to go;she felt as if a rope were taken off her ankle.
The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stoodacross in the other garden, beside a bush of pale Michaelmas daisies,watching the last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming,he turned to her with an easy motion, saying:
"It's the end of the run with these chaps."
Clara stood near him. Over the low red wall in front wasthe country and the far-off hills, all golden dim.
At that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door.She saw Clara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come torest together. Something in their perfect isolation together madeher know that it was accomplished between them, that they were,as she put it, married. She walked very slowly down the cinder-trackof the long garden.
Clara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breakingit to get the seeds. Above her bowed head the pink flowers stared,as if defending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive.
"Count your money," laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seedsone by one from the roll of coin. She looked at him.
"I'm well off," she said, smiling.
"How much? Pf!" He snapped his fingers. "Can I turn theminto gold?"
"I'm afraid not," she laughed.
They looked into each other's eyes, laughing. At that momentthey became aware of Miriam. There was a click, and everythinghad altered.
"Hello, Miriam!" he exclaimed. "You said you'd come!"
"Yes. Had you forgotten?"
She shook hands with Clara, saying:
"It seems strange to see you here."
"Yes," replied the other; "it seems strange to be here."
There was a hesitation.
"This is pretty, isn't it?" said Miriam.
"I like it very much," replied Clara.
Then Miriam realised that Clara was accepted as she had never been.
"Have you come down alone?" asked Paul.
"Yes; I went to Agatha's to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called in for a moment to see Clara."
"You should have come in here to tea," he said.
Miriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside.
"Do you like the chrysanthemums?" he asked.
"Yes; they are very fine," replied Miriam.
"Which sort do you like best?" he asked.
"I don't know. The bronze, I think."
"I don't think you've seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see which are YOUR favourites, Clara."
He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsledbushes of flowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path downto the field. The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge.
"Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. They aren't so fine here, are they?"
"No," said Miriam.
"But they're hardier. You're so sheltered; things grow bigand tender, and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?"
While they were out there the bells began to ring in the church,sounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at thetower, proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketcheshe had brought her. It had been different then, but he had not lefther even yet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors.
"What! is that Miriam?" asked his mother coldly.
"Yes; she said she'd call and see Clara."
"You told her, then?" came the sarcastic answer.
"Yes; why shouldn't I?"
"There's certainly no reason why you shouldn't," said Mrs. Morel,and she returned to her book. He winced from his mother's irony,frowned irritably, thinking: "Why can't I do as I like?"
"You've not seen Mrs. Morel before?" Miriam was saying to Clara.
"No; but she's so nice!"
"Yes," said Miriam, dropping her head; "in some ways she'svery fine."
"I should think so."
"Had Paul told you much about her?"
"He had talked a good deal."
"Ha!"
There was silence until he returned with the book.
"When will you want it back?" Miriam asked.
"When you like," he answered.
Clara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriamto the gate.
"When will you come up to Willey Farm?" the latter asked.
"I couldn't say," replied Clara.
"Mother asked me to say she'd be pleased to see you any time,if you cared to come."
"Thank you; I should like to, but I can't say when."
"Oh, very well!" exclaimed Miriam rather bitterly, turning away.
She went down the path with her mouth to the flowers he hadgiven her.
"You're sure you won't come in?" he said.
"No, thanks."
"We are going to chapel."
"Ah, I shall see you, then!" Miriam was very bitter.
"Yes."
They parted. He felt guilty towards her. She was bitter,and she scorned him. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could have Clara, take her home, sit with her next his motherin chapel, give her the same hymn-book he had given herselfyears before. She heard him running quickly indoors.
But he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass,he heard his mother's voice, then Clara's answer:
"What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam."
"Yes," said his mother quickly, "yes; DOESN'T it make youhate her, now!"
His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talkingabout the girl. What right had they to say that? Something inthe speech itself stung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heart rebelled furiously at Clara's taking the libertyof speaking so about Miriam. After all, the girl was the better womanof the two, he thought, if it came to goodness. He went indoors. His mother looked excited. She was beating with her handrhythmically on the sofa-arm, as women do who are wearing out. He could never bear to see the movement. There was a silence;then he began to talk.
In chapel Miriam saw him find the place in the hymn-bookfor Clara, in exactly the same way as he used for herself. And during the sermon he could see the girl across the chapel,her hat throwing a dark shadow over her face. What did she think,seeing Clara with him? He did not stop to consider. He felt himselfcruel towards Miriam.
After chapel he went over Pentrich with Clara. It was a darkautumn night. They had said good-bye to Miriam, and his heart hadsmitten him as he left the girl alone. "But it serves her right,"he said inside himself, and it almost gave him pleasure to go offunder her eyes with this other handsome woman.
There was a scent of damp leaves in the darkness. Clara's handlay warm and inert in his own as they walked. He was full of conflict. The battle that raged inside him made him feel desperate.
Up Pentrich Hill Clara leaned against him as he went. He slid his arm round her waist. Feeling the strong motionof her body under his arm as she walked, the tightness in hischest because of Miriam relaxed, and the hot blood bathed him. He held her closer and closer.
Then: "You still keep on with Miriam," she said quietly.
"Only talk. There never WAS a great deal more than talkbetween us," he said bitterly.
"Your mother doesn't care for her," said Clara.
"No, or I might have married her. But it's all up really!"
Suddenly his voice went passionate with hate.
"If I was with her now, we should be jawing about the 'ChristianMystery', or some such tack. Thank God, I'm not!"
They walked on in silence for some time.
"But you can't really give her up," said Clara.
"I don't give her up, because there's nothing to give,"he said.
"There is for her."
"I don't know why she and I shouldn't be friends as longas we live," he said. "But it'll only be friends."
Clara drew away from him, leaning away from contact with him.
"What are you drawing away for?" he asked.
