SONS AND LOVERS

D. H. LAWRENCE

CONTENTS

 PART I 1. The Early Married Life of the Morels 2. The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle 3. The Casting Off of Morel--The Taking on of William 4. The Young Life of Paul 5. Paul Launches into Life 6. Death in the Family

 PART II

 7. Lad-and-Girl Love 8. Strife in Love 9. Defeat of Miriam 10. Clara 11. The Test on Miriam 12. Passion 13. Baxter Dawes 14. The Release 15. Derelict

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS

"THE BOTTOMS" succeeded to "Hell Row". Hell Row was a block of thatched, bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. Therelived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away. The brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these smallmines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that ploddedwearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were thesesame pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, thefew colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth, making queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields andthe meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairshere and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers, straying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood. 

Then, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place, gin-pits wereelbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and ironfield of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waiteand Co. Appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formallyopened the company's first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of SherwoodForest. 

About this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old hadacquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansedaway. 

Carston, Waite & Co. Found they had struck on a good thing, so, down thevalleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, untilsoon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstoneamong the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of theCarthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, down to Spinney Park, then on toMinton, a large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlandsof the valleyside to Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and runningnorth to Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills ofDerbyshire: six mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by aloop of fine chain, the railway. 

To accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. Built theSquares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood, and then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected theBottoms. 

The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two rowsof three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in ablock. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharpslope from Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, onthe slow climb of the valley towards Selby. 

The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walkall round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage inthe shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunnytop block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privethedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; thatwas the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers' wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facinginward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then atthe ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits, went the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and themen smoked. So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, thatwas so well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury becausepeople must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to thatnasty alley of ash-pits. 

Mrs. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which was alreadytwelve years old and on the downward path, when she descended to it fromBestwood. But it was the best she could do. Moreover, she had an endhouse in one of the top blocks, and thus had only one neighbour; onthe other side an extra strip of garden. And, having an end house, sheenjoyed a kind of aristocracy among the other women of the "between"houses, because her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead offive shillings a week. But this superiority in station was not muchconsolation to Mrs. Morel. 

She was thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rathersmall woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she shrank a littlefrom the first contact with the Bottoms women. She came down in theJuly, and in the September expected her third baby. 

Her husband was a miner. They had only been in their new home threeweeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she knew, was sure to makea holiday of it. He went off early on the Monday morning, the day ofthe fair. The two children were highly excited. William, a boy of seven, fled off immediately after breakfast, to prowl round the wakes ground, leaving Annie, who was only five, to whine all morning to go also. Mrs. Morel did her work. She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew noone with whom to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her tothe wakes after dinner. 

William appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad, fair-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about him. 

"Can I have my dinner, mother?" he cried, rushing in with his cap on. "'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so. "

"You can have your dinner as soon as it's done, " replied the mother. 

"Isn't it done?" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indignation. "Then I'm goin' be-out it. "

"You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It isonly half-past twelve. "

"They'll be beginnin', " the boy half cried, half shouted. 

"You won't die if they do, " said the mother. "Besides, it's onlyhalf-past twelve, so you've a full hour. "

The lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat down. They were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy jumped off hischair and stood perfectly stiff. Some distance away could be heard thefirst small braying of a merry-go-round, and the tooting of a horn. Hisface quivered as he looked at his mother. 

"I told you!" he said, running to the dresser for his cap. 

"Take your pudding in your hand--and it's only five past one, so youwere wrong--you haven't got your twopence, " cried the mother in abreath. 

The boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then wentoff without a word. 

"I want to go, I want to go, " said Annie, beginning to cry. 

"Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!" said themother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill under thetall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from the fields, andcattle were turned on to the eddish. It was warm, peaceful. 

Mrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of horses, onegoing by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three organs were grinding, and there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, fearful screeching of thecocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt Sally man, screeches from thepeep-show lady. The mother perceived her son gazing enraptured outsidethe Lion Wallace booth, at the pictures of this famous lion that hadkilled a negro and maimed for life two white men. She left him alone, and went to get Annie a spin of toffee. Presently the lad stood in frontof her, wildly excited. 

"You never said you was coming--isn't the' a lot of things?--that lion'skilled three men--I've spent my tuppence--an' look here. "

He pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses on them. 

"I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles inthem holes. An' I got these two in two goes-'aepenny a go-they've gotmoss-roses on, look here. I wanted these. "

She knew he wanted them for her. 

"H'm!" she said, pleased. "They ARE pretty!"

"Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?"

He was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about the ground, showed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she explained thepictures, in a sort of story, to which he listened as if spellbound. Hewould not leave her. All the time he stuck close to her, bristling witha small boy's pride of her. For no other woman looked such a lady as shedid, in her little black bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she sawwomen she knew. When she was tired she said to her son:

"Well, are you coming now, or later?"

"Are you goin' a'ready?" he cried, his face full of reproach. 

"Already? It is past four, I know. "

"What are you goin' a'ready for?" he lamented. 

"You needn't come if you don't want, " she said. 

And she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son stoodwatching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable to leavethe wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the Moon and Starsshe heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, and hurried a little, thinking her husband was probably in the bar. 

At about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather pale, andsomewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did not know it, becausehe had let her go alone. Since she had gone, he had not enjoyed hiswakes. 

"Has my dad been?" he asked. 

"No, " said the mother. 

"He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through thatblack tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves rolled up. "

"Ha!" exclaimed the mother shortly. "He's got no money. An' he'll besatisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him more or not. "

When the light was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more to sew, sherose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound of excitement, therestlessness of the holiday, that at last infected her. She wentout into the side garden. Women were coming home from the wakes, thechildren hugging a white lamb with green legs, or a wooden horse. Occasionally a man lurched past, almost as full as he could carry. Sometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. Butusually the women and children were alone. The stay-at-home mothersstood gossiping at the corners of the alley, as the twilight sank, folding their arms under their white aprons. 

Mrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her littlegirl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind her, fixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. The worldseemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen for her--atleast until William grew up. But for herself, nothing but this drearyendurance--till the children grew up. And the children! She could notafford to have this third. She did not want it. The father was servingbeer in a public house, swilling himself drunk. She despised him, andwas tied to him. This coming child was too much for her. If it were notfor William and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with poverty andugliness and meanness. 

She went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take herself out, yet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And looking ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive. 

The front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There shestood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and thefading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the stile thatled uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow of the cutpastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow sankquickly off the field; the earth and the hedges smoked dusk. As it grewdark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out of the glare thediminished commotion of the fair. 

Sometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path under thehedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed into a run downthe steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a crash into the stile. Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up, swearing viciously, ratherpathetically, as if he thought the stile had wanted to hurt him. 

She went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. She wasbeginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed so faraway from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same person walkingheavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run so lightly up thebreakwater at Sheerness ten years before. 

"What have I to do with it?" she said to herself. "What have I to dowith all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem as ifI were taken into account. "

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishesone's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it wereslurred over. 

"I wait, " Mrs. Morel said to herself--"I wait, and what I wait for cannever come. "

Then she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, lookedout the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After whichshe sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her needle flashedregularly through the stuff. Occasionally she sighed, moving to relieveherself. And all the time she was thinking how to make the most of whatshe had, for the children's sakes. 

At half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very red andvery shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded slightly. He waspleased with himself. 

"Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpin' Anthony, an' what'sthink he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'f-crown, an' that's ivrypenny--"

"He thinks you've made the rest up in beer, " she said shortly. 

"An' I 'aven't--that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very littlethis day, I have an' all. " His voice went tender. "Here, an' I browtthee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children. " He laid thegingerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. "Nay, thaniver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?"

As a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if ithad any milk. 

"It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' BillHodgkisson. 'Bill, ' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does ter?Arena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I ham, Walter, my lad, ' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind. ' An' so Itook one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes, but 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt. ' An' so, yersee, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nicechap!"

"A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're drunkalong with him, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy, who's drunk, I sh'd like ter know?" saidMorel. He was extraordinarily pleased with himself, because of his day'shelping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered on. 

Mrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as quicklyas possible, while he raked the fire. 

Mrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, famous independentswho had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who remained stoutCongregationalists. Her grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-marketat a time when so many lace-manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Herfather, George Coppard, was an engineer--a large, handsome, haughtyman, proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of hisintegrity. Gertrude resembled her mother in her small build. But hertemper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards. 

George Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He became foremanof the engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness. Mrs. Morel--Gertrude--wasthe second daughter. She favoured her mother, loved her mother best ofall; but she had the Coppards' clear, defiant blue eyes and their broadbrow. She remembered to have hated her father's overbearing mannertowards her gentle, humorous, kindly-souled mother. She rememberedrunning over the breakwater at Sheerness and finding the boat. Sheremembered to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she hadgone to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. Sheremembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had become, whomshe had loved to help in the private school. And she still had the Biblethat John Field had given her. She used to walk home from chapelwith John Field when she was nineteen. He was the son of a well-to-dotradesman, had been to college in London, and was to devote himself tobusiness. 

She could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, whenthey had sat under the vine at the back of her father's house. The suncame through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made beautiful patterns, like a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some of the leaves wereclean yellow, like yellow flat flowers. 

"Now sit still, " he had cried. "Now your hair, I don't know what it ISlike! It's as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, andit has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it'sbrown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour. "

She had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed theelation which rose within her. 

"But you say you don't like business, " she pursued. 

"I don't. I hate it!" he cried hotly. 

"And you would like to go into the ministry, " she half implored. 

"I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-ratepreacher. "

"Then why don't you--why DON'T you?" Her voice rang with defiance. "If Iwere a man, nothing would stop me. "

She held her head erect. He was rather timid before her. 

"But my father's so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business, and I know he'll do it. "

"But if you're a MAN?" she had cried. 

"Being a man isn't everything, " he replied, frowning with puzzledhelplessness. 

Now, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some experience ofwhat being a man meant, she knew that it was NOT everything. 

At twenty, owing to her health, she had left Sheerness. Her father hadretired home to Nottingham. John Field's father had been ruined; theson had gone as a teacher in Norwood. She did not hear of him until, twoyears later, she made determined inquiry. He had married his landlady, awoman of forty, a widow with property. 

And still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's Bible. She did not nowbelieve him to be--Well, she understood pretty well what he might ormight not have been. So she preserved his Bible, and kept his memoryintact in her heart, for her own sake. To her dying day, for thirty-fiveyears, she did not speak of him. 

When she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas party, ayoung man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then twenty-seven yearsold. He was well set-up, erect, and very smart. He had wavy black hairthat shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved. His cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist mouth was noticeable becausehe laughed so often and so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich, ringing laugh. Gertrude Coppard had watched him, fascinated. He wasso full of colour and animation, his voice ran so easily into comicgrotesque, he was so ready and so pleasant with everybody. Her ownfather had a rich fund of humour, but it was satiric. This man's wasdifferent: soft, non-intellectual, warm, a kind of gambolling. 

She herself was opposite. She had a curious, receptive mind which foundmuch pleasure and amusement in listening to other folk. She was cleverin leading folk to talk. She loved ideas, and was considered veryintellectual. What she liked most of all was an argument on religion orphilosophy or politics with some educated man. This she did not oftenenjoy. So she always had people tell her about themselves, finding herpleasure so. 

In her person she was rather small and delicate, with a large brow, anddropping bunches of brown silk curls. Her blue eyes were very straight, honest, and searching. She had the beautiful hands of the Coppards. Her dress was always subdued. She wore dark blue silk, with a peculiarsilver chain of silver scallops. This, and a heavy brooch of twistedgold, was her only ornament. She was still perfectly intact, deeplyreligious, and full of beautiful candour. 

Walter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the miner thatthing of mystery and fascination, a lady. When she spoke to him, it waswith a southern pronunciation and a purity of English which thrilledhim to hear. She watched him. He danced well, as if it were natural andjoyous in him to dance. His grandfather was a French refugee who hadmarried an English barmaid--if it had been a marriage. Gertrude Coppardwatched the young miner as he danced, a certain subtle exultation likeglamour in his movement, and his face the flower of his body, ruddy, with tumbled black hair, and laughing alike whatever partner he bowedabove. She thought him rather wonderful, never having met anyone likehim. Her father was to her the type of all men. And George Coppard, proud in his bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who preferredtheology in reading, and who drew near in sympathy only to one man, theApostle Paul; who was harsh in government, and in familiarity ironic;who ignored all sensuous pleasure:--he was very different from theminer. Gertrude herself was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had notthe slightest inclination towards that accomplishment, and had neverlearned even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father, high-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness ofthis man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like theflame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence bythought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful, beyond her. 

He came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through her as if she haddrunk wine. 

"Now do come and have this one wi' me, " he said caressively. "It's easy, you know. I'm pining to see you dance. "

She had told him before she could not dance. She glanced at his humilityand smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It moved the man so that heforgot everything. 

"No, I won't dance, " she said softly. Her words came clean and ringing. 

Not knowing what he was doing--he often did the right thing byinstinct--he sat beside her, inclining reverentially. 

"But you mustn't miss your dance, " she reproved. 

"Nay, I don't want to dance that--it's not one as I care about. "

"Yet you invited me to it. "

He laughed very heartily at this. 

"I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in taking the curl out of me. "

It was her turn to laugh quickly. 

"You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled, " she said. 

"I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it, " he laughed, rather boisterously. 

"And you are a miner!" she exclaimed in surprise. 

"Yes. I went down when I was ten. "

She looked at him in wondering dismay. 

"When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?" she asked. 

"You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop out atnight to see what's going on. "

"It makes me feel blind, " she frowned. 

"Like a moudiwarp!" he laughed. "Yi, an' there's some chaps as doesgo round like moudiwarps. " He thrust his face forward in the blind, snout-like way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer for direction. "Theydun though!" he protested naively. "Tha niver seed such a way they getin. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time, an' tha can see forthysen. "

She looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenlyopened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds of themtoiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed to her noble. Herisked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked at him, with a touchof appeal in her pure humility. 

"Shouldn't ter like it?" he asked tenderly. "'Appen not, it 'ud dirtythee. "

She had never been "thee'd" and "thou'd" before. 

The next Christmas they were married, and for three months she wasperfectly happy: for six months she was very happy. 

He had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: hewas nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his own house. It was small, but convenient enough, and quite nicely furnished, with solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest soul. The women, herneighbours, were rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother and sisterswere apt to sneer at her ladylike ways. But she could perfectly welllive by herself, so long as she had her husband close. 

Sometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to open herheart seriously to him. She saw him listen deferentially, but withoutunderstanding. This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and she hadflashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of an evening: it was notenough for him just to be near her, she realised. She was glad when heset himself to little jobs. 

He was a remarkably handy man--could make or mend anything. So she wouldsay:

"I do like that coal-rake of your mother's--it is small and natty. "

"Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee one!"

"What! why, it's a steel one!"

"An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactlysame. "

She did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy andhappy. 

But in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, shefelt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity, took them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was marriedin: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning thepapers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid. 

"Look here, " she said at night, after he was washed and had had hisdinner. "I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. Haven't yousettled the bills yet?"

"No. I haven't had a chance. "

"But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottingham onSaturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's chairsand eating from an unpaid table. "

He did not answer. 

"I can have your bank-book, can't I?"

"Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee. "

"I thought--" she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money leftover. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigidwith bitterness and indignation. 

The next day she went down to see his mother. 

"Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?" she asked. 

"Yes, I did, " tartly retorted the elder woman. 

"And how much did he give you to pay for it?"

The elder woman was stung with fine indignation. 

"Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin', " she replied. 

"Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!"

"I can't help that. "

"But where has it all gone?"

"You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look--beside ten pound ashe owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down here. "

"Six pounds!" echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that, after her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six poundsmore should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter'sparents' house, at his expense. 

"And how much has he sunk in his houses?" she asked. 

"His houses--which houses?"

Gertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house helived in, and the next one, was his own. 

"I thought the house we live in--" she began. 

"They're my houses, those two, " said the mother-in-law. "And not cleareither. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid. "

Gertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now. 

"Then we ought to be paying you rent, " she said coldly. 

"Walter is paying me rent, " replied the mother. 

"And what rent?" asked Gertrude. 

"Six and six a week, " retorted the mother. 

It was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect, looked straight before her. 

"It is lucky to be you, " said the elder woman, bitingly, "to have ahusband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a freehand. "

The young wife was silent. 

She said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towardshim. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hardas rock. 

When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, atChristmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. ThisChristmas she would bear him a child. 

"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?" asked her nearest neighbour, in October, when there was great talk of opening a dancing-class overthe Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood. 

"No--I never had the least inclination to, " Mrs. Morel replied. 

"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You knowhe's quite a famous one for dancing. "

"I didn't know he was famous, " laughed Mrs. Morel. 

"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners' Armsclub-room for over five year. "

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. " The other woman was defiant. "An' it was throngedevery Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAS carryin's-on, accordin' to all accounts. "

This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel, and she hada fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first; for she wassuperior, though she could not help it. 

He began to be rather late in coming home. 

"They're working very late now, aren't they?" she said to herwasher-woman. 

"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop to havetheir pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinnerstone cold--an' it serves 'em right. "

"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink. "

The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then went on withher work, saying nothing. 

Gertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born. Morel was good toher, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely, miles away from her ownpeople. She felt lonely with him now, and his presence only made it moreintense. 

The boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He wasa beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes whichchanged gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him passionately. He came just when her own bitterness of disillusion was hardest to bear;when her faith in life was shaken, and her soul felt dreary and lonely. She made much of the child, and the father was jealous. 

At last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned to the child; sheturned from the father. He had begun to neglect her; the novelty of hisown home was gone. He had no grit, she said bitterly to herself. Whathe felt just at the minute, that was all to him. He could not abide byanything. There was nothing at the back of all his show. 

There began a battle between the husband and wife--a fearful, bloodybattle that ended only with the death of one. She fought to make himundertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfill his obligations. But he was too different from her. His nature was purely sensuous, andshe strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to facethings. He could not endure it--it drove him out of his mind. 

While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become soirritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give alittle trouble when the man began to bully. A little more, and the hardhands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed her husband, loathed him for days; and he went out and drank; and she cared verylittle what he did. Only, on his return, she scathed him with hersatire. 

The estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly, grossly to offend her where he would not have done. 

William was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him, he wasso pretty. She was not well off now, but her sisters kept the boy inclothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps of hairclustering round his head. Mrs. Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning, to the chatter of the father and child downstairs. Then she dozed off. When she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in the grate, the room washot, the breakfast was roughly laid, and seated in his armchair, againstthe chimney-piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing betweenhis legs, the child--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd roundpoll--looking wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out uponthe hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of amarigold scattered in the reddening firelight. 

Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She went very white, andwas unable to speak. 

"What dost think o' 'im?" Morel laughed uneasily. 

She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward. Morel shrankback. 

"I could kill you, I could!" she said. She choked with rage, her twofists uplifted. 

"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im, " Morel said, in a frightenedtone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers. His attempt atlaughter had vanished. 

The mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of her child. She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head. 

"Oh--my boy!" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke, and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and criedpainfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts asit hurts a man. It was like ripping something out of her, her sobbing. 

Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together tillthe knuckles were white. He gazed in the fire, feeling almost stunned, as if he could not breathe. 

Presently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared away thebreakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls, spreadupon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and put it atthe back of the fire. She went about her work with closed mouth and veryquiet. Morel was subdued. He crept about wretchedly, and his meals werea misery that day. She spoke to him civilly, and never alluded to whathe had done. But he felt something final had happened. 

Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would havehad to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even brought herself tosay to her husband it was just as well he had played barber when hedid. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had caused somethingmomentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all herlife, as one in which she had suffered the most intensely. 

This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of herlove for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him bitterly, shehad fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her. Now she ceasedto fret for his love: he was an outsider to her. This made life muchmore bearable. 

Nevertheless, she still continued to strive with him. She still had herhigh moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now areligious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with him, becauseshe loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned, she tortured him. If hedrank, and lied, was often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she wieldedthe lash unmercifully. 

The pity was, she was too much his opposite. She could not be contentwith the little he might be; she would have him the much that he oughtto be. So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be, she destroyedhim. She injured and hurt and scarred herself, but she lost none of herworth. She also had the children. 

He drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners, and alwaysbeer, so that whilst his health was affected, it was never injured. The week-end was his chief carouse. He sat in the Miners' Arms untilturning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday evening. On Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and reluctantly leave towards teno'clock. Sometimes he stayed at home on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, or was only out for an hour. He practically never had to miss work owingto his drinking. 

But although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off. He wasblab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger. Authority was hateful to him, thereforehe could only abuse the pit-managers. He would say, in the Palmerston:

"Th' gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an' 'e says, 'You know, Walter, this 'ere'll not do. What about these props?' An' I says to him, 'Why, what art talkin' about? What d'st mean about th' props?' 'It'llnever do, this 'ere, ' 'e says. 'You'll be havin' th' roof in, one o'these days. ' An' I says, 'Tha'd better stan' on a bit o' clunch, then, an' hold it up wi' thy 'ead. ' So 'e wor that mad, 'e cossed an' 'eswore, an' t'other chaps they did laugh. " Morel was a good mimic. Heimitated the manager's fat, squeaky voice, with its attempt at goodEnglish. 

"'I shan't have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or you?' SoI says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred. It'll 'appencarry thee ter bed an' back. "'

So Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon companions. And someof this would be true. The pit-manager was not an educated man. He hadbeen a boy along with Morel, so that, while the two disliked each other, they more or less took each other for granted. But Alfred Charlesworthdid not forgive the butty these public-house sayings. Consequently, although Morel was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as fivepounds a week when he married, he came gradually to have worse and worsestalls, where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and unprofitable. 

Also, in summer, the pits are slack. Often, on bright sunny mornings, the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock. No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on the hillside lookacross as they shake the hearthrug against the fence, and count thewagons the engine is taking along the line up the valley. And thechildren, as they come from school at dinner-time, looking down thefields and seeing the wheels on the headstocks standing, say:

"Minton's knocked off. My dad'll be at home. "

And there is a sort of shadow over all, women and children and men, because money will be short at the end of the week. 

Morel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week, toprovide everything--rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors. Occasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five. But theseoccasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty-five. Inwinter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or fifty-fiveshillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, andSunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts. And out of so much, he scarcely spared the children an extra penny orbought them a pound of apples. It all went in drink. In the bad times, matters were more worrying, but he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs. Morel used to say:

"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush, thereisn't a minute of peace. "

If he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from thirty-five he kept five;from thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three; fromtwenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one-and-six; from eighteenhe kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence. He never saved apenny, and he gave his wife no opportunity of saving; instead, she hadoccasionally to pay his debts; not public-house debts, for those neverwere passed on to the women, but debts when he had bought a canary, or afancy walking-stick. 

At the wakes time Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel was tryingto save against her confinement. So it galled her bitterly to thinkhe should be out taking his pleasure and spending money, whilst sheremained at home, harassed. There were two days' holiday. On the Tuesdaymorning Morel rose early. He was in good spirits. Quite early, beforesix o'clock, she heard him whistling away to himself downstairs. Hehad a pleasant way of whistling, lively and musical. He nearly alwayswhistled hymns. He had been a choir-boy with a beautiful voice, and hadtaken solos in Southwell cathedral. His morning whistling alone betrayedit. 

His wife lay listening to him tinkering away in the garden, hiswhistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away. It always gaveher a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she lay in bed, thechildren not yet awake, in the bright early morning, happy in his man'sfashion. 

At nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were sittingplaying on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he came in from hiscarpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat hanging open. He wasstill a good-looking man, with black, wavy hair, and a large blackmoustache. His face was perhaps too much inflamed, and there was abouthim a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straightto the sink where his wife was washing up. 

"What, are thee there!" he said boisterously. "Sluthe off an' let mewesh mysen. "

"You may wait till I've finished, " said his wife. 

"Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?"

This good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel. 

"Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub. "

"Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy. "

With which he stood watching her a moment, then went away to wait forher. 

When he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. Usuallyhe preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, however, hemade a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the way he puffed andswilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity with which he hurried tothe mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. Heput on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat. As such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, hisinstinct for making the most of his good looks would. 

At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry wasMorel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lackeyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head wereon a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where heintended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more orless to take charge of him. 

Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had died ofconsumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislikeof her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her haemorrhage. None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now his eldest daughter, a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the twoyounger children. 

"A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!" Mrs. Morel said of him. 

"I've never known Jerry mean in MY life, " protested Morel. "Aopener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find anywhere, accordin'to my knowledge. "

"Open-handed to you, " retorted Mrs. Morel. "But his fist is shut tightenough to his children, poor things. "

"Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know. "

But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score. 

The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over thescullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel's eye. 

"Mornin', missis! Mester in?"

"Yes--he is. "

Jerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was notinvited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of menand husbands. 

"A nice day, " he said to Mrs. Morel. 

"Yes. 

"Grand out this morning--grand for a walk. "

"Do you mean YOU'RE going for a walk?" she asked. 

"Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottingham, " he replied. 

"H'm!"

The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, full ofassurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in presenceof his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. They weregoing for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham. Climbing thehillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the morning. At theMoon and Stars they had their first drink, then on to the Old Spot. Thena long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a gloriouspint of bitter. But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whosegallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city, Morel was sleepy. The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguelyin the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spiresand factory bulks and chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down underan oak tree and slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to goforward he felt queer. 

The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repairedto the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played cards, considering them as having someoccult, malevolent power--"the devil's pictures, " he called them! Buthe was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge froma Newark man, on skittles. All the men in the old, long bar took sides, betting either one way or the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry heldthe hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Somestood with their mugs in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ballcarefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, andwon half a crown, which restored him to solvency. 

By seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caught the 7. 30train home. 

In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant remainingwas out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in whiteaprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a restbetween drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale;the slate roofs glistered in the arid heat. 

Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, whichwere not more than two hundred yards away. The water ran quickly overstones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned on the rail of the oldsheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of themeadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round thedeep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering overthe blackish stagnant meadow. She knew William was at the dipping-hole, and it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annieplayed under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she calledcurrants. The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing. 

The children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then she worked awhile. 

When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load offtheir minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put thefinishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with thesatisfaction of returned travellers. 

The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on themen's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some werealready rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow. Mrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing, went indoors. Nineo'clock passed, and ten, and still "the pair" had not returned. On adoorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl: "Lead, kindlyLight. " Mrs. Morel was always indignant with the drunken men that theymust sing that hymn when they got maudlin. 

"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough, " she said. 

The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On the hob alarge black saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel took a panchion, a greatbowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom, and then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor. 

Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, butcoming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over the feelingof irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he wasso hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house. He did not know he was angry. But when the garden gate resisted hisattempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered justas Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan. Swaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquorpitched. Mrs. Morel started back. 

"Good gracious, " she cried, "coming home in his drunkenness!"

"Comin' home in his what?" he snarled, his hat over his eye. 

Suddenly her blood rose in a jet. 

"Say you're NOT drunk!" she flashed. 

She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into thebeer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his faceforwards at her. 

"'Say you're not drunk, '" he repeated. "Why, nobody but a nasty littlebitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought. "

He thrust his face forward at her. 

"There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else. "

"I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day, " he said. 

"You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing, " she replied. "And, "she cried, flashing into sudden fury, "if you've been sponging on yourbeloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it. "

"It's a lie, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman. "

They were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the hatred ofthe other and the battle between them. She was fiery and furious as he. They went on till he called her a liar. 

"No, " she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. "Don't call methat--you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather. "She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs. 

"You're a liar!" he yelled, banging the table with his fist. "You're aliar, you're a liar. "

She stiffened herself, with clenched fists. 

"The house is filthy with you, " she cried. 

"Then get out on it--it's mine. Get out on it!" he shouted. "It's me asbrings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. Then ger outon't--ger out on't!"

"And I would, " she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence. "Ah, wouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those children. Ay, haven't I repented not going years ago, when I'd only the one"--suddenlydrying into rage. "Do you think it's for YOU I stop--do you think I'dstop one minute for YOU?"

"Go, then, " he shouted, beside himself. "Go!"

"No!" She faced round. "No, " she cried loudly, "you shan't have it ALLyour own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've got those children to seeto. My word, " she laughed, "I should look well to leave them to you. "

"Go, " he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. "Go!"

"I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I couldget away from you, " she replied. 

He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, thrustforward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled to befree. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her roughly to theouter door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt behind her with abang. Then he went back into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair, hishead, bursting full of blood, sinking between his knees. Thus he dippedgradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and intoxication. 

The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel, seared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a great whitelight, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her inflamed soul. She stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the glistening greatrhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. Shewalked down the garden path, trembling in every limb, while the childboiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness;mechanically she went over the last scene, then over it again, certainphrases, certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down onher soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each time thebrand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and thepain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been halfan hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night cameagain to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered to the sidegarden, where she was walking up and down the path beside the currantbushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded fromthe road, that cut transversely between the blocks, by a thick thornhedge. 

She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could standas if in an immense gulf of white light, the moon streaming high in faceof her, the moonlight standing up from the hills in front, and fillingthe valley where the Bottoms crouched, almost blindingly. There, pantingand half weeping in reaction from the stress, she murmured to herselfover and over again: "The nuisance! the nuisance!"

She became aware of something about her. With an effort she rousedherself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tallwhite lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air was charged withtheir perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gasped slightly in fear. She touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals, then shivered. They seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand intoone white bin: the gold scarcely showed on her fingers by moonlight. Shebent down to look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeareddusky. Then she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made herdizzy. 

Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and she lost herselfawhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feelingof sickness, and her consciousness in the child, herself melted out likescent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted withher in the mixing-pot of moonlight, and she rested with the hills andlilies and houses, all swum together in a kind of swoon. 

When she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly she lookedabout her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spread withlinen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden. Following it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw, strongscent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path, hesitating atthe white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the whiteruffles of the roses. Their fresh scent and cool, soft leaves remindedher of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But shewas tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she feltforlorn. 

There was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had not beenwakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away, roared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange, stretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-greyfog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake not far off, sound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men. 

Her quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hurried downthe side garden to the back of the house. Softly she lifted the latch;the door was still bolted, and hard against her. She rapped gently, waited, then rapped again. She must not rouse the children, nor theneighbours. He must be asleep, and he would not wake easily. Her heartbegan to burn to be indoors. She clung to the door-handle. Now it wascold; she would take a chill, and in her present condition!

Putting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried again to theside garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the sill, shecould just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spread out on thetable, and his black head on the board. He was sleeping with his facelying on the table. Something in his attitude made her feel tired ofthings. The lamp was burning smokily; she could tell by the coppercolour of the light. She tapped at the window more and more noisily. Almost it seemed as if the glass would break. Still he did not wake up. 

After vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact with thestone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn child, shewondered what she could do for warmth. She went down to the coal-house, where there was an old hearthrug she had carried out for the rag-man theday before. This she wrapped over her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy. Then she walked up and down the garden path, peeping every now and thenunder the blind, knocking, and telling herself that in the end the verystrain of his position must wake him. 

At last, after about an hour, she rapped long and low at the window. Gradually the sound penetrated to him. When, in despair, she had ceasedto tap, she saw him stir, then lift his face blindly. The labouring ofhis heart hurt him into consciousness. She rapped imperatively at thewindow. He started awake. Instantly she saw his fists set and hiseyes glare. He had not a grain of physical fear. If it had beentwenty burglars, he would have gone blindly for them. He glared round, bewildered, but prepared to fight. 

"Open the door, Walter, " she said coldly. 

His hands relaxed. It dawned on him what he had done. His head dropped, sullen and dogged. She saw him hurry to the door, heard the bolt chock. He tried the latch. It opened--and there stood the silver-grey night, fearful to him, after the tawny light of the lamp. He hurried back. 

When Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him almost running through the doorto the stairs. He had ripped his collar off his neck in his haste tobe gone ere she came in, and there it lay with bursten button-holes. Itmade her angry. 

She warmed and soothed herself. In her weariness forgetting everything, she moved about at the little tasks that remained to be done, set hisbreakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes on the hearthto warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out a clean scarf andsnap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was alreadydead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows were drawn up in a sort ofpeevish misery into his forehead while his cheeks' down-strokes, and hissulky mouth, seemed to be saying: "I don't care who you are nor what youare, I SHALL have my own way. "

Mrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she unfastened herbrooch at the mirror, she smiled faintly to see her face all smearedwith the yellow dust of lilies. She brushed it off, and at last laydown. For some time her mind continued snapping and jetting sparks, but she was asleep before her husband awoke from the first sleep of hisdrunkenness. 

CHAPTER II

THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE

AFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashedand ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yetthere was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physicallyeven, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in theleast stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive bearing, hisphysique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral strength. 

But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at herwork, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward withhis help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at eveningtill Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back againby ten o'clock, almost quite sober. 

He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and hadplenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bedat six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out ofbed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay waitingfor this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest seemed to bewhen he was out of the house. 

He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into hispit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. Therewas always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound inthe house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morelsmashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filledand left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all hewanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doorswith rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to anhour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of faton his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, andcut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. Heloathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcelyreached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, insolitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a littlestool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper--whatof it he could--spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep theblinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was thehabit of the mine. 

At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle withtea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for thepit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vestof thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like achemise. 

Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill, and because it occurred to him. 

"I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass, " he said. 

"Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it, " she replied. 

"Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again. "

She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it. 

"I'll back my life there's no sugar in, " she said. 

"Yi--there's one big 'un, " he replied, injured. 

"It's a wonder, " she said, sipping again. 

She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumbleat him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without anysort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread andbutter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf roundhis neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth intothe fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. Heloved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appearedat the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feelingquite as happy as when he was in the field. 

Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle roundin his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling veryself-righteous, he went upstairs. 

"Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stir a peg all day, but sit and read thy books. "

Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation. 

"And the dinner cooks itself?" she answered. 

"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner. "

"You'd know if there weren't any. "

"Ay, 'appen so, " he answered, departing. 

When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. Shecould not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to theash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to haveto go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the woodenfence, she would call:

"So you keep wagging on, then?"

"Ay, " answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. "There's nothing else for it. "

"Have you seen Hose?" called a very small woman from across the road. Itwas Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore abrown velvet dress, tight fitting. 

"I haven't, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm sure Iheered his bell. "

"Hark! He's at the end. "

The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms aman stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles ofcream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms tohim, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm. 

"I've done ten dozen this week, " she said proudly to Mrs. Morel. 

"T-t-t!" went the other. "I don't know how you can find time. "

"Eh!" said Mrs. Anthony. "You can find time if you make time. "

"I don't know how you do it, " said Mrs. Morel. "And how much shall youget for those many?"

"Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen, " replied the other. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Morel. "I'd starve before I'd sit down and seamtwenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny. "

"Oh, I don't know, " said Mrs. Anthony. "You can rip along with 'em. "

Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at theyard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. Theman, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, andbullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully. 

It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, sheshould put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in theadjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly startedout of her skin as she heard the thud, thud, in her grate. With herhands all floury, she rushed to the fence. 

"Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk. "

Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morel'scopper, and ran in to her neighbour. 

"Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried in concern. 

"You might fetch Mrs. Bower, " said Mrs. Morel. 

Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, andcalled:

"Ag-gie--Ag-gie!"

The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At lastAggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, whilst Mrs. Kirkleft her pudding and stayed with her neighbour. 

Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house. 

"Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make him anapple-charlotte pudding, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"He may go without pudding this day, " said Mrs. Bower. 

Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of thepit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o'clock, when thewhistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at thistime about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually tillthe first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, theminer was sick of the work. At two o'clock he looked at his watch, bythe light of the green candle--he was in a safe working--and again athalf-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way forthe next day's work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hardblows with his pick, "Uszza--uszza!" he went. 

"Shall ter finish, Sorry?" cried Barker, his fellow butty. 

"Finish? Niver while the world stands!" growled Morel. 

And he went on striking. He was tired. 

"It's a heart-breaking job, " said Barker. 

But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might. 

"Tha might as well leave it, Walter, " said Barker. "It'll do to-morrow, without thee hackin' thy guts out. "

"I'll lay no b---- finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel. 

"Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else'll ha'e to, " said Israel. 

Then Morel continued to strike. 

"Hey-up there--LOOSE-A'!" cried the men, leaving the next stall. 

Morel continued to strike. 

"Tha'll happen catch me up, " said Barker, departing. 

When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finishedhis job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet withsweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other menwent swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground. 

He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fellplash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable. 

"It's rainin', Sorry, " said old Giles, who had had the news from thetop. 

Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in thelamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the topin a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which hehad bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge ofthe pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain wasfalling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down thesides of the waggons, over the white "C. W. And Co. ". Colliers, walkingindifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure fromthe peppering of the drops thereon. 

All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey anddirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walkedwith a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Manymen passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen's. Morel, feelingsufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along underthe dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud ofGreenhill Lane. 

Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of thecolliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates asthey went through the stile up the field. 

"There's some herb beer behind the pantry door, " she said. "Th'master'll want a drink, if he doesn't stop. "

But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since itwas raining. What did he care about the child or her?

She was very ill when her children were born. 

"What is it?" she asked, feeling sick to death. 

"A boy. "

And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of menwas warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes, and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite ofeverything. She had it in bed with her. 

Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearilyand angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the sink; then hesluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in theinner doorway. 

"Well, " she said, "she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy childt. "

The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle on thedresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, then came anddropped into his chair. 

"Han yer got a drink?" he asked. 

The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. Sheset the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel. Hedrank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to himagain. She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs. 

"Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel. 

"I've gave him his dinner, " replied Mrs. Bower. 

After he had sat with his arms on the table--he resented the fact thatMrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him a little plate, insteadof a full-sized dinner-plate--he began to eat. The fact that his wifewas ill, that he had another boy, was nothing to him at that moment. He was too tired; he wanted his dinner; he wanted to sit with his armslying on the board; he did not like having Mrs. Bower about. The firewas too small to please him. 

After he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes; then hestoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet, he went reluctantlyupstairs. It was a struggle to face his wife at this moment, and he wastired. His face was black, and smeared with sweat. His singlet haddried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round histhroat. So he stood at the foot of the bed. 

"Well, how are ter, then?" he asked. 

"I s'll be all right, " she answered. 

"H'm!"

He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and this bother wasrather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite know where he was. 

"A lad, tha says, " he stammered. 

She turned down the sheet and showed the child. 

"Bless him!" he murmured. Which made her laugh, because he blessed byrote--pretending paternal emotion, which he did not feel just then. 

"Go now, " she said. 

"I will, my lass, " he answered, turning away. 

Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half wantedhim to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any sign. She onlybreathed freely when he was gone out of the room again, leaving behindhim a faint smell of pit-dirt. 

Mrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational clergyman. Mr. Heaton was young, and very poor. His wife had died at the birth of hisfirst baby, so he remained alone in the manse. He was a Bachelor of Artsof Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, andhe depended on her. For hours he talked to her, when she was well. Hebecame the god-parent of the child. 

Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then she laidthe cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim, andhoped Morel would not come too soon; indeed, if he stayed for a pint, she would not mind this day. She had always two dinners to cook, becauseshe believed children should have their chief meal at midday, whereasMorel needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby, whilst Mrs. Morel beat up a batter-pudding or peeled the potatoes, andhe, watching her all the time, would discuss his next sermon. His ideaswere quaint and fantastic. She brought him judiciously to earth. It wasa discussion of the wedding at Cana. 

"When He changed the water into wine at Cana, " he said, "that is asymbol that the ordinary life, even the blood, of the married husbandand wife, which had before been uninspired, like water, became filledwith the Spirit, and was as wine, because, when love enters, the wholespiritual constitution of a man changes, is filled with the Holy Ghost, and almost his form is altered. "

Mrs. Morel thought to herself:

"Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why he makes his loveinto the Holy Ghost. "

They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heard thesluther of pit-boots. 

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself. 

The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He was feeling rathersavage. He nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman, who rose to shakehands with him. 

"Nay, " said Morel, showing his hand, "look thee at it! Tha niverwants ter shake hands wi' a hand like that, does ter? There's too muchpick-haft and shovel-dirt on it. "

The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morelrose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily. 

"Are you tired?" asked the clergyman. 

"Tired? I ham that, " replied Morel. "YOU don't know what it is to betired, as I'M tired. "

"No, " replied the clergyman. 

"Why, look yer 'ere, " said the miner, showing the shoulders of hissinglet. "It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a clout with sweat evenyet. Feel it. "

"Goodness!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feel yournasty singlet. "

The clergyman put out his hand gingerly. 

"No, perhaps he doesn't, " said Morel; "but it's all come out of me, whether or not. An' iv'ry day alike my singlet's wringin' wet. 'Aven'tyou got a drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up fromthe pit?"

"You know you drank all the beer, " said Mrs. Morel, pouring out his tea. 

"An' was there no more to be got?" Turning to the clergyman--"A man getsthat caked up wi' th' dust, you know, --that clogged up down a coal-mine, he NEEDS a drink when he comes home. "

"I am sure he does, " said the clergyman. 

"But it's ten to one if there's owt for him. "

"There's water--and there's tea, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat. "

He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through hisgreat black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out anothersaucerful, and stood his cup on the table. 

"My cloth!" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate. 

"A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths, " saidMorel. 

"Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically. 

The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes. 

He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward, hismouth very red in his black face. 

"Mr. Heaton, " he said, "a man as has been down the black hole all day, dingin' away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harder than that wall--"

"Needn't make a moan of it, " put in Mrs. Morel. 

She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, he whinedand played for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the baby, hated him, with a boy's hatred for false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment ofhis mother. Annie had never liked him; she merely avoided him. 

When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth. 

"A fine mess!" she said. 

"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha's got aparson for tea wi' thee?" he bawled. 

They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, andMrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knockedAnnie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel to shoutat her. In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the bigglazed text over the mantelpiece and read distinctly:

"God Bless Our Home!"

Whereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up, rushed athim, boxed his ears, saying:

"What are YOU putting in for?"

And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her cheeks, whileWilliam kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and Morel growled:

"I canna see what there is so much to laugh at. "

One evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unable to bearherself after another display from her husband, she took Annie and thebaby and went out. Morel had kicked William, and the mother would neverforgive him. 

She went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of the meadow to thecricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space of ripe, evening light, whispering with the distant mill-race. She sat on a seat under thealders in the cricket-ground, and fronted the evening. Before her, leveland solid, spread the big green cricket-field, like the bed of a sea oflight. Children played in the bluish shadow of the pavilion. Many rooks, high up, came cawing home across the softly-woven sky. They stooped ina long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling, like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree clump that made a darkboss among the pasture. 

A few gentlemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear the chockof the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused; could see the whiteforms of men shifting silently over the green, upon which already theunder shadows were smouldering. Away at the grange, one side of thehaystacks was lit up, the other sides blue-grey. A waggon of sheavesrocked small across the melting yellow light. 

The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire wereblazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from theglistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the westernspace went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving thebell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stoodfierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn ina corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing;perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunsetfloated pink opposite the west's scarlet. The big haystacks on thehillside, that butted into the glare, went cold. 

With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small fretsvanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace andthe strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The babywas restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at thelight. 

Mrs. Morel looked down at him. She had dreaded this baby like acatastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband. And now she feltstrangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavy because of the child, almost as if it were unhealthy, or malformed. Yet it seemed quite well. But she noticed the peculiar knitting of the baby's brows, and thepeculiar heaviness of its eyes, as if it were trying to understandsomething that was pain. She felt, when she looked at her child's dark, brooding pupils, as if a burden were on her heart. 

"He looks as if he was thinking about something--quite sorrowful, " saidMrs. Kirk. 

Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart meltedinto passionate grief. She bowed over him, and a few tears shook swiftlyout of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers. 

"My lamb!" she cried softly. 

And at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul, thatshe and her husband were guilty. 

The baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own, but itslook was heavy, steady, as if it had realised something that had stunnedsome point of its soul. 

In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes, always looking upat her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her. Sheno longer loved her husband; she had not wanted this child to come, andthere it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart. She felt as if thenavel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had notbeen broken. A wave of hot love went over her to the infant. She held itclose to her face and breast. With all her force, with all her soul shewould make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. Shewould love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Itsclear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her?When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was there areproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with fearand pain. 

Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hillopposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands. 

"Look!" she said. "Look, my pretty!"

She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, almost withrelief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her bosomagain, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence hecame. 

"If he lives, " she thought to herself, "what will become of him--whatwill he be?"

Her heart was anxious. 

"I will call him Paul, " she said suddenly; she knew not why. 

After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the deep greenmeadow, darkening all. 

As she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel was home by teno'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully. 

Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemedto exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody. If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about hisdinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way thatmade their mother's blood boil, and made them hate him. 

On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock. The baby was unwell, and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Morel, tired todeath, and still weak, was scarcely under control. 

"I wish the nuisance would come, " she said wearily to herself. 

The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too tired tocarry him to the cradle. 

"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes, " she said. "It only worksme up; I won't say anything. But I know if he does anything it'll makemy blood boil, " she added to herself. 

She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could notbear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept her headbent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But itwent through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurchedagainst the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at thewhite pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, then returned, stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child. 

"Is there nothing to eat in the house?" he asked, insolently, as if to aservant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected theclipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morel hated him most in thiscondition. 

"You know what there is in the house, " she said, so coldly, it soundedimpersonal. 

He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle. 

"I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer, " he saidaffectedly. 

"And you got it, " she said, still ignoring him. 

He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on thetable with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer toget a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons, forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and aclang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start. 

"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?" the mother cried. 

"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen. Tha should get up, likeother women have to, an' wait on a man. "

"Wait on you--wait on you?" she cried. "Yes, I see myself. "

"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on ME, yes tha sh'lt waiton me--"

"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first. "

"What--what?"

He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silentsecond in threat. 

"P-h!" she went quickly, in contempt. 

He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharply on hisshin, and on the reflex he flung it at her. 

One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed intothe fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair. To hervery soul she was sick; she clasped the child tightly to her bosom. Afew moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she brought herself to. The baby was crying plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding ratherprofusely. As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, somedrops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was at leastnot hurt. She balanced her head to keep equilibrium, so that the bloodran into her eye. 

Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table with onehand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance, he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of herrocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then leaning forward over her, and swaying as he spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering concern:

"Did it catch thee?"

He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child. With thecatastrophe he had lost all balance. 

"Go away, " she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind. 

He hiccoughed. "Let's--let's look at it, " he said, hiccoughing again. 

"Go away!" she cried. 

"Lemme--lemme look at it, lass. "

She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying grasp onthe back of her rocking-chair. 

"Go away, " she said, and weakly she pushed him off. 

He stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her. Summoning all herstrength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of will, moving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where she bathedher eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too dizzy. Afraid lestshe should swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair, trembling in everyfibre. By instinct, she kept the baby clasped. 

Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back into itscavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws, for the scatteredspoons. 

Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and came craning hisneck towards her. 

"What has it done to thee, lass?" he asked, in a very wretched, humbletone. 

"You can see what it's done, " she answered. 

He stood, bending forward, supported on his hands, which grasped hislegs just above the knee. He peered to look at the wound. She drew awayfrom the thrust of his face with its great moustache, averting herown face as much as possible. As he looked at her, who was cold andimpassive as stone, with mouth shut tight, he sickened with feeblenessand hopelessness of spirit. He was turning drearily away, when he sawa drop of blood fall from the averted wound into the baby's fragile, glistening hair. Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark drop hang inthe glistening cloud, and pull down the gossamer. Another drop fell. Itwould soak through to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feelingit soak in; then, finally, his manhood broke. 

"What of this child?" was all his wife said to him. But her low, intensetones brought his head lower. She softened: "Get me some wadding out ofthe middle drawer, " she said. 

He stumbled away very obediently, presently returning with a pad, whichshe singed before the fire, then put on her forehead, as she sat withthe baby on her lap. 

"Now that clean pit-scarf. "

Again he rummaged and fumbled in the drawer, returning presently with ared, narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling fingers proceeded tobind it round her head. 

"Let me tie it for thee, " he said humbly. 

"I can do it myself, " she replied. When it was done she went upstairs, telling him to rake the fire and lock the door. 

In the morning Mrs. Morel said:

"I knocked against the latch of the coal-place, when I was getting araker in the dark, because the candle blew out. " Her two small childrenlooked up at her with wide, dismayed eyes. They said nothing, but theirparted lips seemed to express the unconscious tragedy they felt. 

Walter Morel lay in bed next day until nearly dinner-time. He did notthink of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thought of anything, but he would not think of that. He lay and suffered like a sulking dog. He had hurt himself most; and he was the more damaged because he wouldnever say a word to her, or express his sorrow. He tried to wriggle outof it. "It was her own fault, " he said to himself. Nothing, however, could prevent his inner consciousness inflicting on him the punishmentwhich ate into his spirit like rust, and which he could only alleviateby drinking. 

He felt as if he had not the initiative to get up, or to say a word, orto move, but could only lie like a log. Moreover, he had himself violentpains in the head. It was Saturday. Towards noon he rose, cut himselffood in the pantry, ate it with his head dropped, then pulled on hisboots, and went out, to return at three o'clock slightly tipsy andrelieved; then once more straight to bed. He rose again at six in theevening, had tea and went straight out. 

Sunday was the same: bed till noon, the Palmerston Arms till 2. 30, dinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morel went upstairs, towards four o'clock, to put on her Sunday dress, he was fast asleep. She would have felt sorry for him, if he had once said, "Wife, I'msorry. " But no; he insisted to himself it was her fault. And so hebroke himself. So she merely left him alone. There was this deadlock ofpassion between them, and she was stronger. 

The family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all sat down to mealstogether. 

"Isn't my father going to get up?" asked William. 

"Let him lie, " the mother replied. 

There was a feeling of misery over all the house. The children breathedthe air that was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They were ratherdisconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at. 

Immediately Morel woke he got straight out of bed. That wascharacteristic of him all his life. He was all for activity. Theprostrated inactivity of two mornings was stifling him. 

It was near six o'clock when he got down. This time he entered withouthesitation, his wincing sensitiveness having hardened again. He did notcare any longer what the family thought or felt. 

The tea-things were on the table. William was reading aloud from "TheChild's Own", Annie listening and asking eternally "why?" Both childrenhushed into silence as they heard the approaching thud of their father'sstockinged feet, and shrank as he entered. Yet he was usually indulgentto them. 

Morel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate and drank more noisily thanhe had need. No one spoke to him. The family life withdrew, shrankaway, and became hushed as he entered. But he cared no longer about hisalienation. 

Immediately he had finished tea he rose with alacrity to go out. It wasthis alacrity, this haste to be gone, which so sickened Mrs. Morel. Asshe heard him sousing heartily in cold water, heard the eager scratchof the steel comb on the side of the bowl, as he wetted his hair, sheclosed her eyes in disgust. As he bent over, lacing his boots, therewas a certain vulgar gusto in his movement that divided him from thereserved, watchful rest of the family. He always ran away from thebattle with himself. Even in his own heart's privacy, he excusedhimself, saying, "If she hadn't said so-and-so, it would never havehappened. She asked for what she's got. " The children waited inrestraint during his preparations. When he had gone, they sighed withrelief. 

He closed the door behind him, and was glad. It was a rainy evening. ThePalmerston would be the cosier. He hastened forward in anticipation. Allthe slate roofs of the Bottoms shone black with wet. The roads, alwaysdark with coal-dust, were full of blackish mud. He hastened along. ThePalmerston windows were steamed over. The passage was paddled with wetfeet. But the air was warm, if foul, and full of the sound of voices andthe smell of beer and smoke. 

"What shollt ha'e, Walter?" cried a voice, as soon as Morel appeared inthe doorway. 

"Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?"

The men made a seat for him, and took him in warmly. He was glad. In aminute or two they had thawed all responsibility out of him, all shame, all trouble, and he was clear as a bell for a jolly night. 

On the Wednesday following, Morel was penniless. He dreaded his wife. Having hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what to do withhimself that evening, having not even twopence with which to go to thePalmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt. So, while his wifewas down the garden with the child, he hunted in the top drawer ofthe dresser where she kept her purse, found it, and looked inside. Itcontained a half-crown, two halfpennies, and a sixpence. So he took thesixpence, put the purse carefully back, and went out. 

The next day, when she wanted to pay the greengrocer, she looked in thepurse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes. Then she satdown and thought: "WAS there a sixpence? I hadn't spent it, had I? And Ihadn't left it anywhere else?"

She was much put about. She hunted round everywhere for it. And, as shesought, the conviction came into her heart that her husband had takenit. What she had in her purse was all the money she possessed. But thathe should sneak it from her thus was unbearable. He had done so twicebefore. The first time she had not accused him, and at the week-end hehad put the shilling again into her purse. So that was how she had knownhe had taken it. The second time he had not paid back. 

This time she felt it was too much. When he had had his dinner--he camehome early that day--she said to him coldly:

"Did you take sixpence out of my purse last night?"

"Me!" he said, looking up in an offended way. "No, I didna! I niverclapped eyes on your purse. "

But she could detect the lie. 

"Why, you know you did, " she said quietly. 

"I tell you I didna, " he shouted. "Yer at me again, are yer? I've hadabout enough on't. "

"So you filch sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking the clothes in. "

"I'll may yer pay for this, " he said, pushing back his chair indesperation. He bustled and got washed, then went determinedly upstairs. Presently he came down dressed, and with a big bundle in a blue-checked, enormous handkerchief. 

"And now, " he said, "you'll see me again when you do. "

"It'll be before I want to, " she replied; and at that he marched outof the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly, but her heartbrimming with contempt. What would she do if he went to some otherpit, obtained work, and got in with another woman? But she knew him toowell--he couldn't. She was dead sure of him. Nevertheless her heart wasgnawed inside her. 

"Where's my dad?" said William, coming in from school. 

"He says he's run away, " replied the mother. 

"Where to?"

"Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handkerchief, andsays he's not coming back. "

"What shall we do?" cried the boy. 

"Eh, never trouble, he won't go far. "

"But if he doesn't come back, " wailed Annie. 

And she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morel sat andlaughed. 

"You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll see him before the night'sout. "

But the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on. Mrs. Morelgrew anxious from very weariness. One part of her said it would be arelief to see the last of him; another part fretted because of keepingthe children; and inside her, as yet, she could not quite let him go. Atthe bottom, she knew very well he could NOT go. 

When she went down to the coal-place at the end of the garden, however, she felt something behind the door. So she looked. And there in the darklay the big blue bundle. She sat on a piece of coal and laughed. Everytime she saw it, so fat and yet so ignominious, slunk into its corner inthe dark, with its ends flopping like dejected ears from the knots, shelaughed again. She was relieved. 

Mrs. Morel sat waiting. He had not any money, she knew, so if he stoppedhe was running up a bill. She was very tired of him--tired to death. Hehad not even the courage to carry his bundle beyond the yard-end. 

As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the door and came in, slinking, and yet sulky. She said not a word. He took off his coat, andslunk to his armchair, where he began to take off his boots. 

"You'd better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off, " shesaid quietly. 

"You may thank your stars I've come back to-night, " he said, looking upfrom under his dropped head, sulkily, trying to be impressive. 

"Why, where should you have gone? You daren't even get your parcelthrough the yard-end, " she said. 

He looked such a fool she was not even angry with him. He continued totake his boots off and prepare for bed. 

"I don't know what's in your blue handkerchief, " she said. "But if youleave it the children shall fetch it in the morning. "

Whereupon he got up and went out of the house, returning presently andcrossing the kitchen with averted face, hurrying upstairs. As Mrs. Morelsaw him slink quickly through the inner doorway, holding his bundle, shelaughed to herself: but her heart was bitter, because she had loved him. 

CHAPTER III

THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL--THE TAKING ON OF WILLIAM

DURING the next week Morel's temper was almost unbearable. Like allminers, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, hewould often pay for himself. 

"You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral, " he said. "It's a winder as wecanna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse. "

So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite firstmedicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging inthe attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue, horehound, elderflowers, parsley-purt, marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury. Usually there was a jug of one or other decoction standing on the hob, from which he drank largely. 

"Grand!" he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. "Grand!" And heexhorted the children to try. 

"It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews, " he vowed. Butthey were not to be tempted. 

This time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs wouldshift the "nasty peens in his head". He was sickening for an attack ofan inflammation of the brain. He had never been well since his sleepingon the ground when he went with Jerry to Nottingham. Since then he haddrunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had himto nurse. He was one of the worst patients imaginable. But, in spite ofall, and putting aside the fact that he was breadwinner, she neverquite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him forherself. 

The neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had the childrenin to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her, onewould mind the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless. It was not every day the neighbours helped. Then she had nursing of babyand husband, cleaning and cooking, everything to do. She was quite wornout, but she did what was wanted of her. 

And the money was just sufficient. She had seventeen shillings a weekfrom clubs, and every Friday Barker and the other butty put by a portionof the stall's profits for Morel's wife. And the neighbours made broths, and gave eggs, and such invalids' trifles. If they had not helped her sogenerously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled through, without incurring debts that would have dragged her down. 

The weeks passed. Morel, almost against hope, grew better. He had a fineconstitution, so that, once on the mend, he went straight forward torecovery. Soon he was pottering about downstairs. During his illness hiswife had spoilt him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He oftenput his band to his head, pulled down the comers of his mouth, andshammed pains he did not feel. But there was no deceiving her. At firstshe merely smiled to herself. Then she scolded him sharply. 

"Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose. "

That wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness. 

"I wouldn't be such a mardy baby, " said the wife shortly. 

Then he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy. He wasforced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine. 

Nevertheless, there was a state of peace in the house for some time. Mrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almostlike a child, was rather happy. Neither knew that she was more tolerantbecause she loved him less. Up till this time, in spite of all, he hadbeen her husband and her man. She had felt that, more or less, what hedid to himself he did to her. Her living depended on him. There weremany, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him, but it was alwaysebbing. 

Now, with the birth of this third baby, her self no longer set towardshim, helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose, standing offfrom him. After this she scarcely desired him. And, standing more alooffrom him, not feeling him so much part of herself, but merely part ofher circumstances, she did not mind so much what he did, could leave himalone. 

There was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year, whichis like autumn in a man's life. His wife was casting him off, halfregretfully, but relentlessly; casting him off and turning now for loveand life to the children. Henceforward he was more or less a husk. Andhe himself acquiesced, as so many men do, yielding their place to theirchildren. 

During his recuperation, when it was really over between them, both madean effort to come back somewhat to the old relationship of the firstmonths of their marriage. He sat at home and, when the children were inbed, and she was sewing--she did all her sewing by hand, made all shirtsand children's clothing--he would read to her from the newspaper, slowlypronouncing and delivering the words like a man pitching quoits. Oftenshe hurried him on, giving him a phrase in anticipation. And then hetook her words humbly. 

The silences between them were peculiar. There would be the swift, slight "cluck" of her needle, the sharp "pop" of his lips as he let outthe smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars as he spat in the fire. Then her thoughts turned to William. Already he was getting a big boy. Already he was top of the class, and the master said he was the smartestlad in the school. She saw him a man, young, full of vigour, making theworld glow again for her. 

And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think about, would be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul would reach out in itsblind way to her and find her gone. He felt a sort of emptiness, almostlike a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled and restless. Soon he couldnot live in that atmosphere, and he affected his wife. Both felt anoppression on their breathing when they were left together for sometime. Then he went to bed and she settled down to enjoy herself alone, working, thinking, living. 

Meanwhile another infant was coming, fruit of this little peace andtenderness between the separating parents. Paul was seventeen months oldwhen the new baby was born. He was then a plump, pale child, quiet, withheavy blue eyes, and still the peculiar slight knitting of the brows. The last child was also a boy, fair and bonny. Mrs. Morel was sorry whenshe knew she was with child, both for economic reasons and because shedid not love her husband; but not for the sake of the infant. 

They called the baby Arthur. He was very pretty, with a mop of goldcurls, and he loved his father from the first. Mrs. Morel was glad thischild loved the father. Hearing the miner's footsteps, the baby wouldput up his arms and crow. And if Morel were in a good temper, he calledback immediately, in his hearty, mellow voice:

"What then, my beauty? I sh'll come to thee in a minute. "

And as soon as he had taken off his pit-coat, Mrs. Morel would put anapron round the child, and give him to his father. 

"What a sight the lad looks!" she would exclaim sometimes, taking backthe baby, that was smutted on the face from his father's kisses andplay. Then Morel laughed joyfully. 

"He's a little collier, bless his bit o' mutton!" he exclaimed. 

And these were the happy moments of her life now, when the childrenincluded the father in her heart. 

Meanwhile William grew bigger and stronger and more active, while Paul, always rather delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and trotted after hismother like her shadow. He was usually active and interested, butsometimes he would have fits of depression. Then the mother would findthe boy of three or four crying on the sofa. 

"What's the matter?" she asked, and got no answer. 

"What's the matter?" she insisted, getting cross. 

"I don't know, " sobbed the child. 

So she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but withouteffect. It made her feel beside herself. Then the father, alwaysimpatient, would jump from his chair and shout:

"If he doesn't stop, I'll smack him till he does. "

"You'll do nothing of the sort, " said the mother coldly. And then shecarried the child into the yard, plumped him into his little chair, andsaid: "Now cry there, Misery!"

And then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves perhaps caught his eye, orat last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, but theycaused a shadow in Mrs. Morel's heart, and her treatment of Paul wasdifferent from that of the other children. 

Suddenly one morning as she was looking down the alley of the Bottomsfor the barm-man, she heard a voice calling her. It was the thin littleMrs. Anthony in brown velvet. 

"Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie. "

"Oh, do you?" replied Mrs. Morel. "Why, what's the matter?"

"A lad as gets 'old of another an' rips his clothes off'n 'is back, "Mrs. Anthony said, "wants showing something. "

"Your Alfred's as old as my William, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"'Appen 'e is, but that doesn't give him a right to get hold of theboy's collar, an' fair rip it clean off his back. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Morel, "I don't thrash my children, and even if I did, I should want to hear their side of the tale. "

"They'd happen be a bit better if they did get a good hiding, " retortedMrs. Anthony. "When it comes ter rippin' a lad's clean collar off'n 'isback a-purpose--"

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Make me a liar!" shouted Mrs. Anthony. 

Mrs. Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her hand trembled as she heldher mug of barm. 

"But I s'll let your mester know, " Mrs. Anthony cried after her. 

At dinner-time, when William had finished his meal and wanted to be offagain--he was then eleven years old--his mother said to him:

"What did you tear Alfred Anthony's collar for?"

"When did I tear his collar?"

"I don't know when, but his mother says you did. "

"Why--it was yesterday--an' it was torn a'ready. "

"But you tore it more. "

"Well, I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked seventeen--an' Alfy Ant'ny 'esays:

 'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me, Went down to a river to bade. Adam an' Eve got drownded, Who do yer think got saved?'

An' so I says: 'Oh, Pinch-YOU, ' an' so I pinched 'im, an' 'e was mad, an' so he snatched my cobbler an' run off with it. An' so I run after'im, an' when I was gettin' hold of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it ripped 'iscollar. But I got my cobbler--"

He pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hanging on astring. This old cobbler had "cobbled"--hit and smashed--seventeen othercobblers on similar strings. So the boy was proud of his veteran. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Morel, "you know you've got no right to rip hiscollar. "

"Well, our mother!" he answered. "I never meant tr'a done it--an' it wason'y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a'ready. "

"Next time, " said his mother, "YOU be more careful. I shouldn't like itif you came home with your collar torn off. "

"I don't care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose. "

The boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded. 

"No--well, you be more careful. "

William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, who hated anybother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over. 

But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stoodin the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. Then:

"Wheer's that Willy?" he asked. 

"What do you want HIM for?" asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed. 

"I'll let 'im know when I get him, " said Morel, banging his pit-bottleon to the dresser. 

"I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you aboutAlfy's collar, " said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering. 

"Niver mind who's got hold of me, " said Morel. "When I get hold of 'IMI'll make his bones rattle. "

"It's a poor tale, " said Mrs. Morel, "that you're so ready to sidewith any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your ownchildren. "

"I'll learn 'im!" said Morel. "It none matters to me whose lad 'e is;'e's none goin' rippin' an' tearin' about just as he's a mind. "

"'Ripping and tearing about!'" repeated Mrs. Morel. "He was runningafter that Alfy, who'd taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got holdof his collar, because the other dodged--as an Anthony would. "

"I know!" shouted Morel threateningly. 

"You would, before you're told, " replied his wife bitingly. 

"Niver you mind, " stormed Morel. "I know my business. "

"That's more than doubtful, " said Mrs. Morel, "supposing someloud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children. "

"I know, " repeated Morel. 

And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly Williamran in, saying:

"Can I have my tea, mother?"

"Tha can ha'e more than that!" shouted Morel. 

"Hold your noise, man, " said Mrs. Morel; "and don't look so ridiculous. "

"He'll look ridiculous before I've done wi' him!" shouted Morel, risingfrom his chair and glaring at his son. 

William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gonepale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father. 

"Go out!" Mrs. Morel commanded her son. 

William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, andcrouched. 

"I'll GI'E him 'go out'!" he shouted like an insane thing. 

"What!" cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. "You shall not touch himfor HER telling, you shall not!"

"Shonna I?" shouted Morel. "Shonna I?"

And, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in betweenthem, with her fist lifted. 

"Don't you DARE!" she cried. 

"What!" he shouted, baffled for the moment. "What!"

She spun round to her son. 

"GO out of the house!" she commanded him in fury. 

The boy, as if hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morelrushed to the door, but was too late. He returned, pale under hispit-dirt with fury. But now his wife was fully roused. 

"Only dare!" she said in a loud, ringing voice. "Only dare, milord, tolay a finger on that child! You'll regret it for ever. "

He was afraid of her. In a towering rage, he sat down. 

When the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joinedthe Women's Guild. It was a little club of women attached to theCo-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday night in the longroom over the grocery shop of the Bestwood "Co-op". The women weresupposed to discuss the benefits to be derived from co-operation, andother social questions. Sometimes Mrs. Morel read a paper. It seemedqueer to the children to see their mother, who was always busy aboutthe house, sitting writing in her rapid fashion, thinking, referringto books, and writing again. They felt for her on such occasions thedeepest respect. 

But they loved the Guild. It was the only thing to which they did notgrudge their mother--and that partly because she enjoyed it, partlybecause of the treats they derived from it. The Guild was called by somehostile husbands, who found their wives getting too independent, the"clat-fart" shop--that is, the gossip-shop. It is true, from offthe basis of the Guild, the women could look at their homes, at theconditions of their own lives, and find fault. So the colliers foundtheir women had a new standard of their own, rather disconcerting. Andalso, Mrs. Morel always had a lot of news on Monday nights, so that thechildren liked William to be in when their mother came home, because shetold him things. 

Then, when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the "Co-op. "office. He was a very clever boy, frank, with rather rough features andreal viking blue eyes. 

"What dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed Jack on 'im for?" said Morel. "All he'll do is to wear his britches behind out an' earn nowt. What's'e startin' wi'?"

"It doesn't matter what he's starting with, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"It wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we me, an' 'ell earn a easy ten shillin'a wik from th' start. But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end out on astool's better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi'me, I know. "

"He is NOT going in the pit, " said Mrs. Morel, "and there's an end ofit. "

"It wor good enough for me, but it's non good enough for 'im. "

"If your mother put you in the pit at twelve, it's no reason why Ishould do the same with my lad. "

"Twelve! It wor a sight afore that!"

"Whenever it was, " said Mrs. Morel. 

She was very proud of her son. He went to the night school, and learnedshorthand, so that by the time he was sixteen he was the best shorthandclerk and book-keeper on the place, except one. Then he taught in thenight schools. But he was so fiery that only his good-nature and hissize protected him. 

All the things that men do--the decent things--William did. He couldrun like the wind. When he was twelve he won a first prize in a race;an inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on thedresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen pleasure. The boy only ran for her. He flew home with his anvil, breathless, with a "Look, mother!" That wasthe first real tribute to herself. She took it like a queen. 

"How pretty!" she exclaimed. 

Then he began to get ambitious. He gave all his money to his mother. When he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him back two forhimself, and, as he never drank, he felt himself rich. He went aboutwith the bourgeois of Bestwood. The townlet contained nothing higherthan the clergyman. Then came the bank manager, then the doctors, thenthe tradespeople, and after that the hosts of colliers. Willam beganto consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, andthe tradesmen. He played billiards in the Mechanics' Hall. Also hedanced--this in spite of his mother. All the life that Bestwood offeredhe enjoyed, from the sixpenny-hops down Church Street, to sports andbilliards. 

Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-likeladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart for abrief fortnight. 

Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffedthe air. 

"Is Mr. Morel in?" the damsel would ask appealingly. 

"My husband is at home, " Mrs. Morel replied. 

"I--I mean YOUNG Mr. Morel, " repeated the maiden painfully. 

"Which one? There are several. "

Whereupon much blushing and stammering from the fair one. 

"I--I met Mr. Morel--at Ripley, " she explained. 

"Oh--at a dance!"

"Yes. "

"I don't approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is NOT athome. "

Then he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl awayso rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow, who walked withlong strides, sometimes frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily tothe back of his head. Now he came in frowning. He threw his cap on tothe sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand, and glared down athis mother. She was small, with her hair taken straight back from herforehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly. 

"Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?" he asked. 

"I don't know about a lady. There was a girl came. "

"And why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I forgot, simply. "

He fumed a little. 

"A good-looking girl--seemed a lady?"

"I didn't look at her. "

"Big brown eyes?"

"I did NOT look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they're runningafter you, they're not to come and ask your mother for you. Tell themthat--brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes. "

"I'm sure she was a nice girl. "

"And I'm sure she wasn't. "

There ended the altercation. Over the dancing there was a great strifebetween the mother and the son. The grievance reached its height whenWilliam said he was going to Hucknall Torkard--considered a low town--toa fancy-dress ball. He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress hecould hire, which one of his friends had had, and which fitted himperfectly. The Highland suit came home. Mrs. Morel received it coldlyand would not unpack it. 

"My suit come?" cried William. 

"There's a parcel in the front room. "

He rushed in and cut the string. 

"How do you fancy your son in this!" he said, enraptured, showing herthe suit. 

"You know I don't want to fancy you in it. "

On the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morelput on her coat and bonnet. 

"Aren't you going to stop and see me, mother?" he asked. 

"No; I don't want to see you, " she replied. 

She was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid ofher son's going the same way as his father. He hesitated a moment, andhis heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highlandbonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her. Shewent out. 

When he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. Office and got asituation in Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty shillings a weekinstead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His mother and his fatherwere brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he wasgoing to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help heryounger sons. Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also veryclever, was getting on well, having lessons in French and German fromhis godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board school, butthere was talk of his trying to get a scholarship for the High School inNottingham. 

William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was studyinghard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Stillhe went out to the dances and the river parties. He did not drink. Thechildren were all rabid teetotallers. He came home very late at night, and sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him to take more care, to do one thing or another. 

"Dance, if you want to dance, my son; but don't think you can work inthe office, and then amuse yourself, and THEN study on top of all. Youcan't; the human frame won't stand it. Do one thing or the other--amuseyourself or learn Latin; but don't try to do both. "

Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. Thisseemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether to rejoice orto grieve. 

"They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother, " he cried, hiseyes blazing as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silentinside her. He read the letter: "'And will you reply by Thursday whetheryou accept. Yours faithfully--' They want me, mother, at a hundred andtwenty a year, and don't even ask to see me. Didn't I tell you I coulddo it! Think of me in London! And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater. We s'll all be rolling in money. "

"We shall, my son, " she answered sadly. 

It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his goingaway than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for hisdeparture, her heart began to close and grow dreary with despair. Sheloved him so much! More than that, she hoped in him so much. Almost shelived by him. She liked to do things for him: she liked to put a cup forhis tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so proud. It was a joyto her to have him proud of his collars. There was no laundry. So sheused to rub away at them with her little convex iron, to polish them, till they shone from the sheer pressure of her arm. Now she would not doit for him. Now he was going away. She felt almost as if he were goingas well out of her heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited withhimself. That was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly allhimself away. 

A few days before his departure--he was just twenty--he burned hislove-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchencupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. Someof them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most were tootrivial. 

Now, on the Saturday morning he said:

"Come on, Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have thebirds and flowers. "

Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday's work on the Friday, because he washaving a last day's holiday. She was making him a rice cake, whichhe loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was somiserable. 

He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and hadpurple and green thistles. William sniffed the page. 

"Nice scent! Smell. "

And he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose. 

"Um!" said Paul, breathing in. "What d'you call it? Smell, mother. "

His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper. 

"I don't want to smell their rubbish, " she said, sniffing. 

"This girl's father, " said William, "is as rich as Croesus. He ownsproperty without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French. 'You will see, I've forgiven you'--I like HER forgiving me. 'I toldmother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if youcome to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father's consent also. Isincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If, however, you--'"

"'Let you know how it' what?" interrupted Mrs. Morel. 

"'Transpires'--oh yes!"

"'Transpires!'" repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. "I thought she was sowell educated!"

William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, givingPaul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts fromhis letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened herand made her anxious for him. 

"My lad, " she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only got toflatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has itshead scratched. "

"Well, they can't go on scratching for ever, " he replied. "And whenthey've done, I trot away. "

"But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pulloff, " she answered. 

"Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatterthemselves. "

"You flatter YOURSELF, " she said quietly. 

Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of thefile of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty prettytickets from the corners of the notepaper--swallows and forget-me-notsand ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life. 

CHAPTER IV

THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL

PAUL would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small. His fairhair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. He was apale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and with a full, dropping underlip. 

As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious of what otherpeople felt, particularly his mother. When she fretted he understood, and could have no peace. His soul seemed always attentive to her. 

As he grew older he became stronger. William was too far removed fromhim to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boy belonged at firstalmost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a "flybie-skybie", as hermother called her. But she was intensely fond of her second brother. SoPaul was towed round at the heels of Annie, sharing her game. She racedwildly at lerky with the other young wild-cats of the Bottoms. Andalways Paul flew beside her, living her share of the game, having asyet no part of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sisteradored him. He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to. 

She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not so fond. So she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with an antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul must practise jumping offthe sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge. Paulremained quite still. 

"You couldn't tell it was there, mother; you couldn't tell it wasthere, " he repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept for the dollhe sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She forgaveher brother--he was so much upset. But a day or two afterwards she wasshocked. 

"Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella, " he said. "Let's burn her. "

She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to see what the boywould do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some of the shavings out ofArabella's body, put the waxen fragments into the hollow face, pouredon a little paraffin, and set the whole thing alight. He watched withwicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt off the broken forehead ofArabella, and drop like sweat into the flame. So long as the stupid bigdoll burned he rejoiced in silence. At the end be poked among the emberswith a stick, fished out the arms and legs, all blackened, and smashedthem under stones. 

"That's the sacrifice of Missis Arabella, " he said. "An' I'm gladthere's nothing left of her. "

Which disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say nothing. Heseemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken it. 

All the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarly against theirfather, along with their mother. Morel continued to bully and to drink. He had periods, months at a time, when he made the whole life of thefamily a misery. Paul never forgot coming home from the Band of Hopeone Monday evening and finding his mother with her eye swollen anddiscoloured, his father standing on the hearthrug, feet astride, hishead down, and William, just home from work, glaring at his father. There was a silence as the young children entered, but none of theelders looked round. 

William was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched. He waiteduntil the children were silent, watching with children's rage and hate;then he said:

"You coward, you daren't do it when I was in. "

But Morel's blood was up. He swung round on his son. William was bigger, but Morel was hard-muscled, and mad with fury. 

"Dossn't I?" he shouted. "Dossn't I? Ha'e much more o' thy chelp, myyoung jockey, an' I'll rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an' I sholl that, dost see?"

Morel crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly, almostbeast-like fashion. William was white with rage. 

"Will yer?" he said, quiet and intense. "It 'ud be the last time, though. "

Morel danced a little nearer, crouching, drawing back his fist tostrike. William put his fists ready. A light came into his blue eyes, almost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word, and the menwould have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would. The three children satpale on the sofa. 

"Stop it, both of you, " cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice. "We've hadenough for ONE night. And YOU, " she said, turning on to her husband, "look at your children!"

Morel glanced at the sofa. 

"Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!" he sneered. "Why, whathave I done to the children, I should like to know? But they're likeyourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks and nasty ways--you'velearned 'em in it, you 'ave. "

She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while he threw hisboots under the table and went to bed. 

"Why didn't you let me have a go at him?" said William, when his fatherwas upstairs. "I could easily have beaten him. "

"A nice thing--your own father, " she replied. 

"'FATHER!'" repeated William. "Call HIM MY father!"

"Well, he is--and so--"

"But why don't you let me settle him? I could do, easily. "

"The idea!" she cried. "It hasn't come to THAT yet. "

"No, " he said, "it's come to worse. Look at yourself. WHY didn't you letme give it him?"

"Because I couldn't bear it, so never think of it, " she cried quickly. 

And the children went to bed, miserably. 

When William was growing up, the family moved from the Bottoms to ahouse on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the valley, whichspread out like a convex cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, before it. Infront of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind, sweeping fromDerbyshire, caught the houses with full force, and the tree shriekedagain. Morel liked it. 

"It's music, " he said. "It sends me to sleep. "

But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it became almost ademoniacal noise. The winter of their first year in the new house theirfather was very bad. The children played in the street, on the brim ofthe wide, dark valley, until eight o'clock. Then they went to bed. Theirmother sat sewing below. Having such a great space in front of the housegave the children a feeling of night, of vastness, and of terror. Thisterror came in from the shrieking of the tree and the anguish of thehome discord. Often Paul would wake up, after he had been asleep a longtime, aware of thuds downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then heheard the booming shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk, then thesharp replies of his mother, then the bang, bang of his father's fist onthe table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher. And then the whole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieks andcries from the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The children lay silent insuspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hear what their father wasdoing. He might hit their mother again. There was a feeling of horror, a kind of bristling in the darkness, and a sense of blood. They lay withtheir hearts in the grip of an intense anguish. The wind came throughthe tree fiercer and fiercer. All the chords of the great harp hummed, whistled, and shrieked. And then came the horror of the sudden silence, silence everywhere, outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it asilence of blood? What had he done?

The children lay and breathed the darkness. And then, at last, theyheard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairs in hisstockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last, if the wind allowed, they heard the water of the tap drumming into the kettle, which theirmother was filling for morning, and they could go to sleep in peace. 

So they were happy in the morning--happy, very happy playing, dancing atnight round the lonely lamp-post in the midst of the darkness. But theyhad one tight place of anxiety in their hearts, one darkness in theireyes, which showed all their lives. 

Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion. 

"Make him stop drinking, " he prayed every night. "Lord, let my fatherdie, " he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit, " he prayedwhen, after tea, the father did not come home from work. 

That was another time when the family suffered intensely. The childrencame from school and had their teas. On the hob the big black saucepanwas simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven, ready for Morel's dinner. He was expected at five o'clock. But for months he would stop and drinkevery night on his way from work. 

In the winter nights, when it was cold, and grew dark early, Mrs. Morelwould put a brass candlestick on the table, light a tallow candle tosave the gas. The children finished their bread-and-butter, or dripping, and were ready to go out to play. But if Morel had not come theyfaltered. The sense of his sitting in all his pit-dirt, drinking, aftera long day's work, not coming home and eating and washing, but sitting, getting drunk, on an empty stomach, made Mrs. Morel unable to bearherself. From her the feeling was transmitted to the other children. Shenever suffered alone any more: the children suffered with her. 

Paul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great trough oftwilight, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were. A few lastcolliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamplighter came along. Nomore colliers came. Darkness shut down over the valley; work was done. It was night. 

Then Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle still burned onthe table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone. On the hobthe saucepan steamed; the dinner-plate lay waiting on the table. Allthe room was full of the sense of waiting, waiting for the man who wassitting in his pit-dirt, dinnerless, some mile away from home, acrossthe darkness, drinking himself drunk. Paul stood in the doorway. 

"Has my dad come?" he asked. 

"You can see he hasn't, " said Mrs. Morel, cross with the futility of thequestion. 

Then the boy dawdled about near his mother. They shared the sameanxiety. Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strained the potatoes. 

"They're ruined and black, " she said; "but what do I care?"

Not many words were spoken. Paul almost hated his mother for sufferingbecause his father did not come home from work. 

"What do you bother yourself for?" he said. "If he wants to stop and getdrunk, why don't you let him?"

"Let him!" flashed Mrs. Morel. "You may well say 'let him'. "

She knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is on a quickway to ruining himself and his home. The children were yet young, anddepended on the breadwinner. William gave her the sense of relief, providing her at last with someone to turn to if Morel failed. But thetense atmosphere of the room on these waiting evenings was the same. 

The minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still the cloth lay on thetable, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same sense of anxietyand expectation in the room. The boy could not stand it any longer. Hecould not go out and play. So he ran in to Mrs. Inger, next door butone, for her to talk to him. She had no children. Her husband was goodto her but was in a shop, and came home late. So, when she saw the ladat the door, she called:

"Come in, Paul. "

The two sat talking for some time, when suddenly the boy rose, saying:

"Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing. "

He pretended to be perfectly cheerful, and did not tell his friend whatailed him. Then he ran indoors. 

Morel at these times came in churlish and hateful. 

"This is a nice time to come home, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Wha's it matter to yo' what time I come whoam?" he shouted. 

And everybody in the house was still, because he was dangerous. He atehis food in the most brutal manner possible, and, when he had done, pushed all the pots in a heap away from him, to lay his arms on thetable. Then he went to sleep. 

Paul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head, with its blackhair slightly soiled with grey, lay on the bare arms, and the face, dirty and inflamed, with a fleshy nose and thin, paltry brows, wasturned sideways, asleep with beer and weariness and nasty temper. Ifanyone entered suddenly, or a noise were made, the man looked up andshouted:

"I'll lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin' thee, if tha doesna stopthat clatter! Dost hear?"

And the two last words, shouted in a bullying fashion, usually at Annie, made the family writhe with hate of the man. 

He was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him anything. The children, alone with their mother, told her all about the day'shappenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in them until itwas told to their mother. But as soon as the father came in, everythingstopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth, happy machinery of thehome. And he was always aware of this fall of silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far toalter. 

He would dearly have liked the children to talk to him, but they couldnot. Sometimes Mrs. Morel would say:

"You ought to tell your father. "

Paul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper. Everybody washighly jubilant. 

"Now you'd better tell your father when he comes in, " said Mrs. Morel. "You know how be carries on and says he's never told anything. "

"All right, " said Paul. But he would almost rather have forfeited theprize than have to tell his father. 

"I've won a prize in a competition, dad, " he said. Morel turned round tohim. 

"Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?"

"Oh, nothing--about famous women. "

"And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?"

"It's a book. "

"Oh, indeed!"

"About birds. "

"Hm--hm!"

And that was all. Conversation was impossible between the father and anyother member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God inhim. 

The only times when he entered again into the life of his own peoplewas when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening, hecobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Then he alwayswanted several attendants, and the children enjoyed it. They united withhim in the work, in the actual doing of something, when he was his realself again. 

He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in a goodhumour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years, offriction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again. It wasnice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron into the scullery, crying:

"Out of my road--out of my road!"

Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose, and madethe shape he wanted. Or he sat absorbed for a moment, soldering. Thenthe children watched with joy as the metal sank suddenly molten, and wasshoved about against the nose of the soldering-iron, while the room wasfull of a scent of burnt resin and hot tin, and Morel was silent andintent for a minute. He always sang when he mended boots because of thejolly sound of hammering. And he was rather happy when he sat puttinggreat patches on his moleskin pit trousers, which he would often do, considering them too dirty, and the stuff too hard, for his wife tomend. 

But the best time for the young children was when he made fuses. Morelfetched a sheaf of long sound wheat-straws from the attic. These hecleaned with his hand, till each one gleamed like a stalk of gold, afterwhich he cut the straws into lengths of about six inches, leaving, if hecould, a notch at the bottom of each piece. He always had a beautifullysharp knife that could cut a straw clean without hurting it. Then he setin the middle of the table a heap of gunpowder, a little pile of blackgrains upon the white-scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the strawswhile Paul and Annie rifled and plugged them. Paul loved to see theblack grains trickle down a crack in his palm into the mouth of thestraw, peppering jollily downwards till the straw was full. Then hebunged up the mouth with a bit of soap--which he got on his thumb-nailfrom a pat in a saucer--and the straw was finished. 

"Look, dad!" he said. 

"That's right, my beauty, " replied Morel, who was peculiarly lavish ofendearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse into the powder-tin, ready for the morning, when Morel would take it to the pit, and use itto fire a shot that would blast the coal down. 

Meantime Arthur, still fond of his father, would lean on the arm ofMorel's chair and say:

"Tell us about down pit, daddy. "

This Morel loved to do. 

"Well, there's one little 'oss--we call 'im Taffy, " he would begin. "An'he's a fawce 'un!"

Morel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel Taffy'scunning. 

"He's a brown 'un, " he would answer, "an' not very high. Well, he comesi' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze. 

"'Ello, Taff, ' you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein' some snuff?'

"An' 'e sneezes again. Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'ead on yer, that cadin'. 

"'What's want, Taff?' yo' say. "

"And what does he?" Arthur always asked. 

"He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie. "

This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody loved it. 

Or sometimes it was a new tale. 

"An' what dost think, my darlin'? When I went to put my coat on atsnap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse. 

"'Hey up, theer!' I shouts. 

"An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail. "

"And did you kill it?"

"I did, for they're a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi' 'em. "

"An' what do they live on?"

"The corn as the 'osses drops--an' they'll get in your pocket an' eatyour snap, if you'll let 'em--no matter where yo' hing your coat--theslivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are. "

These happy evenings could not take place unless Morel had some jobto do. And then he always went to bed very early, often before thechildren. There was nothing remaining for him to stay up for, when hehad finished tinkering, and had skimmed the headlines of the newspaper. 

And the children felt secure when their father was in bed. They lay andtalked softly a while. Then they started as the lights went suddenlysprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swung in the hands of thecolliers tramping by outside, going to take the nine o'clock shift. Theylistened to the voices of the men, imagined them dipping down into thedark valley. Sometimes they went to the window and watched the threeor four lamps growing tinier and tinier, swaying down the fields in thedarkness. Then it was a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely inthe warmth. 

Paul was rather a delicate boy, subject to bronchitis. The others wereall quite strong; so this was another reason for his mother's differencein feeling for him. One day he came home at dinner-time feeling ill. Butit was not a family to make any fuss. 

"What's the matter with YOU?" his mother asked sharply. 

"Nothing, " he replied. 

But he ate no dinner. 

"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school, " she said. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"That's why. "

So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cushions thechildren loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That afternoon Mrs. Morel was ironing. She listened to the small, restless noise the boymade in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her heart the old, almost weary feeling towards him. She had never expected him to live. And yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would havebeen a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture ofanguish in her love for him. 

He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter of theiron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing-board. Once roused, he opened his eyes to see his mother standing on thehearthrug with the hot iron near her cheek, listening, as it were, tothe heat. Her still face, with the mouth closed tight from suffering anddisillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, and her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contractwith love. When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life, but as if she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly, this feeling about her that she had never had her life's fulfilment:and his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense ofimpotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childishaim. 

She spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded, raced off thedark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the sacklining of the hearthrug vigorously. She was warm in the ruddy firelight. Paul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one side. Hermovements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure to watch her. Nothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, could have been foundfault with by her children. The room was warm and full of the scent ofhot linen. Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her. 

Paul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did not mind much. What happened happened, and it was no good kicking against the pricks. He loved the evenings, after eight o'clock, when the light was put out, and he could watch the fire-flames spring over the darkness of the wallsand ceiling; could watch huge shadows waving and tossing, till the roomseemed full of men who battled silently. 

On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom. He wasalways very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed the atmospherefor the boy. 

"Are ter asleep, my darlin'?" Morel asked softly. 

"No; is my mother comin'?"

"She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do you want anything?" Morelrarely "thee'd" his son. 

"I don't want nothing. But how long will she be?"

"Not long, my duckie. "

The father waited undecidedly on the hearthrug for a moment or two. Hefelt his son did not want him. Then he went to the top of the stairs andsaid to his wife:

"This childt's axin' for thee; how long art goin' to be?"

"Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep. "

"She says you're to go to sleep, " the father repeated gently to Paul. 

"Well, I want HER to come, " insisted the boy. 

"He says he can't go off till you come, " Morel called downstairs. 

"Eh, dear! I shan't be long. And do stop shouting downstairs. There'sthe other children--"

Then Morel came again and crouched before the bedroom fire. He loved afire dearly. 

"She says she won't be long, " he said. 

He loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverish withirritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate all his sickimpatience. At last Morel, after having stood looking at his son awhile, said softly:

"Good-night, my darling. "

"Good-night, " Paul replied, turning round in relief to be alone. 

Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect, inspite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, thesecurity and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of theother, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely inits healing. Paul lay against her and slept, and got better; whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep that seemed togive her faith. 

In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy horses feedingat the troughs in the field, scattering their hay on the trodden yellowsnow; watch the miners troop home--small, black figures trailing slowlyin gangs across the white field. Then the night came up in dark bluevapour from the snow. 

In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes, suddenlyarriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like swallows, then were gone, and a drop of water was crawling down the glass. Thesnowflakes whirled round the corner of the house, like pigeons dashingby. Away across the valley the little black train crawled doubtfullyover the great whiteness. 

While they were so poor, the children were delighted if they could doanything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Arthur went out earlyin the morning, in summer, looking for mushrooms, hunting through thewet grass, from which the larks were rising, for the white-skinned, wonderful naked bodies crouched secretly in the green. And if they gothalf a pound they felt exceedingly happy: there was the joy of findingsomething, the joy of accepting something straight from the hand ofNature, and the joy of contributing to the family exchequer. 

But the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty, was theblackberries. Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings on the Saturdays;also she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur scoured the coppices andwoods and old quarries, so long as a blackberry was to be found, everyweek-end going on their search. In that region of mining villagesblackberries became a comparative rarity. But Paul hunted far and wide. He loved being out in the country, among the bushes. But he also couldnot bear to go home to his mother empty. That, he felt, would disappointher, and he would have died rather. 

"Good gracious!" she would exclaim as the lads came in, late, and tiredto death, and hungry, "wherever have you been?"

"Well, " replied Paul, "there wasn't any, so we went over Misk Hills. Andlook here, our mother!"

She peeped into the basket. 

"Now, those are fine ones!" she exclaimed. 

"And there's over two pounds--isn't there over two pounds"?

She tried the basket. 

"Yes, " she answered doubtfully. 

Then Paul fished out a little spray. He always brought her one spray, the best he could find. 

"Pretty!" she said, in a curious tone, of a woman accepting alove-token. 

The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than own himselfbeaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never realised this, whilst he was young. She was a woman who waited for her children to growup. And William occupied her chiefly. 

But when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much at home, themother made a companion of Paul. The latter was unconsciously jealous ofhis brother, and William was jealous of him. At the same time, they weregood friends. 

Mrs. Morel's intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fine, perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule that Paulshould fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers of the fivepits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. All the earnings ofeach stall were put down to the chief butty, as contractor, and hedivided the wages again, either in the public-house or in his own home. So that the children could fetch the money, school closed early onFriday afternoons. Each of the Morel children--William, then Annie, then Paul--had fetched the money on Friday afternoons, until they wentthemselves to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three, with alittle calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, children, and men were seen trooping to the offices. 

These offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building, almostlike a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of GreenhillLane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room paved with bluebrick, and having a seat all round, against the wall. Here sat thecolliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The women andchildren usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. Paul alwaysexamined the grass border, and the big grass bank, because in it grewtiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a sound of many voices. The women had on their Sunday hats. The girls chattered loudly. Littledogs ran here and there. The green shrubs were silent all around. 

Then from inside came the cry "Spinney Park--Spinney Park. " All the folkfor Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time for Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A counterwent across, dividing it into half. Behind the counter stood twomen--Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaitewas large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having arather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silkneckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in theopen grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched thethroats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottomwas rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were notwitty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions againstthe colliers. 

The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had beenhome and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog. Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind thelegs of the men, near the fire which scorched him. He knew the order ofthe names--they went according to stall number. 

"Holliday, " came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite. Then Mrs. Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside. 

"Bower--John Bower. "

A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible, glowered at him over his spectacles. 

"John Bower!" he repeated. 

"It's me, " said the boy. 

"Why, you used to 'ave a different nose than that, " said glossy Mr. Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, thinking ofJohn Bower senior. 

"How is it your father's not come!" said Mr. Braithwaite, in a large andmagisterial voice. 

"He's badly, " piped the boy. 

"You should tell him to keep off the drink, " pronounced the greatcashier. 

"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer, " said a mocking voicefrom behind. 

All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked down at hisnext sheet. 

"Fred Pilkington!" he called, quite indifferent. 

Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm. 

Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. He waspushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning. But he didnot hope to get through the wall of men. 

"Walter Morel!" came the ringing voice. 

"Here!" piped Paul, small and inadequate. 

"Morel--Walter Morel!" the cashier repeated, his finger and thumb on theinvoice, ready to pass on. 

Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could notor would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. Then Mr. Winterbottom came to the rescue. 

"He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?"

The fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He pointed atthe fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside, and disclosed theboy. 

"Here he is!" said Mr. Winterbottom. 

Paul went to the counter. 

"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don't you shout up whenyou're called?" said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the invoice afive-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate and pretty movement, pickedup a little ten-pound column of gold, and plumped it beside the silver. The gold slid in a bright stream over the paper. The cashier finishedcounting off the money; the boy dragged the whole down the counter toMr. Winterbottom, to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. Here he suffered again. 

"Sixteen an' six, " said Mr. Winterbottom. 

The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some loose silverand half a sovereign. 

"How much do you think you've given me?" asked Mr. Winterbottom. 

The boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the faintest notion. 

"Haven't you got a tongue in your head?"

Paul bit his lip, and pushed forward some more silver. 

"Don't they teach you to count at the Board-school?" he asked. 

"Nowt but algibbra an' French, " said a collier. 

"An' cheek an' impidence, " said another. 

Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he got hismoney into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of the damnedon these occasions. 

His relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the MansfieldRoad, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. There weresome gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple trees of anorchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream. The boy went nearthe wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men, but could notrecognise them in their dirt. And this was a new torture to him. 

When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not yet come. Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morel's mother, had been Mrs. Wharmby's friend. 

"Your father's not come yet, " said the landlady, in the peculiarhalf-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly togrown men. "Sit you down. "

Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were"reckoning"--sharing out their money--in a corner; others came in. Theyall glanced at the boy without speaking. At last Morel came; brisk, andwith something of an air, even in his blackness. 

"Hello!" he said rather tenderly to his son. "Have you bested me? Shallyou have a drink of something?"

Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists, and hewould have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all the men thanin having a tooth drawn. 

The landlady looked at him _de haut en bas_, rather pitying, and atthe same time, resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul went home, glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking day, andthere was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him. 

Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing:

"I'm NOT going to the office any more, " he said. 

"Why, what's the matter?" his mother asked in surprise. His sudden ragesrather amused her. 

"I'm NOT going any more, " he declared. 

"Oh, very well, tell your father so. "

He chewed his bun as if he hated it. 

"I'm not--I'm not going to fetch the money. "

"Then one of Carlin's children can go; they'd be glad enough of thesixpence, " said Mrs. Morel. 

This sixpence was Paul's only income. It mostly went in buying birthdaypresents; but it WAS an income, and he treasured it. But--

"They can have it, then!" he said. "I don't want it. "

"Oh, very well, " said his mother. "But you needn't bully ME about it. "

"They're hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I'm not goingany more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his 'h's', an' Mr. Winterbottom says'You was'. "

"And is that why you won't go any more?" smiled Mrs. Morel. 

The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes dark andfurious. His mother moved about at her work, taking no notice of him. 

"They always stan' in front of me, so's I can't get out, " he said. 

"Well, my lad, you've only to ASK them, " she replied. 

"An' then Alfred Winterbottom says, 'What do they teach you at theBoard-school?'"

"They never taught HIM much, " said Mrs. Morel, "that is a fact--neithermanners nor wit--and his cunning he was born with. "

So, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hypersensitivenessmade her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her, madeher sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised. 

"What was the cheque?" she asked. 

"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and six stoppages, "replied the boy. "It's a good week; and only five shillings stoppagesfor my father. "

So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, and couldcall him to account if he gave her short money. Morel always kept tohimself the secret of the week's amount. 

Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule that Paulshould stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and draw or read; hewas very fond of drawing. Annie always "gallivanted" on Friday nights;Arthur was enjoying himself as usual. So the boy remained alone. 

Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on the topof the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby, Ilkestonand Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran in fromsurrounding villages. The market-place was full of women, the streetspacked with men. It was amazing to see so many men everywhere in thestreets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with her lace woman, sympathisedwith her fruit man--who was a gabey, but his wife was a bad 'un--laughedwith the fish man--who was a scamp but so droll--put the linoleum manin his place, was cold with the odd-wares man, and only went to thecrockery man when she was driven--or drawn by the cornflowers on alittle dish; then she was coldly polite. 

"I wondered how much that little dish was, " she said. 

"Sevenpence to you. "

"Thank you. "

She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave themarket-place without it. Again she went by where the pots lay coldly onthe floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretending not to. 

She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her bonnet wasin its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie. 

"Mother!" the girl implored, "don't wear that nubbly little bonnet. "

"Then what else shall I wear, " replied the mother tartly. "And I'm sureit's right enough. "

It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was reduced toblack lace and a bit of jet. 

"It looks rather come down, " said Paul. "Couldn't you give it apick-me-up?"

"I'll jowl your head for impudence, " said Mrs. Morel, and she tied thestrings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin. 

She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, the pot man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something between them. Suddenly he shouted:

"Do you want it for fivepence?"

She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took up herdish. 

"I'll have it, " she said. 

"Yer'll do me the favour, like?" he said. "Yer'd better spit in it, likeyer do when y'ave something give yer. "

Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner. 

"I don't see you give it me, " she said. "You wouldn't let me have it forfivepence if you didn't want to. "

"In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky if youcan give your things away, " he growled. 

"Yes; there are bad times, and good, " said Mrs. Morel. 

But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare now fingerhis pots. So she was happy. 

Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She was always herbest so--triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick, light step in the entry and looked up from hisdrawing. 

"Oh!" she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway. 

"My word, you ARE loaded!" he exclaimed, putting down his brush. 

"I am!" she gasped. "That brazen Annie said she'd meet me. SUCH aweight!"

She dropped her string bag and her packages on the table. 

"Is the bread done?" she asked, going to the oven. 

"The last one is soaking, " he replied. "You needn't look, I've notforgotten it. "

"Oh, that pot man!" she said, closing the oven door. "You know what awretch I've said he was? Well, I don't think he's quite so bad. "

"Don't you?"

The boy was attentive to her. She took off her little black bonnet. 

"No. I think he can't make any money--well, it's everybody's cry alikenowadays--and it makes him disagreeable. "

"It would ME, " said Paul. 

"Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have--how much do you thinkhe let me have THIS for?"

She took the dish out of its rag of newspaper, and stood looking on itwith joy. 

"Show me!" said Paul. 

The two stood together gloating over the dish. 

"I LOVE cornflowers on things, " said Paul. 

"Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me--"

"One and three, " said Paul. 

"Fivepence!"

"It's not enough, mother. "

"No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd beenextravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't have let me haveit if he hadn't wanted to. "

"No, he needn't, need he, " said Paul, and the two comforted each otherfrom the fear of having robbed the pot man. 

"We c'n have stewed fruit in it, " said Paul. 

"Or custard, or a jelly, " said his mother. 

"Or radishes and lettuce, " said he. 

"Don't forget that bread, " she said, her voice bright with glee. 

Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base. 

"It's done, " he said, giving it to her. 

She tapped it also. 

"Yes, " she replied, going to unpack her bag. "Oh, and I'm a wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s'll come to want. "

He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance. Sheunfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots of pansiesand of crimson daisies. 

"Four penn'orth!" she moaned. 

"How CHEAP!" he cried. 

"Yes, but I couldn't afford it THIS week of all weeks. "

"But lovely!" he cried. 

"Aren't they!" she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. "Paul, look atthis yellow one, isn't it--and a face just like an old man!"

"Just!" cried Paul, stooping to sniff. "And smells that nice! But he's abit splashed. "

He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully washedthe pansy. 

"NOW look at him now he's wet!" he said. 

"Yes!" she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction. 

The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end wherethe Morels lived there were not many young things. So the few were moreunited. Boys and girls played together, the girls joining in the fightsand the rough games, the boys taking part in the dancing games and ringsand make-belief of the girls. 

Annie and Paul and Arthur loved the winter evenings, when it was notwet. They stayed indoors till the colliers were all gone home, till itwas thick dark, and the street would be deserted. Then they tied theirscarves round their necks, for they scorned overcoats, as all thecolliers' children did, and went out. The entry was very dark, and atthe end the whole great night opened out, in a hollow, with a littletangle of lights below where Minton pit lay, and another far awayopposite for Selby. The farthest tiny lights seemed to stretch out thedarkness for ever. The children looked anxiously down the road at theone lamp-post, which stood at the end of the field path. If the little, luminous space were deserted, the two boys felt genuine desolation. Theystood with their hands in their pockets under the lamp, turning theirbacks on the night, quite miserable, watching the dark houses. Suddenlya pinafore under a short coat was seen, and a long-legged girl cameflying up. 

"Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an' Eddie Dakin?"

"I don't know. "

But it did not matter so much--there were three now. They set up a gameround the lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling. Then the playwent fast and furious. 

There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop ofdarkness, as if all the night were there. In front, another wide, darkway opened over the hill brow. Occasionally somebody came out of thisway and went into the field down the path. In a dozen yards the nighthad swallowed them. The children played on. 

They were brought exceedingly close together owing to their isolation. If a quarrel took place, the whole play was spoilt. Arthur was verytouchy, and Billy Pillins--really Philips--was worse. Then Paul had toside with Arthur, and on Paul's side went Alice, while Billy Pillinsalways had Emmie Limb and Eddie Dakin to back him up. Then the six wouldfight, hate with a fury of hatred, and flee home in terror. Paul neverforgot, after one of these fierce internecine fights, seeing a big redmoon lift itself up, slowly, between the waste road over the hilltop, steadily, like a great bird. And he thought of the Bible, that the moonshould be turned to blood. And the next day he made haste to be friendswith Billy Pillins. And then the wild, intense games went on again underthe lamp-post, surrounded by so much darkness. Mrs. Morel, going intoher parlour, would hear the children singing away:

 "My shoes are made of Spanish leather, My socks are made of silk; I wear a ring on every finger, I wash myself in milk. "

They sounded so perfectly absorbed in the game as their voices cameout of the night, that they had the feel of wild creatures singing. It stirred the mother; and she understood when they came in at eighto'clock, ruddy, with brilliant eyes, and quick, passionate speech. 

They all loved the Scargill Street house for its openness, for the greatscallop of the world it had in view. On summer evenings the women wouldstand against the field fence, gossiping, facing the west, watching thesunsets flare quickly out, till the Derbyshire hills ridged across thecrimson far away, like the black crest of a newt. 

In this summer season the pits never turned full time, particularly thesoft coal. Mrs. Dakin, who lived next door to Mrs. Morel, going to thefield fence to shake her hearthrug, would spy men coming slowly up thehill. She saw at once they were colliers. Then she waited, a tall, thin, shrew-faced woman, standing on the hill brow, almost like a menace tothe poor colliers who were toiling up. It was only eleven o'clock. Fromthe far-off wooded hills the haze that hangs like fine black crape atthe back of a summer morning had not yet dissipated. The first man cameto the stile. "Chock-chock!" went the gate under his thrust. 

"What, han' yer knocked off?" cried Mrs. Dakin. 

"We han, missis. "

"It's a pity as they letn yer goo, " she said sarcastically. 

"It is that, " replied the man. 

"Nay, you know you're flig to come up again, " she said. 

And the man went on. Mrs. Dakin, going up her yard, spied Mrs. Moreltaking the ashes to the ash-pit. 

"I reckon Minton's knocked off, missis, " she cried. 

"Isn't it sickenin!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel in wrath. 

"Ha! But I'n just seed Jont Hutchby. "

"They might as well have saved their shoe-leather, " said Mrs. Morel. Andboth women went indoors disgusted. 

The colliers, their faces scarcely blackened, were trooping home again. Morel hated to go back. He loved the sunny morning. But he had gone topit to work, and to be sent home again spoilt his temper. 

"Good gracious, at this time!" exclaimed his wife, as he entered. 

"Can I help it, woman?" he shouted. 

"And I've not done half enough dinner. "

"Then I'll eat my bit o' snap as I took with me, " he bawledpathetically. He felt ignominious and sore. 

And the children, coming home from school, would wonder to see theirfather eating with his dinner the two thick slices of rather dry anddirty bread-and-butter that had been to pit and back. 

"What's my dad eating his snap for now?" asked Arthur. 

"I should ha'e it holled at me if I didna, " snorted Morel. 

"What a story!" exclaimed his wife. 

"An' is it goin' to be wasted?" said Morel. "I'm not such a extravagantmortal as you lot, with your waste. If I drop a bit of bread at pit, inall the dust an' dirt, I pick it up an' eat it. "

"The mice would eat it, " said Paul. "It wouldn't be wasted. "

"Good bread-an'-butter's not for mice, either, " said Morel. "Dirty ornot dirty, I'd eat it rather than it should be wasted. "

"You might leave it for the mice and pay for it out of your next pint, "said Mrs. Morel. 

"Oh, might I?" he exclaimed. 

They were very poor that autumn. William had just gone away to London, and his mother missed his money. He sent ten shillings once or twice, but he had many things to pay for at first. His letters came regularlyonce a week. He wrote a good deal to his mother, telling her all hislife, how he made friends, and was exchanging lessons with a Frenchman, how he enjoyed London. His mother felt again he was remaining to herjust as when he was at home. She wrote to him every week her direct, rather witty letters. All day long, as she cleaned the house, shethought of him. He was in London: he would do well. Almost, he was likeher knight who wore HER favour in the battle. 

He was coming at Christmas for five days. There had never been suchpreparations. Paul and Arthur scoured the land for holly and evergreens. Annie made the pretty paper hoops in the old-fashioned way. And therewas unheard-of extravagance in the larder. Mrs. Morel made a big andmagnificent cake. Then, feeling queenly, she showed Paul how to blanchalmonds. He skinned the long nuts reverently, counting them all, to seenot one was lost. It was said that eggs whisked better in a cold place. So the boy stood in the scullery, where the temperature was nearly atfreezing-point, and whisked and whisked, and flew in excitement to hismother as the white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy. 

"Just look, mother! Isn't it lovely?"

And he balanced a bit on his nose, then blew it in the air. 

"Now, don't waste it, " said the mother. 

Everybody was mad with excitement. William was coming on Christmas Eve. Mrs. Morel surveyed her pantry. There was a big plum cake, and a ricecake, jam tarts, lemon tarts, and mince-pies--two enormous dishes. Shewas finishing cooking--Spanish tarts and cheese-cakes. Everywhere wasdecorated. The kissing bunch of berried holly hung with bright andglittering things, spun slowly over Mrs. Morel's head as she trimmed herlittle tarts in the kitchen. A great fire roared. There was a scent ofcooked pastry. He was due at seven o'clock, but he would be late. Thethree children had gone to meet him. She was alone. But at a quarter toseven Morel came in again. Neither wife nor husband spoke. He sat in hisarmchair, quite awkward with excitement, and she quietly went on withher baking. Only by the careful way in which she did things could it betold how much moved she was. The clock ticked on. 

"What time dost say he's coming?" Morel asked for the fifth time. 

"The train gets in at half-past six, " she replied emphatically. 

"Then he'll be here at ten past seven. "

"Eh, bless you, it'll be hours late on the Midland, " she saidindifferently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring him early. Morel went down the entry to look for him. Then he came back. 

"Goodness, man!" she said. "You're like an ill-sitting hen. "

"Hadna you better be gettin' him summat t' eat ready?" asked the father. 

"There's plenty of time, " she answered. 

"There's not so much as I can see on, " he answered, turning crossly inhis chair. She began to clear her table. The kettle was singing. Theywaited and waited. 

Meantime the three children were on the platform at Sethley Bridge, on the Midland main line, two miles from home. They waited one hour. A train came--he was not there. Down the line the red and green lightsshone. It was very dark and very cold. 

"Ask him if the London train's come, " said Paul to Annie, when they sawa man in a tip cap. 

"I'm not, " said Annie. "You be quiet--he might send us off. "

But Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting someone bythe London train: it sounded so grand. Yet he was much too much scaredof broaching any man, let alone one in a peaked cap, to dare to ask. Thethree children could scarcely go into the waiting-room for fear of beingsent away, and for fear something should happen whilst they were off theplatform. Still they waited in the dark and cold. 

"It's an hour an' a half late, " said Arthur pathetically. 

"Well, " said Annie, "it's Christmas Eve. "

They all grew silent. He wasn't coming. They looked down the darknessof the railway. There was London! It seemed the utter-most of distance. They thought anything might happen if one came from London. They wereall too troubled to talk. Cold, and unhappy, and silent, they huddledtogether on the platform. 

At last, after more than two hours, they saw the lights of an enginepeering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran out. The childrendrew back with beating hearts. A great train, bound for Manchester, drewup. Two doors opened, and from one of them, William. They flew to him. He handed parcels to them cheerily, and immediately began to explainthat this great train had stopped for HIS sake at such a small stationas Sethley Bridge: it was not booked to stop. 

Meanwhile the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, the chopwas cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel put on her black apron. She was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to read. Theminutes were a torture to her. 

"H'm!" said Morel. "It's an hour an' a ha'ef. "

"And those children waiting!" she said. 

"Th' train canna ha' come in yet, " he said. 

"I tell you, on Christmas Eve they're HOURS wrong. "

They were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with anxiety. Theash tree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And all that space of nightfrom London home! Mrs. Morel suffered. The slight click of the worksinside the clock irritated her. It was getting so late; it was gettingunbearable. 

At last there was a sound of voices, and a footstep in the entry. 

"Ha's here!" cried Morel, jumping up. 

Then he stood back. The mother ran a few steps towards the door andwaited. There was a rush and a patter of feet, the door burst open. William was there. He dropped his Gladstone bag and took his mother inhis arms. 

"Mater!" he said. 

"My boy!" she cried. 

And for two seconds, no longer, she clasped him and kissed him. Then shewithdrew and said, trying to be quite normal:

"But how late you are!"

"Aren't I!" he cried, turning to his father. "Well, dad!"

The two men shook hands. 

"Well, my lad!"

Morel's eyes were wet. 

"We thought tha'd niver be commin', " he said. 

"Oh, I'd come!" exclaimed William. 

Then the son turned round to his mother. 

"But you look well, " she said proudly, laughing. 

"Well!" he exclaimed. "I should think so--coming home!"

He was a fine fellow, big, straight, and fearless-looking. He lookedround at the evergreens and the kissing bunch, and the little tarts thatlay in their tins on the hearth. 

"By jove! mother, it's not different!" he said, as if in relief. 

Everybody was still for a second. Then he suddenly sprang forward, picked a tart from the hearth, and pushed it whole into his mouth. 

"Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!" the father exclaimed. 

He had brought them endless presents. Every penny he had he had spenton them. There was a sense of luxury overflowing in the house. For hismother there was an umbrella with gold on the pale handle. She keptit to her dying day, and would have lost anything rather than that. Everybody had something gorgeous, and besides, there were pounds ofunknown sweets: Turkish delight, crystallised pineapple, and such-likethings which, the children thought, only the splendour of London couldprovide. And Paul boasted of these sweets among his friends. 

"Real pineapple, cut off in slices, and then turned into crystal--fairgrand!"

Everybody was mad with happiness in the family. Home was home, and theyloved it with a passion of love, whatever the suffering had been. Therewere parties, there were rejoicings. People came in to see William, tosee what difference London had made to him. And they all found him "sucha gentleman, and SUCH a fine fellow, my word"!

When he went away again the children retired to various places to weepalone. Morel went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Morel felt as if she werenumbed by some drug, as if her feelings were paralysed. She loved himpassionately. 

He was in the office of a lawyer connected with a large shipping firm, and at the midsummer his chief offered him a trip in the Mediterraneanon one of the boats, for quite a small cost. Mrs. Morel wrote: "Go, go, my boy. You may never have a chance again, and I should love to think ofyou cruising there in the Mediterranean almost better than to have youat home. " But William came home for his fortnight's holiday. Not eventhe Mediterranean, which pulled at all his young man's desire to travel, and at his poor man's wonder at the glamorous south, could take him awaywhen he might come home. That compensated his mother for much. 

CHAPTER V

PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE

MOREL was rather a heedless man, careless of danger. So he had endlessaccidents. Now, when Mrs. Morel heard the rattle of an empty coal-cartcease at her entry-end, she ran into the parlour to look, expectingalmost to see her husband seated in the waggon, his face grey under hisdirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or other. If it were he, shewould run out to help. 

About a year after William went to London, and just after Paul had leftschool, before he got work, Mrs. Morel was upstairs and her son waspainting in the kitchen--he was very clever with his brush--when therecame a knock at the door. Crossly he put down his brush to go. At thesame moment his mother opened a window upstairs and looked down. 

A pit-lad in his dirt stood on the threshold. 

"Is this Walter Morel's?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Morel. "What is it?"

But she had guessed already. 

"Your mester's got hurt, " he said. 

"Eh, dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. Andwhat's he done this time?"

"I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg somewhere. They ta'ein' 'im terth' 'ospital. "

"Good gracious me!" she exclaimed. "Eh, dear, what a one he is! There'snot five minutes of peace, I'll be hanged if there is! His thumb'snearly better, and now--Did you see him?"

"I seed him at th' bottom. An' I seed 'em bring 'im up in a tub, an''e wor in a dead faint. But he shouted like anythink when Doctor Fraserexamined him i' th' lamp cabin--an' cossed an' swore, an' said as 'e worgoin' to be ta'en whoam--'e worn't goin' ter th' 'ospital. "

The boy faltered to an end. 

"He WOULD want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thankyou, my lad. Eh, dear, if I'm not sick--sick and surfeited, I am!"

She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting. 

"And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital, " shewent on. "But what a CARELESS creature he is! OTHER men don't have allthese accidents. Yes, he WOULD want to put all the burden on me. Eh, dear, just as we WERE getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away, there's no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know Is'll have to go trailing to Keston. I s'll have to leave that bedroom. "

"I can finish it, " said Paul. 

"You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back, I should think. Oh, my blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he'll make! And those granitesetts at Tinder Hill--he might well call them kidney pebbles--they'lljolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can't mend them, the statethey're in, an' all the men as go across in that ambulance. You'd thinkthey'd have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs, there'd be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trailthem ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It's a crying shame!Oh, and the fuss he'll make! I know he will! I wonder who's with him. Barker, I s'd think. Poor beggar, he'll wish himself anywhere rather. But he'll look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'llbe stuck in that hospital--and WON'T he hate it! But if it's only hisleg it's not so bad. "

All the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off her bodice, shecrouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into her lading-can. 

"I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!" she exclaimed, wriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms, rather surprising on a smallish woman. 

Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table. 

"There isn't a train till four-twenty, " he said. "You've time enough. "

"Oh no, I haven't!" she cried, blinking at him over the towel as shewiped her face. 

"Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I comewith you to Keston?"

"Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to takehim? Eh, dear! His clean shirt--and it's a blessing it IS clean. But ithad better be aired. And stockings--he won't want them--and a towel, Isuppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?"

"A comb, a knife and fork and spoon, " said Paul. His father had been inthe hospital before. 

"Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in, " continued Mrs. Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, andwas touched now with grey. "He's very particular to wash himself to thewaist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose they seeplenty like it. "

Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of verythin bread and butter. 

"Here you are, " he said, putting her cup of tea in her place. 

"I can't be bothered!" she exclaimed crossly. 

"Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready, " he insisted. 

So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. Shewas thinking. 

In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles toKeston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulgingstring bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges--alittle, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her, that she wasthrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quicklyin her anxiety, felt at the back of her her son's heart waiting on her, felt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her. And when she was at the hospital, she thought: "It WILL upset that ladwhen I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful. " And when she wastrudging home again, she felt he was coming to share her burden. 

"Is it bad?" asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house. 

"It's bad enough, " she replied. 

"What?"

She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her son watched herface as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened hands fingering atthe bow under her chin. 

"Well, " she answered, "it's not really dangerous, but the nurse saysit's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on hisleg--here--and it's a compound fracture. There are pieces of bonesticking through--"

"Ugh--how horrid!" exclaimed the children. 

"And, " she continued, "of course he says he's going to die--it wouldn'tbe him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said, looking at me. 'Don't be so silly, ' I said to him. 'You're not going to die of a brokenleg, however badly it's smashed. ' 'I s'll niver come out of 'ere but ina wooden box, ' he groaned. 'Well, ' I said, 'if you want them to carryyou into the garden in a wooden box, when you're better, I've no doubtthey will. ' 'If we think it's good for him, ' said the Sister. She's anawfully nice Sister, but rather strict. "

Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence. 

"Of course, he IS bad, " she continued, "and he will be. It's a greatshock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it IS a verydangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mend so easily. Andthen there's the fever and the mortification--if it took bad ways he'dquickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded man, with wonderfulhealing flesh, and so I see no reason why it SHOULD take bad ways. Ofcourse there's a wound--"

She was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children realisedthat it was very bad for their father, and the house was silent, anxious. 

"But he always gets better, " said Paul after a while. 

"That's what I tell him, " said the mother. 

Everybody moved about in silence. 

"And he really looked nearly done for, " she said. "But the Sister saysthat is the pain. "

Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet. 

"And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'll have to go now, Walter, because of the train--and the children. ' And he looked at me. Itseems hard. "

Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went outsidefor some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, in her littlerocking-chair that her husband had made for her when the first baby wascoming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterlysorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart ofhearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now, whenall her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would haveslaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she wouldhave taken the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away insideher, she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt hermost of all, this failure to love him, even when he roused her strongemotions. She brooded a while. 

"And there, " she said suddenly, "when I'd got halfway to Keston, I foundI'd come out in my working boots--and LOOK at them. " They were an oldpair of Paul's, brown and rubbed through at the toes. "I didn't knowwhat to do with myself, for shame, " she added. 

In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Morel talkedagain to her son, who was helping her with her housework. 

"I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow!'Well, ' I said to him, 'what sort of a journey did you have with him?''Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay, ' I said, 'I know what he'd be. ''But it WOR bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it WOR that!' he said. 'I know, ' Isaid. 'At ivry jolt I thought my 'eart would ha' flown clean out o' mymouth, ' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives sometimes! Missis, not for afortune would I go through wi' it again. ' 'I can quite understand it, 'I said. 'It's a nasty job, though, ' he said, 'an' one as'll be a longwhile afore it's right again. ' 'I'm afraid it will, ' I said. I like Mr. Barker--I DO like him. There's something so manly about him. "

Paul resumed his task silently. 

"And of course, " Mrs. Morel continued, "for a man like your father, the hospital IS hard. He CAN'T understand rules and regulations. And hewon't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashedthe muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day, WOULD he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, ofcourse, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leavinghim. I'm sure, when I kissed him an' came away, it seemed a shame. "

So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud to him, and he took it in as best he could, by sharing her trouble to lightenit. And in the end she shared almost everything with him withoutknowing. 

Morel had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical condition. Then he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going to get better, thewhole family sighed with relief, and proceeded to live happily. 

They were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There werefourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillings from the sickclub, and five shillings from the Disability Fund; and then every weekthe butties had something for Mrs. Morel--five or seven shillings--sothat she was quite well to do. And whilst Morel was progressingfavourably in the hospital, the family was extraordinarily happy andpeaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays Mrs. Morel went to Nottingham tosee her husband. Then she always brought back some little thing: a smalltube of paints for Paul, or some thick paper; a couple of postcards forAnnie, that the whole family rejoiced over for days before the girl wasallowed to send them away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit of prettywood. She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon thefolk in the picture-shop knew her, and knew about Paul. The girl inthe book-shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morel was full ofinformation when she got home from Nottingham. The three sat round tillbed-time, listening, putting in, arguing. Then Paul often raked thefire. 

"I'm the man in the house now, " he used to say to his mother with joy. They learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be. And theyalmost regretted--though none of them would have owned to suchcallousness--that their father was soon coming back. 

Paul was now fourteen, and was looking for work. He was a rather smalland rather finely-made boy, with dark brown hair and light blue eyes. His face had already lost its youthful chubbiness, and was becomingsomewhat like William's--rough-featured, almost rugged--and it wasextraordinarily mobile. Usually he looked as if he saw things, was fullof life, and warm; then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly andwas very lovable; and then, when there was any clog in his soul's quickrunning, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy thatbecomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feelshimself held cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch ofwarmth. 

He suffered very much from the first contact with anything. When he wasseven, the starting school had been a nightmare and a torture to him. But afterwards he liked it. And now that he felt he had to go out intolife, he went through agonies of shrinking self-consciousness. He wasquite a clever painter for a boy of his years, and he knew some Frenchand German and mathematics that Mr. Heaton had taught him. But nothinghe had was of any commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavymanual work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with hishands, preferred racing about, or making excursions into the country, orreading, or painting. 

"What do you want to be?" his mother asked. 

"Anything. "

"That is no answer, " said Mrs. Morel. 

But it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His ambition, as far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earn his thirty orthirty-five shillings a week somewhere near home, and then, when hisfather died, have a cottage with his mother, paint and go out as heliked, and live happy ever after. That was his programme as far as doingthings went. But he was proud within himself, measuring people againsthimself, and placing them, inexorably. And he thought that PERHAPS hemight also make a painter, the real thing. But that he left alone. 

"Then, " said his mother, "you must look in the paper for theadvertisements. "

He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter humiliation and an anguishto go through. But he said nothing. When he got up in the morning, hiswhole being was knotted up over this one thought:

"I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job. "

It stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing all joy and evenlife, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot. 

And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to be a queer, quiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town, he felt asif all the folk he met said to themselves: "He's going to the Co-op. Reading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. Isuppose he's living on his mother. " Then he crept up the stone stairsbehind the drapery shop at the Co-op. , and peeped in the reading-room. Usually one or two men were there, either old, useless fellows, orcolliers "on the club". So he entered, full of shrinking and sufferingwhen they looked up, seated himself at the table, and pretended to scanthe news. He knew they would think: "What does a lad of thirteen want ina reading-room with a newspaper?" and he suffered. 

Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he was a prisonerof industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over the old red wall of thegarden opposite, looking in their jolly way down on the women whowere hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn, brightening in the sun. Two collieries, among the fields, waved theirsmall white plumes of steam. Far off on the hills were the woods ofAnnesley, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He wasbeing taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley wasgoing now. 

The brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enormous barrels, four a side, like beans in a burst bean-pod. The waggoner, thronedaloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so much below Paul's eye. The man's hair, on his small, bullet head, was bleached almost white bythe sun, and on his thick red arms, rocking idly on his sack apron, thewhite hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep withsunshine. The horses, handsome and brown, went on by themselves, lookingby far the masters of the show. 

Paul wished he were stupid. "I wish, " he thought to himself, "I was fatlike him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pig and a brewer'swaggoner. "

Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy anadvertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in immenserelief. His mother would scan over his copies. 

"Yes, " she said, "you may try. "

William had written out a letter of application, couched in admirablebusiness language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy'shandwriting was execrable, so that William, who did all things well, gotinto a fever of impatience. 

The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he found that hecould associate with men far above his Bestwood friends in station. Someof the clerks in the office had studied for the law, and were more orless going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friendsamong men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soonvisiting and staying in houses of men who, in Bestwood, would havelooked down on the unapproachable bank manager, and would merely havecalled indifferently on the Rector. So he began to fancy himself as agreat gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised at the ease with which hebecame a gentleman. 

His mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodging inWalthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kind of feverinto the young man's letters. He was unsettled by all the change, he didnot stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spin rather giddily on thequick current of the new life. His mother was anxious for him. She couldfeel him losing himself. He had danced and gone to the theatre, boatedon the river, been out with friends; and she knew he sat up afterwardsin his cold bedroom grinding away at Latin, because he intended to geton in his office, and in the law as much as he could. He never sent hismother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his ownlife. And she did not want any, except sometimes, when she was in atight corner, and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. She still dreamed of William, and of what he would do, with herselfbehind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy andanxious her heart was because of him. 

Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance, ahandsome brunette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the men wererunning thick and fast. 

"I wonder if you would run, my boy, " his mother wrote to him, "unlessyou saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vainenough in a crowd. But take care, and see how you feel when you findyourself alone, and in triumph. " William resented these things, andcontinued the chase. He had taken the girl on the river. "If you sawher, mother, you would know how I feel. Tall and elegant, with theclearest of clear, transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, and such grey eyes--bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. Itis all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dressesas well as any woman in London. I tell you, your son doesn't half puthis head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him. "

Mrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not go walking downPiccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes, rather than witha woman who was near to him. But she congratulated him in her doubtfulfashion. And, as she stood over the washing-tub, the mother brooded overher son. She saw him saddled with an elegant and expensive wife, earninglittle money, dragging along and getting draggled in some small, uglyhouse in a suburb. "But there, " she told herself, "I am very likelya silly--meeting trouble halfway. " Nevertheless, the load of anxietyscarcely ever left her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing byhimself. 

Presently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan, Manufacturer ofSurgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was alljoy. 

"There, you see!" she cried, her eyes shining. "You've only written fourletters, and the third is answered. You're lucky, my boy, as I alwayssaid you were. "

Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elasticstockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's notepaper, and he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed. And he seemed to feel the business world, with its regulated system ofvalues, and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemed monstrousalso that a business could be run on wooden legs. 

Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August andblazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed up tight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain rather than this unreasonablesuffering at being exposed to strangers, to be accepted or rejected. Yethe chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to herhow he suffered over these things, and she only partly guessed. Shewas gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office atBestwood, and Paul watched her take from her purse the money for thetickets. As he saw her hands in their old black kid gloves getting thesilver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with pain of love ofher. 

She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because she WOULD talkaloud in presence of the other travellers. 

"Now look at that silly cow!" she said, "careering round as if itthought it was a circus. "

"It's most likely a bottfly, " he said very low. 

"A what?" she asked brightly and unashamed. 

They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of having heropposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him--a rare, intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked outof the window. 

The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother and sonwalked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovers having anadventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped to hang over theparapet and look at the barges on the canal below. 

"It's just like Venice, " he said, seeing the sunshine on the water thatlay between high factory walls. 

"Perhaps, " she answered, smiling. 

They enjoyed the shops immensely. 

"Now you see that blouse, " she would say, "wouldn't that just suit ourAnnie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?"

"And made of needlework as well, " he said. 

"Yes. "

They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The town was strangeand delightful to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a knot ofapprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan. 

It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up anarrow street that led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old-fashioned, having low dark shops and dark green house doors with brass knockers, and yellow-ochred doorsteps projecting on to the pavement; then anotherold shop whose small window looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Motherand son went cautiously, looking everywhere for "Thomas Jordan andSon". It was like hunting in some wild place. They were on tiptoe ofexcitement. 

Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were names of variousfirms, Thomas Jordan among them. 

"Here it is!" said Mrs. Morel. "But now WHERE is it?"

They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory, onthe other a Commercial Hotel. 

"It's up the entry, " said Paul. 

And they ventured under the archway, as into the jaws of the dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings all round. Itwas littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine actuallycaught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. Butelsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors, and twoflights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top ofa staircase, loomed the ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son--SurgicalAppliances. " Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles Imounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as hefollowed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door. 

She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In front of herwas a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks, with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going about in an at-homesort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemedluminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and veryhomely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stoodbehind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore aboy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit. 

One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face. His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end ofthe room, where was a glass office. And then he came forward. He didnot say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs. Morel. 

"Can I see Mr. Jordan?" she asked. 

"I'll fetch him, " answered the young man. 

He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old manlooked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same littleman came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and worean alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly andinquiringly down the room. 

"Good-morning!" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as towhether she were a customer or not. 

"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to callthis morning. "

"Come this way, " said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little mannerintended to be businesslike. 

They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholsteredin black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangledtogether. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of newwash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was somuch stunned that he only noticed the outside things. 

"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to ahorse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then thelittle old man fidgeted and found a paper. 

"Did you write this letter?" he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognisedas his own notepaper in front of him. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guiltyfor telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, inwondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchentable. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way theman held it. 

"Where did you learn to write?" said the old man crossly. 

Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer. 

"He IS a bad writer, " put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushedup her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this commonlittle man, and he loved her face clear of the veil. 

"And you say you know French?" inquired the little man, still sharply. 

"Yes, " said Paul. 

"What school did you go to?"

"The Board-school. "

"And did you learn it there?"

"No--I--" The boy went crimson and got no farther. 

"His godfather gave him lessons, " said Mrs. Morel, half pleading andrather distant. 

Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he always seemed tokeep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet of paper fromhis pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed itto Paul. 

"Read that, " he said. 

It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that theboy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper. 

"'Monsieur, '" he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan. "It's the--it's the--"

He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer work evensufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, andhating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again. 

"'Sir, --Please send me'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'two pairs--grisfil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can'ttell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the--"

He wanted to say "handwriting", but the word still refused to come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him. 

"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without TOES. '"

"Well, " flashed Paul, "'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--as a rule--"

The little man looked at him. He did not know whether "doigts" meant"fingers"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant "toes". 

"Fingers to stockings!" he snapped. 

"Well, it DOES mean fingers, " the boy persisted. 

He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan lookedat the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet andwith that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on thefavour of others. 

"And when could he come?" he asked. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finished schoolnow. "

"He would live in Bestwood?"

"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight. "

"H'm!"

It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eightshillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word, after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". He followed hismother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes fullof love and joy. 

"I think you'll like it, " she said. 

"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. Icouldn't read the writing. "

"Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see muchof him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them. "

"But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?"

"I suppose he was a workman who has got on, " she said. "You mustn't mindpeople so much. They're not being disagreeable to YOU--it's their way. You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don't. "

It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-place theblue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was fullof colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was arow of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun--apples and piles ofreddish oranges, small green-gage plums and bananas. There was a warmscent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling ofignominy and of rage sank. 

"Where should we go for dinner?" asked the mother. 

It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in aneating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup oftea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea andbread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford toeat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty. 

They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scannedthe bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so dear. So sheordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish. 

"We oughtn't to have come here, mother, " said Paul. 

"Never mind, " she said. "We won't come again. "

She insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he likedsweets. 

"I don't want it, mother, " he pleaded. 

"Yes, " she insisted; "you'll have it. "

And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, andMrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waitedfor the girl's pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men. 

"Brazen hussy!" said Mrs. Morel to Paul. "Look now, she's taking thatman HIS pudding, and he came long after us. "

"It doesn't matter, mother, " said Paul. 

Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were toomeagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights justthen. They waited and waited. 

"Should we go, mother?" he said. 

Then Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near. 

"Will you bring one currant tart?" said Mrs. Morel clearly. 

The girl looked round insolently. 

"Directly, " she said. 

"We have waited quite long enough, " said Mrs. Morel. 

In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldlyfor the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at hismother's hardness. He knew that only years of battling had taught her toinsist even so little on her rights. She shrank as much as he. 

"It's the last time I go THERE for anything!" she declared, when theywere outside the place, thankful to be clear. 

"We'll go, " she said, "and look at Keep's and Boot's, and one or twoplaces, shall we?"

They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted to buyhim a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence herefused. He stood in front of milliners' shops and drapers' shops almostbored, but content for her to be interested. They wandered on. 

"Now, just look at those black grapes!" she said. "They make your mouthwater. I've wanted some of those for years, but I s'll have to wait abit before I get them. "

Then she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway sniffing. 

"Oh! oh! Isn't it simply lovely!"

Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady in blackpeering over the counter curiously. 

"They're looking at you, " he said, trying to draw his mother away. 

"But what is it?" she exclaimed, refusing to be moved. 

"Stocks!" he answered, sniffing hastily. "Look, there's a tubful. "

"So there is--red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smelllike it!" And, to his great relief, she moved out of the doorway, butonly to stand in front of the window. 

"Paul!" she cried to him, who was trying to get out of sight of theelegant young lady in black--the shop-girl. "Paul! Just look here!"

He came reluctantly back. 

"Now, just look at that fuchsia!" she exclaimed, pointing. 

"H'm!" He made a curious, interested sound. "You'd think every second asthe flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an' heavy. "

"And such an abundance!" she cried. 

"And the way they drop downwards with their threads and knots!"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Lovely!"

"I wonder who'll buy it!" he said. 

"I wonder!" she answered. "Not us. "

"It would die in our parlour. "

"Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every bit of a plant you putin, and the kitchen chokes them to death. "

They bought a few things, and set off towards the station. Looking upthe canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw the Castleon its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock, in a positive miracle ofdelicate sunshine. 

"Won't it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times?" said Paul. "I cango all round here and see everything. I s'll love it. "

"You will, " assented his mother. 

He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home inthe mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired. 

In the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticket and took itto the station. When he got back, his mother was just beginning to washthe floor. He sat crouched up on the sofa. 

"He says it'll be here on Saturday, " he said. 

"And how much will it be?"

"About one pound eleven, " he said. 

She went on washing her floor in silence. 

"Is it a lot?" he asked. 

"It's no more than I thought, " she answered. 

"An' I s'll earn eight shillings a week, " he said. 

She did not answer, but went on with her work. At last she said:

"That William promised me, when he went to London, as he'd give me apound a month. He has given me ten shillings--twice; and now I knowhe hasn't a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want it. Only just nowyou'd think he might be able to help with this ticket, which I'd neverexpected. "

"He earns a lot, " said Paul. 

"He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they're all alike. They'relarge in promises, but it's precious little fulfilment you get. "

"He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself, " said Paul. 

"And I keep this house on less than thirty, " she replied; "and amsupposed to find money for extras. But they don't care about helpingyou, once they've gone. He'd rather spend it on that dressed-upcreature. "

"She should have her own money if she's so grand, " said Paul. 

"She should, but she hasn't. I asked him. And I know he doesn't buy hera gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever bought ME a gold bangle. "

William was succeeding with his "Gipsy", as he called her. He asked thegirl--her name was Louisa Lily Denys Western--for a photograph to sendto his mother. The photo came--a handsome brunette, taken in profile, smirking slightly--and, it might be, quite naked, for on the photographnot a scrap of clothing was to be seen, only a naked bust. 

"Yes, " wrote Mrs. Morel to her son, "the photograph of Louie is verystriking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you think, myboy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young man that phototo send to his mother--the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful, as you say. But I hardly expected to see so much of them at the firstview. "

Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the parlour. Hecame out with it between his thick thumb and finger. 

"Who dost reckon this is?" he asked of his wife. 

"It's the girl our William is going with, " replied Mrs. Morel. 

"H'm! 'Er's a bright spark, from th' look on 'er, an' one as wunna dohim owermuch good neither. Who is she?"

"Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western. "

"An' come again to-morrer!" exclaimed the miner. "An' is 'er anactress?"

"She is not. She's supposed to be a lady. "

"I'll bet!" he exclaimed, still staring at the photo. "A lady, is she?An' how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o' game on?"

"On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes whatbit of money's given her. "

"H'm!" said Morel, laying down the photograph. "Then he's a fool to ha'ta'en up wi' such a one as that. "

"Dear Mater, " William replied. "I'm sorry you didn't like thephotograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you mightn'tthink it decent. However, I told Gyp that it didn't quite suit your primand proper notions, so she's going to send you another, that I hopewill please you better. She's always being photographed; in fact, thephotographers ask her if they may take her for nothing. "

Presently the new photograph came, with a little silly note from thegirl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satin evening bodice, cut square, with little puff sleeves, and black lace hanging down herbeautiful arms. 

"I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes, " said Mrs. Morel sarcastically. "I'm sure I ought to be impressed. "

"You are disagreeable, mother, " said Paul. "I think the first one withbare shoulders is lovely. "

"Do you?" answered his mother. "Well, I don't. "

On the Monday morning the boy got up at six to start work. He had theseason-ticket, which had cost such bitterness, in his waistcoat pocket. He loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother packed his dinnerin a small, shut-up basket, and he set off at a quarter to seven tocatch the 7. 15 train. Mrs. Morel came to the entry-end to see him off. 

It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slender green fruitsthat the children call "pigeons" were twinkling gaily down on a littlebreeze, into the front gardens of the houses. The valley was full of alustrous dark haze, through which the ripe corn shimmered, and in whichthe steam from Minton pit melted swiftly. Puffs of wind came. Paullooked over the high woods of Aldersley, where the country gleamed, andhome had never pulled at him so powerfully. 

"Good-morning, mother, " he said, smiling, but feeling very unhappy. 

"Good-morning, " she replied cheerfully and tenderly. 

She stood in her white apron on the open road, watching him as hecrossed the field. He had a small, compact body that looked full oflife. She felt, as she saw him trudging over the field, that where hedetermined to go he would get. She thought of William. He would haveleaped the fence instead of going round the stile. He was away inLondon, doing well. Paul would be working in Nottingham. Now she hadtwo sons in the world. She could think of two places, great centres ofindustry, and feel that she had put a man into each of them, that thesemen would work out what SHE wanted; they were derived from her, theywere of her, and their works also would be hers. All the morning longshe thought of Paul. 

At eight o'clock he climbed the dismal stairs of Jordan's SurgicalAppliance Factory, and stood helplessly against the first greatparcel-rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The place was stillnot awake. Over the counters were great dust sheets. Two men only hadarrived, and were heard talking in a corner, as they took off theircoats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. It was ten past eight. Evidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voicesof the two clerks. Then he heard someone cough, and saw in the officeat the end of the room an old, decaying clerk, in a round smoking-cap ofblack velvet embroidered with red and green, opening letters. He waitedand waited. One of the junior clerks went to the old man, greeted himcheerily and loudly. Evidently the old "chief" was deaf. Then the youngfellow came striding importantly down to his counter. He spied Paul. 

"Hello!" he said. "You the new lad?"

"Yes, " said Paul. 

"H'm! What's your name?"

"Paul Morel. "

"Paul Morel? All right, you come on round here. "

Paul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The room was secondstorey. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor, fenced as with awall of counters, and down this wide shaft the lifts went, and the lightfor the bottom storey. Also there was a corresponding big, oblong holein the ceiling, and one could see above, over the fence of the topfloor, some machinery; and right away overhead was the glass roof, andall light for the three storeys came downwards, getting dimmer, so thatit was always night on the ground floor and rather gloomy on the secondfloor. The factory was the top floor, the warehouse the second, thestorehouse the ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place. 

Paul was led round to a very dark corner. 

"This is the 'Spiral' corner, " said the clerk. "You're Spiral, withPappleworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't get heretill half-past eight. So you can fetch the letters, if you like, fromMr. Melling down there. "

The young man pointed to the old clerk in the office. 

"All right, " said Paul. 

"Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are your entry ledgers. Mr. Pappleworth won't be long. "

And the thin young man stalked away with long, busy strides over thehollow wooden floor. 

After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of the glassoffice. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down over the rim of hisspectacles. 

"Good-morning, " he said, kindly and impressively. "You want the lettersfor the Spiral department, Thomas?"

Paul resented being called "Thomas". But he took the letters andreturned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, where thegreat parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were three doors inthe corner. He sat on a high stool and read the letters--those whosehandwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows:

"Will you please send me at once a pair of lady's silk spiralthigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year; length, thigh to knee, etc. " Or, "Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat hisprevious order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage. "

Many of these letters, some of them in French or Norwegian, were a greatpuzzle to the boy. He sat on his stool nervously awaiting the arrivalof his "boss". He suffered tortures of shyness when, at half-past eight, the factory girls for upstairs trooped past him. 

Mr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty tonine, when all the other men were at work. He was a thin, sallow manwith a red nose, quick, staccato, and smartly but stiffly dressed. Hewas about thirty-six years old. There was something rather "doggy", rather smart, rather 'cute and shrewd, and something warm, and somethingslightly contemptible about him. 

"You my new lad?" he said. 

Paul stood up and said he was. 

"Fetched the letters?"

Mr. Pappleworth gave a chew to his gum. 

"Yes. "

"Copied 'em?"

"No. "

"Well, come on then, let's look slippy. Changed your coat?"

"No. "

"You want to bring an old coat and leave it here. " He pronounced thelast words with the chlorodyne gum between his side teeth. He vanishedinto the darkness behind the great parcel-rack, reappeared coatless, turning up a smart striped shirt-cuff over a thin and hairy arm. Thenhe slipped into his coat. Paul noticed how thin he was, and that histrousers were in folds behind. He seized a stool, dragged it beside theboy's, and sat down. 

"Sit down, " he said. 

Paul took a seat. 

Mr. Pappleworth was very close to him. The man seized the letters, snatched a long entry-book out of a rack in front of him, flung it open, seized a pen, and said:

"Now look here. You want to copy these letters in here. " He sniffedtwice, gave a quick chew at his gum, stared fixedly at a letter, then went very still and absorbed, and wrote the entry rapidly, in abeautiful flourishing hand. He glanced quickly at Paul. 

"See that?"

"Yes. "

"Think you can do it all right?"

"Yes. "

"All right then, let's see you. "

He sprang off his stool. Paul took a pen. Mr. Pappleworth disappeared. Paul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly, laboriously, and exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, and feeling quitebusy and happy, when Mr. Pappleworth reappeared. 

"Now then, how'r' yer getting on? Done 'em?"

He leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of chlorodyne. 

"Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer!" he exclaimedsatirically. "Ne'er mind, how many h'yer done? Only three! I'd 'a eaten'em. Get on, my lad, an' put numbers on 'em. Here, look! Get on!"

Paul ground away at the letters, whilst Mr. Pappleworth fussed overvarious jobs. Suddenly the boy started as a shrill whistle sounded nearhis ear. Mr. Pappleworth came, took a plug out of a pipe, and said, inan amazingly cross and bossy voice:

"Yes?"

Paul heard a faint voice, like a woman's, out of the mouth of the tube. He gazed in wonder, never having seen a speaking-tube before. 

"Well, " said Mr. Pappleworth disagreeably into the tube, "you'd betterget some of your back work done, then. "

Again the woman's tiny voice was heard, sounding pretty and cross. 

"I've not time to stand here while you talk, " said Mr. Pappleworth, andhe pushed the plug into the tube. 

"Come, my lad, " he said imploringly to Paul, "there's Polly crying outfor them orders. Can't you buck up a bit? Here, come out!"

He took the book, to Paul's immense chagrin, and began the copyinghimself. He worked quickly and well. This done, he seized some stripsof long yellow paper, about three inches wide, and made out the day'sorders for the work-girls. 

"You'd better watch me, " he said to Paul, working all the while rapidly. Paul watched the weird little drawings of legs, and thighs, and ankles, with the strokes across and the numbers, and the few brief directionswhich his chief made upon the yellow paper. Then Mr. Pappleworthfinished and jumped up. 

"Come on with me, " he said, and the yellow papers flying in his hands, he dashed through a door and down some stairs, into the basement wherethe gas was burning. They crossed the cold, damp storeroom, then along, dreary room with a long table on trestles, into a smaller, cosyapartment, not very high, which had been built on to the main building. In this room a small woman with a red serge blouse, and her black hairdone on top of her head, was waiting like a proud little bantam. 

"Here y'are!" said Pappleworth. 

"I think it is 'here you are'!" exclaimed Polly. "The girls have beenhere nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time wasted!"

"YOU think of getting your work done and not talking so much, " said Mr. Pappleworth. "You could ha' been finishing off. "

"You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!" criedPony, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing. 

"Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!" he mocked. "Here's your new lad. Don't ruin himas you did the last. "

"As we did the last!" repeated Polly. "Yes, WE do a lot of ruining, wedo. My word, a lad would TAKE some ruining after he'd been with you. "

"It's time for work now, not for talk, " said Mr. Pappleworth severelyand coldly. 

"It was time for work some time back, " said Polly, marching away withher head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty. 

In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under thewindow. Through the inner doorway was another longer room, with six moremachines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed in white aprons, stoodtalking together. 

"Have you nothing else to do but talk?" said Mr. Pappleworth. 

"Only wait for you, " said one handsome girl, laughing. 

"Well, get on, get on, " he said. "Come on, my lad. You'll know your roaddown here again. "

And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checkingand invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his execrablehandwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down from the glassoffice and stood behind him, to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly ared and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in. 

"MR. J. A. Bates, Esquire!" exclaimed the cross voice just behind hisear. 

Paul looked at "Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire" in his own vile writing, andwondered what was the matter now. 

"Didn't they teach you any better THAN that while they were at it? Ifyou put 'Mr. ' you don't put Esquire'-a man can't be both at once. "

The boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of honours, hesitated, and with trembling fingers, scratched out the "Mr. " Then allat once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice. 

"Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?" And he toreup the blue form irritably. 

Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan watched. 

"I don't know what they DO teach in schools. You'll have to write betterthan that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetryand play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?" he asked of Mr. Pappleworth. 

"Yes; prime, isn't it?" replied Mr. Pappleworth indifferently. 

Mr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that hismaster's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manufacturer, although he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave hismen alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did notlook like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his role ofproprietor at first, to put things on a right footing. 

"Let's see, WHAT'S your name?" asked Mr. Pappleworth of the boy. 

"Paul Morel. "

It is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce theirown names. 

"Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them things there, and then--"

Mr. Pappleworth subsided on to a stool, and began writing. A girl cameup from out of a door just behind, put some newly-pressed elastic webappliances on the counter, and returned. Mr. Pappleworth picked up thewhitey-blue knee-band, examined it, and its yellow order-paper quickly, and put it on one side. Next was a flesh-pink "leg". He went throughthe few things, wrote out a couple of orders, and called to Paul toaccompany him. This time they went through the door whence the girl hademerged. There Paul found himself at the top of a little wooden flightof steps, and below him saw a room with windows round two sides, and atthe farther end half a dozen girls sitting bending over the benchesin the light from the window, sewing. They were singing together "TwoLittle Girls in Blue". Hearing the door opened, they all turned round, to see Mr. Pappleworth and Paul looking down on them from the far end ofthe room. They stopped singing. 

"Can't you make a bit less row?" said Mr. Pappleworth. "Folk'll think wekeep cats. "

A hunchback woman on a high stool turned her long, rather heavy facetowards Mr. Pappleworth, and said, in a contralto voice:

"They're all tom-cats then. "

In vain Mr. Pappleworth tried to be impressive for Paul's benefit. He descended the steps into the finishing-off room, and went to thehunchback Fanny. She had such a short body on her high stool that herhead, with its great bands of bright brown hair, seemed over large, asdid her pale, heavy face. She wore a dress of green-black cashmere, andher wrists, coming out of the narrow cuffs, were thin and flat, as sheput down her work nervously. He showed her something that was wrong witha knee-cap. 

"Well, " she said, "you needn't come blaming it on to me. It's not myfault. " Her colour mounted to her cheek. 

"I never said it WAS your fault. Will you do as I tell you?" replied Mr. Pappleworth shortly. 

"You don't say it's my fault, but you'd like to make out as it was, " thehunchback woman cried, almost in tears. Then she snatched the knee-capfrom her "boss", saying: "Yes, I'll do it for you, but you needn't besnappy. "

"Here's your new lad, " said Mr. Pappleworth. 

Fanny turned, smiling very gently on Paul. 

"Oh!" she said. 

"Yes; don't make a softy of him between you. "

"It's not us as 'ud make a softy of him, " she said indignantly. 

"Come on then, Paul, " said Mr. Pappleworth. 

"Au revoy, Paul, " said one of the girls. 

There was a titter of laughter. Paul went out, blushing deeply, nothaving spoken a word. 

The day was very long. All morning the work-people were coming to speakto Mr. Pappleworth. Paul was writing or learning to make up parcels, ready for the midday post. At one o'clock, or, rather, at a quarter toone, Mr. Pappleworth disappeared to catch his train: he lived in thesuburbs. At one o'clock, Paul, feeling very lost, took his dinner-basketdown into the stockroom in the basement, that had the long table ontrestles, and ate his meal hurriedly, alone in that cellar of gloom anddesolation. Then he went out of doors. The brightness and the freedom ofthe streets made him feel adventurous and happy. But at two o'clockhe was back in the corner of the big room. Soon the work-girls wenttrooping past, making remarks. It was the commoner girls who workedupstairs at the heavy tasks of truss-making and the finishing ofartificial limbs. He waited for Mr. Pappleworth, not knowing what to do, sitting scribbling on the yellow order-paper. Mr. Pappleworth came attwenty minutes to three. Then he sat and gossiped with Paul, treatingthe boy entirely as an equal, even in age. 

In the afternoon there was never very much to do, unless it were nearthe week-end, and the accounts had to be made up. At five o'clock allthe men went down into the dungeon with the table on trestles, and therethey had tea, eating bread-and-butter on the bare, dirty boards, talkingwith the same kind of ugly haste and slovenliness with which they atetheir meal. And yet upstairs the atmosphere among them was always jollyand clear. The cellar and the trestles affected them. 

After tea, when all the gases were lighted, WORK went more briskly. There was the big evening post to get off. The hose came up warm andnewly pressed from the workrooms. Paul had made out the invoices. Now hehad the packing up and addressing to do, then he had to weigh his stockof parcels on the scales. Everywhere voices were calling weights, therewas the chink of metal, the rapid snapping of string, the hurrying toold Mr. Melling for stamps. And at last the postman came with his sack, laughing and jolly. Then everything slacked off, and Paul took hisdinner-basket and ran to the station to catch the eight-twenty train. The day in the factory was just twelve hours long. 

His mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had to walk fromKeston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And he left thehouse before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morel was rather anxious abouthis health. But she herself had had to put up with so much that sheexpected her children to take the same odds. They must go through withwhat came. And Paul stayed at Jordan's, although all the time he wasthere his health suffered from the darkness and lack of air and the longhours. 

He came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She saw he wasrather pleased, and her anxiety all went. 

"Well, and how was it?" she asked. 

"Ever so funny, mother, " he replied. "You don't have to work a bit hard, and they're nice with you. "

"And did you get on all right?"

"Yes: they only say my writing's bad. But Mr. Pappleworth--he's myman--said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm Spiral, mother; youmust come and see. It's ever so nice. "

Soon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Pappleworth, who had a certain "saloon bar"flavour about him, was always natural, and treated him as if he had beena comrade. Sometimes the "Spiral boss" was irritable, and chewed morelozenges than ever. Even then, however, he was not offensive, but oneof those people who hurt themselves by their own irritability more thanthey hurt other people. 

"Haven't you done that YET?" he would cry. "Go on, be a month ofSundays. "

Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular and inhigh spirits. 

"I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow, " he saidjubilantly to Paul. 

"What's a Yorkshire terrier?"

"DON'T know what a Yorkshire terrier is? DON'T KNOW A YORKSHIRE--" Mr. Pappleworth was aghast. 

"Is it a little silky one--colours of iron and rusty silver?"

"THAT'S it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds' worth of pupsalready, and she's worth over seven pounds herself; and she doesn'tweigh twenty ounces. "

The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Pauldid not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag that would neverdry. Then a man called for her, and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr. Pappleworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy, and the talkwent on _sotto voce_. 

Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and then the onlyfault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the counter. 

"Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen in yourear!" And one day he said to the lad: "Why don't you hold your shouldersstraighter? Come down here, " when he took him into the glass office andfitted him with special braces for keeping the shoulders square. 

But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and rather dull. He liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly, the little briskoverseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar, asked him if shecould cook him anything on her little stove. Next day his mother gavehim a dish that could be heated up. He took it into the pleasant, cleanroom to Polly. And very soon it grew to be an established custom that heshould have dinner with her. When he came in at eight in the morning hetook his basket to her, and when he came down at one o'clock she had hisdinner ready. 

He was not very tall, and pale, with thick chestnut hair, irregularfeatures, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He oftencalled her a "robinet". Though naturally rather quiet, he would sit andchatter with her for hours telling her about his home. The girls allliked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a little circle while hesat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. Some of them regardedhim as a curious little creature, so serious, yet so bright and jolly, and always so delicate in his way with them. They all liked him, and headored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane ofred hair, her face of apple-blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady inher shabby black frock, appealed to his romantic side. 

"When you sit winding, " he said, "it looks as if you were spinning ata spinning-wheel--it looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in the'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could. "

And she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he had a sketchhe prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool before the wheel, herflowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, her red mouth shutand serious, running the scarlet thread off the hank on to the reel. 

With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrust her hip athim, he usually joked. 

Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But to condescendto him made her happy, and he did not mind. 

"How do you put needles in?" he asked. 

"Go away and don't bother. "

"But I ought to know how to put needles in. "

She ground at her machine all the while steadily. 

"There are many things you ought to know, " she replied. 

"Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine. "

"Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, THIS is how you do it. "

He watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped. Then Pollyappeared, and said in a clear voice:

"Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you're going to be downhere playing with the girls, Paul. "

Paul flew upstairs, calling "Good-bye!" and Emma drew herself up. 

"It wasn't ME who wanted him to play with the machine, " she said. 

As a rule, when all the girls came back at two o'clock, he ran upstairsto Fanny, the hunchback, in the finishing-off room. Mr. Pappleworthdid not appear till twenty to three, and he often found his boy sittingbeside Fanny, talking, or drawing, or singing with the girls. 

Often, after a minute's hesitation, Fanny would begin to sing. She had afine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus, and it went well. Paul was not at all embarrassed, after a while, sitting in the room withthe half a dozen work-girls. 

At the end of the song Fanny would say:

"I know you've been laughing at me. "

"Don't be so soft, Fanny!" cried one of the girls. 

Once there was mention of Connie's red hair. 

"Fanny's is better, to my fancy, " said Emma. 

"You needn't try to make a fool of me, " said Fanny, flushing deeply. 

"No, but she has, Paul; she's got beautiful hair. "

"It's a treat of a colour, " said he. "That coldish colour like earth, and yet shiny. It's like bog-water. "

"Goodness me!" exclaimed one girl, laughing. 

"How I do but get criticised, " said Fanny. 

"But you should see it down, Paul, " cried Emma earnestly. "It's simplybeautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants something to paint. "

Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to. 

"Then I'll take it down myself, " said the lad. 

"Well, you can if you like, " said Fanny. 

And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush of hair, ofuniform dark brown, slid over the humped back. 

"What a lovely lot!" he exclaimed. 

The girls watched. There was silence. The youth shook the hair loosefrom the coil. 

"It's splendid!" he said, smelling its perfume. "I'll bet it's worthpounds. "

"I'll leave it you when I die, Paul, " said Fanny, half joking. 

"You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair, " said oneof the girls to the long-legged hunchback. 

Poor Fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults. Polly wascurt and businesslike. The two departments were for ever at war, andPaul was always finding Fanny in tears. Then he was made the recipientof all her woes, and he had to plead her case with Polly. 

So the time went along happily enough. The factory had a homely feel. No one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyed it when the work gotfaster, towards post-time, and all the men united in labour. He liked towatch his fellow-clerks at work. The man was the work and the work wasthe man, one thing, for the time being. It was different with the girls. The real woman never seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out, waiting. 

From the train going home at night he used to watch the lights of thetown, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blaze in thevalleys. He felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off, there wasa patch of lights at Bulwell like myriad petals shaken to the groundfrom the shed stars; and beyond was the red glare of the furnaces, playing like hot breath on the clouds. 

He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home, up two long hills, down two short hills. He was often tired, and he counted the lampsclimbing the hill above him, how many more to pass. And from thehilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round on the villages fiveor six miles away, that shone like swarms of glittering living things, almost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered thefar-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally the black valleyspace between was traced, violated by a great train rushing south toLondon or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles levelon the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang withtheir passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villagesglittered in silence. 

And then he came to the corner at home, which faced the other sideof the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose withgladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly on the table. 

"It'll help, mother?" he asked wistfully. 

"There's precious little left, " she answered, "after your ticket anddinners and such are taken off. "

Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story, like an ArabianNights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost as if itwere her own life. 

CHAPTER VI

DEATH IN THE FAMILY

ARTHUR MOREL was growing up. He was a quick, careless, impulsive boy, agood deal like his father. He hated study, made a great moan if he hadto work, and escaped as soon as possible to his sport again. 

In appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well made, graceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh colouring, andhis exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with hisgenerous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite. But as he grewolder his temper became uncertain. He flew into rages over nothing, seemed unbearably raw and irritable. 

His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He thought only ofhimself. When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way hehated, even if it were she. When he was in trouble he moaned to herceaselessly. 

"Goodness, boy!" she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said, hated him, "if you don't like it, alter it, and if you can't alter it, put up with it. "

And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he cameto detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body, whichhad been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem toripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable. There cameover him a look of meanness and of paltriness. And when the mean-lookingelderly man bullied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was furious. Moreover, Morel's manners got worse and worse, his habits somewhatdisgusting. When the children were growing up and in the crucial stageof adolescence, the father was like some ugly irritant to their souls. His manners in the house were the same as he used among the colliersdown pit. 

"Dirty nuisance!" Arthur would cry, jumping up and going straight outof the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel persisted the morebecause his children hated it. He seemed to take a kind of satisfactionin disgusting them, and driving them nearly mad, while they were soirritably sensitive at the age of fourteen or fifteen. So that Arthur, who was growing up when his father was degenerate and elderly, hated himworst of all. 

Then, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptuous hatredof his children. 

"There's not a man tries harder for his family!" he would shout. "Hedoes his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I'm notgoing to stand it, I tell you!"

But for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as heimagined, they would have felt sorry. As it was, the battle now went onnearly all between father and children, he persisting in his dirty anddisgusting ways, just to assert his independence. They loathed him. 

Arthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won ascholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother decidedto let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only come home atweek-ends. 

Annie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning about fourshillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since shehad passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in thehouse. 

Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But stillhe stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everythinghe did was for her. She waited for his coming home in the evening, andthen she unburdened herself of all she had pondered, or of all thathad occurred to her during the day. He sat and listened with hisearnestness. The two shared lives. 

William was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her anengagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped at such afabulous price. 

"Eight guineas!" said Morel. "More fool him! If he'd gen me some on't, it 'ud ha' looked better on 'im. "

"Given YOU some of it!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Why give YOU some of it!"

She remembered HE had bought no engagement ring at all, and shepreferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But now theyoung man talked only of the dances to which he went with his betrothed, and the different resplendent clothes she wore; or he told his motherwith glee how they went to the theatre like great swells. 

He wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should come at theChristmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but with no presents. Mrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing footsteps, she rose and went tothe door. William entered. 

"Hello, mother!" He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to present atall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black-and-whitecheck, and furs. 

"Here's Gyp!"

Miss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a small smile. 

"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!" she exclaimed. 

"I am afraid you will be hungry, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?"

William Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly. 

"How should I?" he said. 

"Then I've lost them. Don't be cross with me. "

A frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced roundthe kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glitteringkissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden chairs andlittle deal table. At that moment Morel came in. 

"Hello, dad!"

"Hello, my son! Tha's let on me!"

The two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She gave the samesmile that showed her teeth. 

"How do you do, Mr. Morel?"

Morel bowed obsequiously. 

"I'm very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself verywelcome. "

"Oh, thank you, " she replied, rather amused. 

"You will like to go upstairs, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"If you don't mind; but not if it is any trouble to you. "

"It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box. "

"And don't be an hour dressing yourself up, " said William to hisbetrothed. 

Annie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, precededthe young lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. And Mrs. Morel hadvacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by candlelight. Thecolliers' wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case of extreme illness. 

"Shall I unstrap the box?" asked Annie. 

"Oh, thank you very much!"

Annie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot water. 

"I think she's rather tired, mother, " said William. "It's a beastlyjourney, and we had such a rush. "

"Is there anything I can give her?" asked Mrs. Morel. 

"Oh no, she'll be all right. "

But there was a chill in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss Westerncame down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, very fine for thecollier's kitchen. 

"I told you you'd no need to change, " said William to her. 

"Oh, Chubby!" Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel. "Don't you think he's always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?"

"Is he?" said Mrs. Morel. "That's not very nice of him. "

"It isn't, really!"

"You are cold, " said the mother. "Won't you come near the fire?"

Morel jumped out of his armchair. 

"Come and sit you here!" he cried. "Come and sit you here!"

"No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp, " said William. 

"No, no!" cried Morel. "This cheer's warmest. Come and sit here, MissWesson. "

"Thank you so much, " said the girl, seating herself in the collier'sarmchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of thekitchen penetrate her. 

"Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!" she said, putting up her mouth to him, and using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made therest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The younglady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures toher for the present. William winced. 

In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a ladycondescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainlyclownish--in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself?

"I'll go, " said Annie. 

Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when thegirl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: "Oh, thankyou!" in a gracious way. 

She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been sopoor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, andchattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twisttobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as hepuffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answeredquietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence andadmiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best wasgot out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth, the best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand. She felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how totreat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable. 

At about ten o'clock he said to her:

"Aren't you tired, Gyp?"

"Rather, Chubby, " she answered, at once in the intimate tones andputting her head slightly on one side. 

"I'll light her the candle, mother, " he said. 

"Very well, " replied the mother. 

Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel. 

"Good-night, Mrs. Morel, " she said. 

Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stonebeer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet, andkissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the lady, because the house was full. 

"You wait a minute, " said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursingthe hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to everybody'sdiscomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In five minuteshe was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did not know why. He talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but himself andhis mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old attitude onthe hearthrug, and said hesitatingly:

"Well, mother?"

"Well, my son?"

She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, forhis sake. 

"Do you like her?"

"Yes, " came the slow answer. 

"She's shy yet, mother. She's not used to it. It's different from heraunt's house, you know. "

"Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult. "

"She does. " Then he frowned swiftly. "If only she wouldn't put on herBLESSED airs!"

"It's only her first awkwardness, my boy. She'll be all right. "

"That's it, mother, " he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy. "You know, she's not like you, mother. She's not serious, and she can'tthink. "

"She's young, my boy. "

"Yes; and she's had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was achild. Since then she's lived with her aunt, whom she can't bear. Andher father was a rake. She's had no love. "

"No! Well, you must make up to her. "

"And so--you have to forgive her a lot of things. "

"WHAT do you have to forgive her, my boy?"

"I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she's never hadanybody to bring her deeper side out. And she's FEARFULLY fond of me. "

"Anybody can see that. "

"But you know, mother--she's--she's different from us. Those sort ofpeople, like those she lives amongst, they don't seem to have the sameprinciples. "

"You mustn't judge too hastily, " said Mrs. Morel. 

But he seemed uneasy within himself. 

In the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house. 

"Hello!" he called, sitting on the stairs. "Are you getting up?"

"Yes, " her voice called faintly. 

"Merry Christmas!" he shouted to her. 

Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did notcome down in half an hour. 

"Was she REALLY getting up when she said she was?" he asked of Annie. 

"Yes, she was, " replied Annie. 

He waited a while, then went to the stairs again. 

"Happy New Year, " he called. 

"Thank you, Chubby dear!" came the laughing voice, far away. 

"Buck up!" he implored. 

It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, whoalways rose before six, looked at the clock. 

"Well, it's a winder!" he exclaimed. 

The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of thestairs. 

"Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?" he called, rathercrossly. She only laughed. The family expected, after that time ofpreparation, something like magic. At last she came, looking very nicein a blouse and skirt. 

"Have you REALLY been all this time getting ready?" he asked. 

"Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. Morel?"

She played the grand lady at first. When she went with Williamto chapel, he in his frock-coat and silk hat, she in her furs andLondon-made costume, Paul and Arthur and Annie expected everybody to bowto the ground in admiration. And Morel, standing in his Sunday suitat the end of the road, watching the gallant pair go, felt he was thefather of princes and princesses. 

And yet she was not so grand. For a year now she had been a sort ofsecretary or clerk in a London office. But while she was with the Morelsshe queened it. She sat and let Annie or Paul wait on her as if theywere her servants. She treated Mrs. Morel with a certain glibness andMorel with patronage. But after a day or so she began to change hertune. 

William always wanted Paul or Annie to go along with them on theirwalks. It was so much more interesting. And Paul really DID admire"Gipsy" wholeheartedly; in fact, his mother scarcely forgave the boy forthe adulation with which he treated the girl. 

On the second day, when Lily said: "Oh, Annie, do you know where I leftmy muff?" William replied:

"You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie?"

And Lily went upstairs with a cross, shut mouth. But it angered theyoung man that she made a servant of his sister. 

On the third evening William and Lily were sitting together in theparlour by the fire in the dark. At a quarter to eleven Mrs. Morel washeard raking the fire. William came out to the kitchen, followed by hisbeloved. 

"Is it as late as that, mother?" he said. She had been sitting alone. 

"It is not LATE, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up. "

"Won't you go to bed, then?" he asked. 

"And leave you two? No, my boy, I don't believe in it. "

"Can't you trust us, mother?"

"Whether I can or not, I won't do it. You can stay till eleven if youlike, and I can read. "

"Go to bed, Gyp, " he said to his girl. "We won't keep mater waiting. "

"Annie has left the candle burning, Lily, " said Mrs. Morel; "I think youwill see. "

"Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel. "

William kissed his sweetheart at the foot of the stairs, and she went. He returned to the kitchen. 

"Can't you trust us, mother?" he repeated, rather offended. 

"My boy, I tell you I don't BELIEVE in leaving two young things like youalone downstairs when everyone else is in bed. "

And he was forced to take this answer. He kissed his mother good-night. 

At Easter he came over alone. And then he discussed his sweetheartendlessly with his mother. 

"You know, mother, when I'm away from her I don't care for her a bit. Ishouldn't care if I never saw her again. But, then, when I'm with her inthe evenings I am awfully fond of her. "

"It's a queer sort of love to marry on, " said Mrs. Morel, "if she holdsyou no more than that!"

"It IS funny!" he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him. "Butyet--there's so much between us now I couldn't give her up. "

"You know best, " said Mrs. Morel. "But if it is as you say, I wouldn'tcall it LOVE--at any rate, it doesn't look much like it. "

"Oh, I don't know, mother. She's an orphan, and--"

They never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled and ratherfretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength and money wentin keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford to take his mother toNottingham when he came over. 

Paul's wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings, to his greatjoy. He was quite happy at Jordan's, but his health suffered from thelong hours and the confinement. His mother, to whom he became more andmore significant, thought how to help. 

His half-day holiday was on Monday afternoon. On a Monday morning inMay, as the two sat alone at breakfast, she said:

"I think it will be a fine day. "

He looked up in surprise. This meant something. 

"You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, he asked melast week if I wouldn't go and see Mrs. Leivers, and I promised to bringyou on Monday if it's fine. Shall we go?"

"I say, little woman, how lovely!" he cried. "And we'll go thisafternoon?"

Paul hurried off to the station jubilant. Down Derby Road was acherry-tree that glistened. The old brick wall by the Statutes groundburned scarlet, spring was a very flame of green. And the steep swoopof highroad lay, in its cool morning dust, splendid with patterns ofsunshine and shadow, perfectly still. The trees sloped their great greenshoulders proudly; and inside the warehouse all the morning, the boy hada vision of spring outside. 

When he came home at dinner-time his mother was rather excited. 

"Are we going?" he asked. 

"When I'm ready, " she replied. 

Presently he got up. 

"Go and get dressed while I wash up, " he said. 

She did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took her boots. They were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those naturally exquisitepeople who can walk in mud without dirtying their shoes. But Paul had toclean them for her. They were kid boots at eight shillings a pair. He, however, thought them the most dainty boots in the world, and he cleanedthem with as much reverence as if they had been flowers. 

Suddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She had got anew cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward. 

"Oh, my stars!" he exclaimed. "What a bobby-dazzler!"

She sniffed in a little haughty way, and put her head up. 

"It's not a bobby-dazzler at all!" she replied. "It's very quiet. "

She walked forward, whilst he hovered round her. 

"Well, " she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and mighty, "doyou like it?"

"Awfully! You ARE a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!"

He went and surveyed her from the back. 

"Well, " he said, "if I was walking down the street behind you, I shouldsay: 'Doesn't THAT little person fancy herself!"'

"Well, she doesn't, " replied Mrs. Morel. "She's not sure it suits her. "

"Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped inburnt paper. It DOES suit you, and I say you look nice. "

She sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know better. 

"Well, " she said, "it's cost me just three shillings. You couldn't havegot it ready-made for that price, could you?"

"I should think you couldn't, " he replied. 

"And, you know, it's good stuff. "

"Awfully pretty, " he said. 

The blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black. 

"Too young for me, though, I'm afraid, " she said. 

"Too young for you!" he exclaimed in disgust. "Why don't you buy somefalse white hair and stick it on your head. "

"I s'll soon have no need, " she replied. "I'm going white fast enough. "

"Well, you've no business to, " he said. "What do I want with awhite-haired mother?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to put up with one, my lad, " she said ratherstrangely. 

They set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William had givenher, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller than she, thoughhe was not big. He fancied himself. 

On the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit waved itsplumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely. 

"Now look at that!" said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood on the road towatch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hill crawled a little groupin silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small truck, and a man. Theyclimbed the incline against the heavens. At the end the man tipped thewagon. There was an undue rattle as the waste fell down the sheer slopeof the enormous bank. 

"You sit a minute, mother, " he said, and she took a seat on a bank, whilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, lookinground at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among their greenness. 

"The world is a wonderful place, " she said, "and wonderfully beautiful. "

"And so's the pit, " he said. "Look how it heaps together, like somethingalive almost--a big creature that you don't know. "

"Yes, " she said. "Perhaps!"

"And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to befed, " he said. 

"And very thankful I am they ARE standing, " she said, "for that meansthey'll turn middling time this week. "

"But I like the feel of MEN on things, while they're alive. There's afeel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands, all of them. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Morel. 

They went along under the trees of the highroad. He was constantlyinforming her, but she was interested. They passed the end ofNethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly inits lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepidationapproached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman came out to see. 

"Is this the way to Willey Farm?" Mrs. Morel asked. 

Paul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman wasamiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through the wheatand oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Peewits, with theirwhite breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed about them. The lake wasstill and blue. High overhead a heron floated. Opposite, the wood heapedon the hill, green and still. 

"It's a wild road, mother, " said Paul. "Just like Canada. "

"Isn't it beautiful!" said Mrs. Morel, looking round. 

"See that heron--see--see her legs?"

He directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And she wasquite content. 

"But now, " she said, "which way? He told me through the wood. "

The wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left. 

"I can feel a bit of a path this road, " said Paul. "You've got townfeet, somehow or other, you have. "

They found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley of thewood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an old oak gladedipping down on the other. And among the oaks the bluebells stood inpools of azure, under the new green hazels, upon a pale fawn floor ofoak-leaves. He found flowers for her. 

"Here's a bit of new-mown hay, " he said; then, again, he brought herforget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand, used with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She wasperfectly happy. 

But at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in asecond. 

"Come, " he said, "let me help you. "

"No, go away. I will do it in my own way. "

He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbedcautiously. 

"What a way to climb!" he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely toearth again. 

"Hateful stiles!" she cried. 

"Duffer of a little woman, " he replied, "who can't get over 'em. "

In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farmbuildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the appleorchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deepunder a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade. The farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced thesunshine towards the wood. It was very still. 

Mother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scentof red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out tocool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenlyappeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, hada rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, anddark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, shedisappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman, rosy, with great dark brown eyes. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, "you've come, then. IAM glad to see you. " Her voice was intimate and rather sad. 

The two women shook hands. 

"Now are you sure we're not a bother to you?" said Mrs. Morel. "I knowwhat a farming life is. "

"Oh no! We're only too thankful to see a new face, it's so lost uphere. "

"I suppose so, " said Mrs. Morel. 

They were taken through into the parlour--a long, low room, with a greatbunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilstPaul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling thegillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly tothe heap of coal which stood by the fence. 

"I suppose these are cabbage-roses?" he said to her, pointing to thebushes along the fence. 

She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes. 

"I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?" he said. 

"I don't know, " she faltered. "They're white with pink middles. "

"Then they're maiden-blush. "

Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring. 

"I don't know, " she said. 

"You don't have MUCH in your garden, " he said. 

"This is our first year here, " she answered, in a distant, rathersuperior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, butwent his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and theywent through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted. 

"And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?"said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers. 

"No, " replied the little woman. "I can't find time to look after cattle, and I'm not used to it. It's as much as I can do to keep going in thehouse. "

"Well, I suppose it is, " said Mrs. Morel. 

Presently the girl came out. 

"Tea is ready, mother, " she said in a musical, quiet voice. 

"Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we'll come, " replied her mother, almostingratiatingly. "Would you CARE to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?"

"Of course, " said Mrs. Morel. "Whenever it's ready. "

Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then theywent out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while fumyforget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were in ecstasytogether. 

When they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the eldestson, were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then Geoffrey andMaurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in from school. Mr. Leivers was a good-looking man in the prime of life, with a golden-brownmoustache, and blue eyes screwed up against the weather. 

The boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. They wentround for eggs, scrambling into all sorts of places. As they werefeeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no notice of her. Onehen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. Maurice took his hand fullof corn and let the hen peck from it. 

"Durst you do it?" he asked of Paul. 

"Let's see, " said Paul. 

He had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam watched. He held the corn to the hen. The bird eyed it with her hard, bright eye, and suddenly made a peck into his hand. He started, and laughed. "Rap, rap, rap!" went the bird's beak in his palm. He laughed again, and theother boys joined. 

"She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts, " said Paul, when thelast corn had gone. "Now, Miriam, " said Maurice, "you come an 'ave ago. "

"No, " she cried, shrinking back. 

"Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!" said her brothers. 

"It doesn't hurt a bit, " said Paul. "It only just nips rather nicely. "

"No, " she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking. 

"She dursn't, " said Geoffrey. "She niver durst do anything except recitepoitry. "

"Dursn't jump off a gate, dursn't tweedle, dursn't go on a slide, dursn't stop a girl hittin' her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin'herself somebody. 'The Lady of the Lake. ' Yah!" cried Maurice. 

Miriam was crimson with shame and misery. 

"I dare do more than you, " she cried. "You're never anything but cowardsand bullies. "

"Oh, cowards and bullies!" they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech. 

 "Not such a clown shall anger me, A boor is answered silently, "

he quoted against her, shouting with laughter. 

She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where theyhad rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was moreagile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossomthat hung low on a swinging bough. 

"I wouldn't get the apple-blossom, " said Edgar, the eldest brother. "There'll be no apples next year. "

"I wasn't going to get it, " replied Paul, going away. 

The boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their ownpursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his mother. As hewent round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in front of the hen-coop, some maize in her hand, biting her lip, and crouching in an intenseattitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. Very gingerly she put forwardher hand. The hen bobbed for her. She drew back quickly with a cry, halfof fear, half of chagrin. 

"It won't hurt you, " said Paul. 

She flushed crimson and started up. 

"I only wanted to try, " she said in a low voice. 

"See, it doesn't hurt, " he said, and, putting only two corns in hispalm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. "It only makesyou laugh, " he said. 

She put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and startedback with a cry. He frowned. 

"Why, I'd let her take corn from my face, " said Paul, "only she bumps abit. She's ever so neat. If she wasn't, look how much ground she'd peckup every day. "

He waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird peck fromher hand. She gave a little cry--fear, and pain because of fear--ratherpathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again. 

"There, you see, " said the boy. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

She looked at him with dilated dark eyes. 

"No, " she laughed, trembling. 

Then she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some way resentfulof the boy. 

"He thinks I'm only a common girl, " she thought, and she wanted to proveshe was a grand person like the "Lady of the Lake". 

Paul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her son. He tookthe great bunch of flowers. Mr. And Mrs. Leivers walked down the fieldswith them. The hills were golden with evening; deep in the woods showedthe darkening purple of bluebells. It was everywhere perfectly stiff, save for the rustling of leaves and birds. 

"But it is a beautiful place, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Yes, " answered Mr. Leivers; "it's a nice little place, if only itweren't for the rabbits. The pasture's bitten down to nothing. I dunnoif ever I s'll get the rent off it. "

He clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near the woods, brown rabbits hopping everywhere. 

"Would you believe it!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel. 

She and Paul went on alone together. 

"Wasn't it lovely, mother?" he said quietly. 

A thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness till ithurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted to cry withhappiness. 

"Now WOULDN'T I help that man!" she said. "WOULDN'T I see to the fowlsand the young stock! And I'D learn to milk, and I'D talk with him, andI'D plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the farm would be run, I know! But there, she hasn't the strength--she simply hasn't thestrength. She ought never to have been burdened like it, you know. I'msorry for her, and I'm sorry for him too. My word, if I'D had him, Ishouldn't have thought him a bad husband! Not that she does either; andshe's very lovable. "

William came home again with his sweetheart at the Whitsuntide. He hadone week of his holidays then. It was beautiful weather. As a rule, William and Lily and Paul went out in the morning together for a walk. William did not talk to his beloved much, except to tell her things fromhis boyhood. Paul talked endlessly to both of them. They lay down, allthree, in a meadow by Minton Church. On one side, by the Castle Farm, was a beautiful quivering screen of poplars. Hawthorn was droppingfrom the hedges; penny daisies and ragged robin were in the field, likelaughter. William, a big fellow of twenty-three, thinner now and even abit gaunt, lay back in the sunshine and dreamed, while she fingered withhis hair. Paul went gathering the big daisies. She had taken off herhat; her hair was black as a horse's mane. Paul came back and threadeddaisies in her jet-black hair--big spangles of white and yellow, andjust a pink touch of ragged robin. 

"Now you look like a young witch-woman, " the boy said to her. "Doesn'tshe, William?"

Lily laughed. William opened his eyes and looked at her. In his gaze wasa certain baffled look of misery and fierce appreciation. 

"Has he made a sight of me?" she asked, laughing down on her lover. 

"That he has!" said William, smiling. 

He looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glanced at herflower-decked head and frowned. 

"You look nice enough, if that's what you want to know, " he said. 

And she walked without her hat. In a little while William recovered, andwas rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he carved her initials andhis in a heart. 

L. L. W. 

W. M. 

She watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glistening hairs andfreckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it. 

All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and a certaintenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were at home. But oftenhe got irritable. She had brought, for an eight-days' stay, five dressesand six blouses. 

"Oh, would you mind, " she said to Annie, "washing me these two blouses, and these things?"

And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next morning. Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching a glimpseof his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister, hated her. 

On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard, silkyand sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and in a large cream hatcovered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough. But in the evening, when she was going out, she asked again:

"Chubby, have you got my gloves?"

"Which?" asked William. 

"My new black SUEDE. "

"No. "

There was a hunt. She had lost them. 

"Look here, mother, " said William, "that's the fourth pair she's lostsince Christmas--at five shillings a pair!"

"You only gave me TWO of them, " she remonstrated. 

And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst shesat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he hadleft her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at abook. After supper William wanted to write a letter. 

"Here is your book, Lily, " said Mrs. Morel. "Would you care to go onwith it for a few minutes?"

"No, thank you, " said the girl. "I will sit still. "

"But it is so dull. "

William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelopehe said:

"Read a book! Why, she's never read a book in her life. "

"Oh, go along!" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration, "It's true, mother--she hasn't, " he cried, jumping up and taking his oldposition on the hearthrug. "She's never read a book in her life. "

"'Er's like me, " chimed in Morel. "'Er canna see what there is i' books, ter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I. "

"But you shouldn't say these things, " said Mrs. Morel to her son. 

"But it's true, mother--she CAN'T read. What did you give her?"

"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants to readdry stuff on Sunday afternoon. "

"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it. "

"You are mistaken, " said his mother. 

All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly. 

"DID you read any?" he asked. 

"Yes, I did, " she replied. 

"How much?"

"I don't know how many pages. "

"Tell me ONE THING you read. "

She could not. 

She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had aquick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but love-makingand chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughts sifted throughhis mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and was asked inreply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed. 

"You know, mother, " he said, when he was alone with her at night, "she'sno idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When she's paid, she'llsuddenly buy such rot as marrons glaces, and then I have to buy herseason ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants toget married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year. But at this rate--"

"A fine mess of a marriage it would be, " replied his mother. "I shouldconsider it again, my boy. "

"Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now, " he said, "and so I shallget married as soon as I can. "

"Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there's no stopping you;but I tell you, I can't sleep when I think about it. "

"Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage. "

"And she lets you buy her underclothing?" asked the mother. 

"Well, " he began apologetically, "she didn't ask me; but onemorning--and it WAS cold--I found her on the station shivering, not ableto keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: 'Ithink so. ' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings on?' And shesaid: 'No, they were cotton. ' I asked her why on earth she hadn't gotsomething thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she HADnothing. And there she is--a bronchial subject! I HAD to take her andget some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn't mind the money if wehad any. And, you know, she OUGHT to keep enough to pay for herseason-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to findthe money. "

"It's a poor lookout, " said Mrs. Morel bitterly. 

He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly carelessand laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair. 

"But I can't give her up now; it's gone too far, " he said. "And, besides, for SOME things I couldn't do without her. "

"My boy, remember you're taking your life in your hands, " said Mrs. Morel. "NOTHING is as bad as a marriage that's a hopeless failure. Minewas bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but itmight have been worse by a long chalk. "

He leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece, his handsin his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who looked as if he wouldgo to the world's end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on hisface. 

"I couldn't give her up now, " he said. 

"Well, " she said, "remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off anengagement. "

"I can't give her up NOW, " he said. 

The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflictbetween them; but he would say no more. At last she said:

"Well, go to bed, my son. You'll feel better in the morning, and perhapsyou'll know better. "

He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy nowas it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to bebreaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. Nowher soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck. 

And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railing against her. 

"Well, " he said, "if you don't believe me, what she's like, would youbelieve she has been confirmed three times?"

"Nonsense!" laughed Mrs. Morel. 

"Nonsense or not, she HAS! That's what confirmation means for her--a bitof a theatrical show where she can cut a figure. "

"I haven't, Mrs. Morel!" cried the girl--"I haven't! it is not true!"

"What!" he cried, flashing round on her. "Once in Bromley, once inBeckenham, and once somewhere else. "

"Nowhere else!" she said, in tears--"nowhere else!"

"It WAS! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed TWICE?"

"Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel, " she pleaded, tears in her eyes. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Morel; "I can quite understand it, child. Take nonotice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things. "

"But it's true. She's religious--she had blue velvet Prayer-Books--andshe's not as much religion, or anything else, in her than thattable-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, andthat's how she is in EVERYTHING--EVERYTHING!"

The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong. 

"As for LOVE!" he cried, "you might as well ask a fly to love you! It'lllove settling on you--"

"Now, say no more, " commanded Mrs. Morel. "If you want to say thesethings, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, William! Why don't you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault witha girl, and then pretend you're engaged to her!"

Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation. 

William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted thegirl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her. 

When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far asNottingham. It was a long way to Keston station. 

"You know, mother, " he said to her, "Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deepwith her. "

"William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things, " said Mrs. Morel, veryuncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her. 

"But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now, but if Idied she'd have forgotten me in three months. "

Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the quietbitterness of her son's last speech. 

"How do you know?" she replied. "You DON'T know, and therefore you've noright to say such a thing. "

"He's always saying these things!" cried the girl. 

"In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else, and Ishould be forgotten, " he said. "And that's your love!"

Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she returnedhome. 

"There's one comfort, " she said to Paul--"he'll never have any money tomarry on, that I AM sure of. And so she'll save him that way. "

So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmlybelieved William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, and she keptPaul near to her. 

All summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemedunnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly, usually hewas flat and bitter in his letter. 

"Ah, " his mother said, "I'm afraid he's ruining himself against thatcreature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no more than a rag doll. "

He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; it was a longwhile to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, saying he could comefor Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the first week in October. 

"You are not well, my boy, " said his mother, when she saw him. She wasalmost in tears at having him to herself again. 

"No, I've not been well, " he said. "I've seemed to have a dragging coldall the last month, but it's going, I think. "

It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboyescaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt thanever, and there was a haggard look in his eyes. 

"You are doing too much, " said his mother to him. 

He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on, he said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night; then he was sadand tender about his beloved. 

"And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd bebroken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. You'dsee, she'd never come home here to look at my grave, not even once. "

"Why, William, " said his mother, "you're not going to die, so why talkabout it?"

"But whether or not--" he replied. 

"And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you choose her--well, you can't grumble, " said his mother. 

On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:

"Look, " he said to his mother, holding up his chin, "what a rash mycollar's made under my chin!"

Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation. 

"It ought not to do that, " said his mother. "Here, put a bit of thissoothing ointment on. You should wear different collars. "

He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solid for histwo days at home. 

On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs. Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram, called a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign, puton her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught an express forLondon in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottingham nearly an hour. Asmall figure in her black bonnet, she was anxiously asking the portersif they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. Shesat in her corner in a kind of stupor, never moving. At King's Crossstill no one could tell her how to get to Elmers End. Carrying herstring bag, that contained her nightdress, a comb and brush, she wentfrom person to person. At last they sent her underground to CannonStreet. 

It was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The blindswere not down. 

"How is he?" she asked. 

"No better, " said the landlady. 

She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with bloodshoteyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were tossed about, therewas no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood on the stand at hisbedside. No one had been with him. 

"Why, my son!" said the mother bravely. 

He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then he beganto say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dictation: "Owingto a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and becomeconverted into rock. It needed hacking--"

He was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine some suchcargo of sugar in the Port of London. 

"How long has he been like this?" the mother asked the landlady. 

"He got home at six o'clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleepall day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning heasked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor. "

"Will you have a fire made?"

Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still. 

The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar erysipelas, which had started under the chin where the collar chafed, and wasspreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain. 

Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, prayed that hewould recognise her. But the young man's face grew more discoloured. In the night she struggled with him. He raved, and raved, and would notcome to consciousness. At two o'clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died. 

Mrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom; thenshe roused the household. 

At six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; thenshe went round the dreary London village to the registrar and thedoctor. 

At nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire:

"William died last night. Let father come, bring money. "

Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone to work. Thethree children said not a word. Annie began to whimper with fear; Paulset off for his father. 

It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly inthe sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkledhigh up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busynoise. 

"I want my father; he's got to go to London, " said the boy to the firstman he met on the bank. 

"Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an' tell Joe Ward. "

Paul went into the little top office. 

"I want my father; he's got to go to London. "

"Thy feyther? Is he down? What's his name?"

"Mr. Morel. "

"What, Walter? Is owt amiss?"

"He's got to go to London. "

The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office. 

"Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat's amiss; there's his ladhere. "

Then he turned round to Paul. 

"He'll be up in a few minutes, " he said. 

Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up, with itswagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest, a full carflewas hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, a bell ting'edsomewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone. 

Paul did not realise William was dead; it was impossible, with sucha bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to theturn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curvinglines. 

"And William is dead, and my mother's in London, and what will she bedoing?" the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum. 

He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last, standing beside a wagon, a man's form! the chair sank on its rests, Morel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident. 

"Is it thee, Paul? Is 'e worse?"

"You've got to go to London. "

The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. Asthey came out and went along the railway, with the sunny autumn field onone side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a frightenedvoice:

"'E's niver gone, child?"

"Yes. "

"When wor't?"

"Last night. We had a telegram from my mother. "

Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a truck-side, his hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round, waiting. On the weighing machine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saweverything, except his father leaning against the truck as if he weretired. 

Morel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared andpeaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children were leftalone in the house. Paul went to work, Arthur went to school, and Anniehad in a friend to be with her. 

On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, coming home fromKeston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to Sethley BridgeStation. They were walking in silence in the dark, tired, stragglingapart. The boy waited. 

"Mother!" he said, in the darkness. 

Mrs. Morel's small figure seemed not to observe. He spoke again. 

"Paul!" she said, uninterestedly. 

She let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him. 

In the house she was the same--small, white, and mute. She noticednothing, she said nothing, only:

"The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You'd better see about somehelp. " Then, turning to the children: "We're bringing him home. "

Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space, her handsfolded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he could not breathe. Thehouse was dead silent. 

"I went to work, mother, " he said plaintively. 

"Did you?" she answered, dully. 

After half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again. 

"Wheer s'll we ha'e him when he DOES come?" he asked his wife. 

"In the front-room. "

"Then I'd better shift th' table?"

"Yes. "

"An' ha'e him across th' chairs?"

"You know there--Yes, I suppose so. "

Morel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There was no gasthere. The father unscrewed the top of the big mahogany oval table, andcleared the middle of the room; then he arranged six chairs oppositeeach other, so that the coffin could stand on their beds. 

"You niver seed such a length as he is!" said the miner, and watchinganxiously as he worked. 

Paul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-tree stood monstrousand black in front of the wide darkness. It was a faintly luminousnight. Paul went back to his mother. 

At ten o'clock Morel called:

"He's here!"

Everyone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlocking the frontdoor, which opened straight from the night into the room. 

"Bring another candle, " called Morel. 

Annie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He stood with hisarm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down the middle of the clearedroom waited six chairs, face to face. In the window, against the lacecurtains, Arthur held up one candle, and by the open door, against thenight, Annie stood leaning forward, her brass candlestick glittering. 

There was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of the streetbelow Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, and a fewpale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves, seemed tostruggle in the obscurity. Presently two men appeared, bowed beneath agreat weight. It was Morel and his neighbour. 

"Steady!" called Morel, out of breath. 

He and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved into thecandlelight with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other men were seenstruggling behind. Morel and Burns, in front, staggered; the great darkweight swayed. 

"Steady, steady!" cried Morel, as if in pain. 

All the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding the greatcoffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door. The yellow lampof the carriage shone alone down the black road. 

"Now then!" said Morel. 

The coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with theirload. Annie's candle flickered, and she whimpered as the first menappeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men struggled to climbinto the room, bearing the coffin that rode like sorrow on their livingflesh. 

"Oh, my son--my son!" Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each time the coffinswung to the unequal climbing of the men: "Oh, my son--my son--my son!"

"Mother!" Paul whimpered, his hand round her waist. 

She did not hear. 

"Oh, my son--my son!" she repeated. 

Paul saw drops of sweat fall from his father's brow. Six men were inthe room--six coatless men, with yielding, struggling limbs, fillingthe room and knocking against the furniture. The coffin veered, and wasgently lowered on to the chairs. The sweat fell from Morel's face on itsboards. 

"My word, he's a weight!" said a man, and the five miners sighed, bowed, and, trembling with the struggle, descended the steps again, closing thedoor behind them. 

The family was alone in the parlour with the great polished box. William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like a monumentlay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought it would never begot out of the room again. His mother was stroking the polished wood. 

They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the hillsidethat looks over the fields at the big church and the houses. It wassunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves in the warmth. 

Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take her oldbright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way home in thetrain she had said to herself: "If only it could have been me!"

When Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting, her day's workdone, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse apron. She alwaysused to have changed her dress and put on a black apron, before. NowAnnie set his supper, and his mother sat looking blankly in front ofher, her mouth shut tight. Then he beat his brains for news to tell her. 

"Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of acolliery at work was beautiful. "

But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself totell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost insaneto have her thus. At last:

"What's a-matter, mother?" he asked. 

She did not hear. 

"What's a-matter?" he persisted. "Mother, what's a-matter?"

"You know what's the matter, " she said irritably, turning away. 

The lad--he was sixteen years old--went to bed drearily. He was cut offand wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried, but she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son;he had been let to die so cruelly. 

At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in hispocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and herheart stood still. 

"What's the matter?" she asked. 

"I'm badly, mother!" he replied. "Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings fora Christmas-box!"

He handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the table. 

"You aren't glad!" he reproached her; but he trembled violently. 

"Where hurts you?" she said, unbuttoning his overcoat. 

It was the old question. 

"I feel badly, mother. "

She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, thedoctor said. 

"Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not let him go toNottingham?" was one of the first things she asked. 

"He might not have been so bad, " said the doctor. 

Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground. 

"I should have watched the living, not the dead, " she told herself. 

Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they couldnot afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. Onenight he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling ofdissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritabilityto be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle, like madness. 

"I s'll die, mother!" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow. 

She lifted him up, crying in a small voice:

"Oh, my son--my son!"

That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up andarrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her forlove. 

"For some things, " said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paul was ill thatChristmas. I believe it saved his mother. "

Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His fatherhad bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame inthe window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to hismother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's lifenow rooted itself in Paul. 

William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a letterfrom Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a letter at the NewYear. 

"I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and Ienjoyed myself thoroughly, " said the letter. "I had every dance--did notsit out one. "

Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her. 

Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after thedeath of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyedand blank across the room. Then he got up suddenly and hurried out tothe Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his lifewould he go for a walk up Shepstone, past the office where his son hadworked, and he always avoided the cemetery. 

PART TWO

CHAPTER VII

LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE

PAUL had been many times up to Willey Farm during the autumn. Hewas friends with the two youngest boys. Edgar the eldest, would notcondescend at first. And Miriam also refused to be approached. She wasafraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers. The girl wasromantic in her soul. Everywhere was a Walter Scott heroine beingloved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps. She herself wassomething of a princess turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination. And she was afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked somethinglike a Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knewwhat algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every day, mightconsider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to perceive the princessbeneath; so she held aloof. 

Her great companion was her mother. They were both brown-eyed, andinclined to be mystical, such women as treasure religion inside them, breathe it in their nostrils, and see the whole of life in a mistthereof. So to Miriam, Christ and God made one great figure, which sheloved tremblingly and passionately when a tremendous sunset burnedout the western sky, and Ediths, and Lucys, and Rowenas, Brian de BoisGuilberts, Rob Roys, and Guy Mannerings, rustled the sunny leaves in themorning, or sat in her bedroom aloft, alone, when it snowed. That waslife to her. For the rest, she drudged in the house, which work shewould not have minded had not her clean red floor been mucked upimmediately by the trampling farm-boots of her brothers. She madlywanted her little brother of four to let her swathe him and stiflehim in her love; she went to church reverently, with bowed head, andquivered in anguish from the vulgarity of the other choir-girls and fromthe common-sounding voice of the curate; she fought with her brothers, whom she considered brutal louts; and she held not her father in toohigh esteem because he did not carry any mystical ideals cherished inhis heart, but only wanted to have as easy a time as he could, and hismeals when he was ready for them. 

She hated her position as swine-girl. She wanted to be considered. Shewanted to learn, thinking that if she could read, as Paul said he couldread, "Colomba", or the "Voyage autour de ma Chambre", the world wouldhave a different face for her and a deepened respect. She could not beprincess by wealth or standing. So she was mad to have learning whereonto pride herself. For she was different from other folk, and must notbe scooped up among the common fry. Learning was the only distinction towhich she thought to aspire. 

Her beauty--that of a shy, wild, quiveringly sensitive thing--seemednothing to her. Even her soul, so strong for rhapsody, was not enough. She must have something to reinforce her pride, because she feltdifferent from other people. Paul she eyed rather wistfully. On thewhole, she scorned the male sex. But here was a new specimen, quick, light, graceful, who could be gentle and who could be sad, and who wasclever, and who knew a lot, and who had a death in the family. The boy'spoor morsel of learning exalted him almost sky-high in her esteem. Yet she tried hard to scorn him, because he would not see in her theprincess but only the swine-girl. And he scarcely observed her. 

Then he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak. Then she would bestronger than he. Then she could love him. If she could be mistress ofhim in his weakness, take care of him, if he could depend on her, if shecould, as it were, have him in her arms, how she would love him!

As soon as the skies brightened and plum-blossom was out, Paul drove offin the milkman's heavy float up to Willey Farm. Mr. Leivers shouted in akindly fashion at the boy, then clicked to the horse as they climbed thehill slowly, in the freshness of the morning. White clouds went ontheir way, crowding to the back of the hills that were rousing in thespringtime. The water of Nethermere lay below, very blue against theseared meadows and the thorn-trees. 

It was four and a half miles' drive. Tiny buds on the hedges, vividas copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes called, andblackbirds shrieked and scolded. It was a new, glamorous world. 

Miriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse walk throughthe big white gate into the farmyard that was backed by the oak-wood, still bare. Then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbed down. He put uphis hands for the whip and the rug that the good-looking, ruddy farmerhanded down to him. 

Miriam appeared in the doorway. She was nearly sixteen, very beautiful, with her warm colouring, her gravity, her eyes dilating suddenly like anecstasy. 

"I say, " said Paul, turning shyly aside, "your daffodils are nearly out. Isn't it early? But don't they look cold?"

"Cold!" said Miriam, in her musical, caressing voice. 

"The green on their buds--" and he faltered into silence timidly. 

"Let me take the rug, " said Miriam over-gently. 

"I can carry it, " he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it to her. 

Then Mrs. Leivers appeared. 

"I'm sure you're tired and cold, " she said. "Let me take your coat. ItIS heavy. You mustn't walk far in it. "

She helped him off with his coat. He was quite unused to such attention. She was almost smothered under its weight. 

"Why, mother, " laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen, swinging the great milk-churns, "you've got almost more than you canmanage there. "

She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth. 

The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originallya labourer's cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paulloved it--loved the sack-bag that formed the hearthrug, and the funnylittle corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner, through which, bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the backgarden and the lovely round hills beyond. 

"Won't you lie down?" said Mrs. Leivers. 

"Oh no; I'm not tired, " he said. "Isn't it lovely coming out, don't youthink? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I'm gladit's sunny. "

"Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?"

"No, thank you. "

"How's your mother?"

"I think she's tired now. I think she's had too much to do. Perhaps in alittle while she'll go to Skegness with me. Then she'll be able to rest. I s'll be glad if she can. "

"Yes, " replied Mrs. Leivers. "It's a wonder she isn't ill herself. "

Miriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched everything thathappened. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were quick and brightwith life as ever. He watched the strange, almost rhapsodic way in whichthe girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or lookingin the saucepan. The atmosphere was different from that of his own home, where everything seemed so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudlyoutside to the horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushesin the garden, the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as ifsomething had come breaking in on her world. There was a sense ofsilence inside the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, a maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical. And her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots seemed onlylike the romantic rags of King Cophetua's beggar-maid. 

She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her allin. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. Sheresented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was notpulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwardsher hands trembled slightly at her work. She nearly dropped all shehandled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered withtrepidation. She resented that he saw so much. 

Mrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she wasneeded at her work. She was too polite to leave him. Presently sheexcused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tinsaucepan. 

"Oh DEAR, Miriam, " she cried, "these potatoes have boiled dry!"

Miriam started as if she had been stung. 

"HAVE they, mother?" she cried. 

"I shouldn't care, Miriam, " said the mother, "if I hadn't trusted themto you. " She peered into the pan. 

The girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; sheremained standing in the same spot. 

"Well, " she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, "I'm sure Ilooked at them five minutes since. "

"Yes, " said the mother, "I know it's easily done. "

"They're not much burned, " said Paul. "It doesn't matter, does it?"

Mrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes. 

"It wouldn't matter but for the boys, " she said to him. "Only Miriamknows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are 'caught'. "

"Then, " thought Paul to himself, "you shouldn't let them make atrouble. "

After a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots werecovered with earth. He was rather small, rather formal, for a farmer. Heglanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said:

"Dinner ready?"

"Nearly, Edgar, " replied the mother apologetically. 

"I'm ready for mine, " said the young man, taking up the newspaper andreading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. Dinner was served. The meal went rather brutally. The over-gentleness and apologetic toneof the mother brought out all the brutality of manners in the sons. Edgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouth quickly like a rabbit, lookedindignantly at his mother, and said:

"These potatoes are burnt, mother. "

"Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you'll have bread ifyou can't eat them. "

Edgar looked in anger across at Miriam. 

"What was Miriam doing that she couldn't attend to them?" he said. 

Miriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and winced, butshe said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her shame, bowing her darkhead. 

"I'm sure she was trying hard, " said the mother. 

"She hasn't got sense even to boil the potatoes, " said Edgar. "What isshe kept at home for?"

"On'y for eating everything that's left in th' pantry, " said Maurice. 

"They don't forget that potato-pie against our Miriam, " laughed thefather. 

She was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, likesome saint out of place at the brutal board. 

It puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feelingwent running because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother exaltedeverything--even a bit of housework--to the plane of a religious trust. The sons resented this; they felt themselves cut away underneath, andthey answered with brutality and also with a sneering superciliousness. 

Paul was just opening out from childhood into manhood. This atmosphere, where everything took a religious value, came with a subtle fascinationto him. There was something in the air. His own mother was logical. Herethere was something different, something he loved, something that attimes he hated. 

Miriam quarrelled with her brothers fiercely. Later in the afternoon, when they had gone away again, her mother said:

"You disappointed me at dinner-time, Miriam. "

The girl dropped her head. 

"They are such BRUTES!" she suddenly cried, looking up with flashingeyes. 

"But hadn't you promised not to answer them?" said the mother. "And Ibelieved in you. I CAN'T stand it when you wrangle. "

"But they're so hateful!" cried Miriam, "and--and LOW. "

"Yes, dear. But how often have I asked you not to answer Edgar back?Can't you let him say what he likes?"

"But why should he say what he likes?"

"Aren't you strong enough to bear it, Miriam, if even for my sake? Areyou so weak that you must wrangle with them?"

Mrs. Leivers stuck unflinchingly to this doctrine of "the other cheek". She could not instil it at all into the boys. With the girls shesucceeded better, and Miriam was the child of her heart. The boysloathed the other cheek when it was presented to them. Miriam was oftensufficiently lofty to turn it. Then they spat on her and hated her. Butshe walked in her proud humility, living within herself. 

There was always this feeling of jangle and discord in the Leiversfamily. Although the boys resented so bitterly this eternal appeal totheir deeper feelings of resignation and proud humility, yet it hadits effect on them. They could not establish between themselves and anoutsider just the ordinary human feeling and unexaggerated friendship;they were always restless for the something deeper. Ordinary folkseemed shallow to them, trivial and inconsiderable. And so they wereunaccustomed, painfully uncouth in the simplest social intercourse, suffering, and yet insolent in their superiority. Then beneath was theyearning for the soul-intimacy to which they could not attain becausethey were too dumb, and every approach to close connection was blockedby their clumsy contempt of other people. They wanted genuine intimacy, but they could not get even normally near to anyone, because theyscorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which formscommon human intercourse. 

Paul fell under Mrs. Leivers's spell. Everything had a religiousand intensified meaning when he was with her. His soul, hurt, highlydeveloped, sought her as if for nourishment. Together they seemed tosift the vital fact from an experience. 

Miriam was her mother's daughter. In the sunshine of the afternoonmother and daughter went down the fields with him. They looked fornests. There was a jenny wren's in the hedge by the orchard. 

"I DO want you to see this, " said Mrs. Leivers. 

He crouched down and carefully put his finger through the thorns intothe round door of the nest. 

"It's almost as if you were feeling inside the live body of the bird, "he said, "it's so warm. They say a bird makes its nest round like a cupwith pressing its breast on it. Then how did it make the ceiling round, I wonder?"

The nest seemed to start into life for the two women. After that, Miriamcame to see it every day. It seemed so close to her. Again, goingdown the hedgeside with the girl, he noticed the celandines, scallopedsplashes of gold, on the side of the ditch. 

"I like them, " he said, "when their petals go flat back with thesunshine. They seemed to be pressing themselves at the sun. "

And then the celandines ever after drew her with a little spell. Anthropomorphic as she was, she stimulated him into appreciating thingsthus, and then they lived for her. She seemed to need things kindling inher imagination or in her soul before she felt she had them. And shewas cut off from ordinary life by her religious intensity which madethe world for her either a nunnery garden or a paradise, where sin andknowledge were not, or else an ugly, cruel thing. 

So it was in this atmosphere of subtle intimacy, this meeting in theircommon feeling for something in Nature, that their love started. 

Personally, he was a long time before he realized her. For ten months hehad to stay at home after his illness. For a while he went to Skegnesswith his mother, and was perfectly happy. But even from the seaside hewrote long letters to Mrs. Leivers about the shore and the sea. And hebrought back his beloved sketches of the flat Lincoln coast, anxiousfor them to see. Almost they would interest the Leivers more than theyinterested his mother. It was not his art Mrs. Morel cared about; itwas himself and his achievement. But Mrs. Leivers and her children werealmost his disciples. They kindled him and made him glow to his work, whereas his mother's influence was to make him quietly determined, patient, dogged, unwearied. 

He soon was friends with the boys, whose rudeness was only superficial. They had all, when they could trust themselves, a strange gentleness andlovableness. 

"Will you come with me on to the fallow?" asked Edgar, ratherhesitatingly. 

Paul went joyfully, and spent the afternoon helping to hoe or to singleturnips with his friend. He used to lie with the three brothers inthe hay piled up in the barn and tell them about Nottingham and aboutJordan's. In return, they taught him to milk, and let him do littlejobs--chopping hay or pulping turnips--just as much as he liked. Atmidsummer he worked all through hay-harvest with them, and then he lovedthem. The family was so cut off from the world actually. They seemed, somehow, like "_les derniers fils d'une race epuisee_". Though the ladswere strong and healthy, yet they had all that over-sensitiveness andhanging-back which made them so lonely, yet also such close, delicatefriends once their intimacy was won. Paul loved them dearly, and theyhim. 

Miriam came later. But he had come into her life before she made anymark on his. One dull afternoon, when the men were on the land and therest at school, only Miriam and her mother at home, the girl said tohim, after having hesitated for some time:

"Have you seen the swing?"

"No, " he answered. "Where?"

"In the cowshed, " she replied. 

She always hesitated to offer or to show him anything. Men have suchdifferent standards of worth from women, and her dear things--thevaluable things to her--her brothers had so often mocked or flouted. 

"Come on, then, " he replied, jumping up. 

There were two cowsheds, one on either side of the barn. In the lower, darker shed there was standing for four cows. Hens flew scolding overthe manger-wall as the youth and girl went forward for the great thickrope which hung from the beam in the darkness overhead, and was pushedback over a peg in the wall. 

"It's something like a rope!" he exclaimed appreciatively; and he satdown on it, anxious to try it. Then immediately he rose. 

"Come on, then, and have first go, " he said to the girl. 

"See, " she answered, going into the barn, "we put some bags on theseat"; and she made the swing comfortable for him. That gave herpleasure. He held the rope. 

"Come on, then, " he said to her. 

"No, I won't go first, " she answered. 

She stood aside in her still, aloof fashion. 

"Why?"

"You go, " she pleaded. 

Almost for the first time in her life she had the pleasure of giving upto a man, of spoiling him. Paul looked at her. 

"All right, " he said, sitting down. "Mind out!"

He set off with a spring, and in a moment was flying through the air, almost out of the door of the shed, the upper half of which was open, showing outside the drizzling rain, the filthy yard, the cattle standingdisconsolate against the black cartshed, and at the back of allthe grey-green wall of the wood. She stood below in her crimsontam-o'-shanter and watched. He looked down at her, and she saw his blueeyes sparkling. 

"It's a treat of a swing, " he said. 

"Yes. "

He was swinging through the air, every bit of him swinging, like a birdthat swoops for joy of movement. And he looked down at her. Her crimsoncap hung over her dark curls, her beautiful warm face, so still in akind of brooding, was lifted towards him. It was dark and rather cold inthe shed. Suddenly a swallow came down from the high roof and darted outof the door. 

"I didn't know a bird was watching, " he called. 

He swung negligently. She could feel him falling and lifting through theair, as if he were lying on some force. 

"Now I'll die, " he said, in a detached, dreamy voice, as though he werethe dying motion of the swing. She watched him, fascinated. Suddenly heput on the brake and jumped out. 

"I've had a long turn, " he said. "But it's a treat of a swing--it's areal treat of a swing!"

Miriam was amused that he took a swing so seriously and felt so warmlyover it. 

"No; you go on, " she said. 

"Why, don't you want one?" he asked, astonished. 

"Well, not much. I'll have just a little. "

She sat down, whilst he kept the bags in place for her. 

"It's so ripping!" he said, setting her in motion. "Keep your heels up, or they'll bang the manger wall. "

She felt the accuracy with which he caught her, exactly at the rightmoment, and the exactly proportionate strength of his thrust, and shewas afraid. Down to her bowels went the hot wave of fear. She was in hishands. Again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at the right moment. She gripped the rope, almost swooning. 

"Ha!" she laughed in fear. "No higher!"

"But you're not a BIT high, " he remonstrated. 

"But no higher. "

He heard the fear in her voice, and desisted. Her heart melted in hotpain when the moment came for him to thrust her forward again. But heleft her alone. She began to breathe. 

"Won't you really go any farther?" he asked. "Should I keep you there?"

"No; let me go by myself, " she answered. 

He moved aside and watched her. 

"Why, you're scarcely moving, " he said. 

She laughed slightly with shame, and in a moment got down. 

"They say if you can swing you won't be sea-sick, " he said, as hemounted again. "I don't believe I should ever be sea-sick. "

Away he went. There was something fascinating to her in him. For themoment he was nothing but a piece of swinging stuff; not a particle ofhim that did not swing. She could never lose herself so, nor could herbrothers. It roused a warmth in her. It was almost as if he were a flamethat had lit a warmth in her whilst he swung in the middle air. 

And gradually the intimacy with the family concentrated for Paul onthree persons--the mother, Edgar, and Miriam. To the mother he went forthat sympathy and that appeal which seemed to draw him out. Edgar washis very close friend. And to Miriam he more or less condescended, because she seemed so humble. 

But the girl gradually sought him out. If he brought up his sketch-book, it was she who pondered longest over the last picture. Then she wouldlook up at him. Suddenly, her dark eyes alight like water that shakeswith a stream of gold in the dark, she would ask:

"Why do I like this so?"

Always something in his breast shrank from these close, intimate, dazzled looks of hers. 

"Why DO you?" he asked. 

"I don't know. It seems so true. "

"It's because--it's because there is scarcely any shadow in it; it'smore shimmery, as if I'd painted the shimmering protoplasm in the leavesand everywhere, and not the stiffness of the shape. That seems deadto me. Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a deadcrust. The shimmer is inside really. "

And she, with her little finger in her mouth, would ponder thesesayings. They gave her a feeling of life again, and vivified thingswhich had meant nothing to her. She managed to find some meaning in hisstruggling, abstract speeches. And they were the medium through whichshe came distinctly at her beloved objects. 

Another day she sat at sunset whilst he was painting some pine-treeswhich caught the red glare from the west. He had been quiet. 

"There you are!" he said suddenly. "I wanted that. Now, look at them andtell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals, standing-up piecesof fire in that darkness? There's God's burning bush for you, thatburned not away. "

Miriam looked, and was frightened. But the pine trunks were wonderfulto her, and distinct. He packed his box and rose. Suddenly he looked ather. 

"Why are you always sad?" he asked her. 

"Sad!" she exclaimed, looking up at him with startled, wonderful browneyes. 

"Yes, " he replied. "You are always sad. "

"I am not--oh, not a bit!" she cried. 

"But even your joy is like a flame coming off of sadness, " he persisted. "You're never jolly, or even just all right. "

"No, " she pondered. "I wonder--why?"

"Because you're not; because you're different inside, like a pine-tree, and then you flare up; but you're not just like an ordinary tree, withfidgety leaves and jolly--"

He got tangled up in his own speech; but she brooded on it, and he had astrange, roused sensation, as if his feelings were new. She got so nearhim. It was a strange stimulant. 

Then sometimes he hated her. Her youngest brother was only five. He wasa frail lad, with immense brown eyes in his quaint fragile face--one ofReynolds's "Choir of Angels", with a touch of elf. Often Miriam kneeledto the child and drew him to her. 

"Eh, my Hubert!" she sang, in a voice heavy and surcharged with love. "Eh, my Hubert!"

And, folding him in her arms, she swayed slightly from side to side withlove, her face half lifted, her eyes half closed, her voice drenchedwith love. 

"Don't!" said the child, uneasy--"don't, Miriam!"

"Yes; you love me, don't you?" she murmured deep in her throat, almostas if she were in a trance, and swaying also as if she were swooned inan ecstasy of love. 

"Don't!" repeated the child, a frown on his clear brow. 

"You love me, don't you?" she murmured. 

"What do you make such a FUSS for?" cried Paul, all in suffering becauseof her extreme emotion. "Why can't you be ordinary with him?"

She let the child go, and rose, and said nothing. Her intensity, whichwould leave no emotion on a normal plane, irritated the youth intoa frenzy. And this fearful, naked contact of her on small occasionsshocked him. He was used to his mother's reserve. And on such occasionshe was thankful in his heart and soul that he had his mother, so saneand wholesome. 

All the life of Miriam's body was in her eyes, which were usually darkas a dark church, but could flame with light like a conflagration. Herface scarcely ever altered from its look of brooding. She might havebeen one of the women who went with Mary when Jesus was dead. Her bodywas not flexible and living. She walked with a swing, rather heavily, her head bowed forward, pondering. She was not clumsy, and yet none ofher movements seemed quite THE movement. Often, when wiping the dishes, she would stand in bewilderment and chagrin because she had pulledin two halves a cup or a tumbler. It was as if, in her fear andself-mistrust, she put too much strength into the effort. There wasno looseness or abandon about her. Everything was gripped stiff withintensity, and her effort, overcharged, closed in on itself. 

She rarely varied from her swinging, forward, intense walk. Occasionallyshe ran with Paul down the fields. Then her eyes blazed naked in a kindof ecstasy that frightened him. But she was physically afraid. Ifshe were getting over a stile, she gripped his hands in a little hardanguish, and began to lose her presence of mind. And he could notpersuade her to jump from even a small height. Her eyes dilated, becameexposed and palpitating. 

"No!" she cried, half laughing in terror--"no!"

"You shall!" he cried once, and, jerking her forward, he brought herfalling from the fence. But her wild "Ah!" of pain, as if she werelosing consciousness, cut him. She landed on her feet safely, andafterwards had courage in this respect. 

She was very much dissatisfied with her lot. 

"Don't you like being at home?" Paul asked her, surprised. 

"Who would?" she answered, low and intense. "What is it? I'm all daycleaning what the boys make just as bad in five minutes. I don't WANT tobe at home. "

"What do you want, then?"

"I want to do something. I want a chance like anybody else. Why shouldI, because I'm a girl, be kept at home and not allowed to be anything?What chance HAVE I?"

"Chance of what?"

"Of knowing anything--of learning, of doing anything. It's not fair, because I'm a woman. "

She seemed very bitter. Paul wondered. In his own home Annie was almostglad to be a girl. She had not so much responsibility; things werelighter for her. She never wanted to be other than a girl. But Miriamalmost fiercely wished she were a man. And yet she hated men at the sametime. 

"But it's as well to be a woman as a man, " he said, frowning. 

"Ha! Is it? Men have everything. "

"I should think women ought to be as glad to be women as men are to bemen, " he answered. 

"No!"--she shook her head--"no! Everything the men have. "

"But what do you want?" he asked. 

"I want to learn. Why SHOULD it be that I know nothing?"

"What! such as mathematics and French?"

"Why SHOULDN'T I know mathematics? Yes!" she cried, her eye expanding ina kind of defiance. 

"Well, you can learn as much as I know, " he said. "I'll teach you, ifyou like. "

Her eyes dilated. She mistrusted him as teacher. 

"Would you?" he asked. 

Her head had dropped, and she was sucking her finger broodingly. 

"Yes, " she said hesitatingly. 

He used to tell his mother all these things. 

"I'm going to teach Miriam algebra, " he said. 

"Well, " replied Mrs. Morel, "I hope she'll get fat on it. "

When he went up to the farm on the Monday evening, it was drawingtwilight. Miriam was just sweeping up the kitchen, and was kneeling atthe hearth when he entered. Everyone was out but her. She looked roundat him, flushed, her dark eyes shining, her fine hair falling about herface. 

"Hello!" she said, soft and musical. "I knew it was you. "

"How?"

"I knew your step. Nobody treads so quick and firm. "

He sat down, sighing. 

"Ready to do some algebra?" he asked, drawing a little book from hispocket. 

"But--"

He could feel her backing away. 

"You said you wanted, " he insisted. 

"To-night, though?" she faltered. 

"But I came on purpose. And if you want to learn it, you must begin. "

She took up her ashes in the dustpan and looked at him, halftremulously, laughing. 

"Yes, but to-night! You see, I haven't thought of it. "

"Well, my goodness! Take the ashes and come. "

He went and sat on the stone bench in the back-yard, where the bigmilk-cans were standing, tipped up, to air. The men were in thecowsheds. He could hear the little sing-song of the milk spurting intothe pails. Presently she came, bringing some big greenish apples. 

"You know you like them, " she said. 

He took a bite. 

"Sit down, " he said, with his mouth full. 

She was short-sighted, and peered over his shoulder. It irritated him. He gave her the book quickly. 

"Here, " he said. "It's only letters for figures. You put down 'a'instead of '2' or '6'. "

They worked, he talking, she with her head down on the book. He wasquick and hasty. She never answered. Occasionally, when he demandedof her, "Do you see?" she looked up at him, her eyes wide with thehalf-laugh that comes of fear. "Don't you?" he cried. 

He had been too fast. But she said nothing. He questioned her more, thengot hot. It made his blood rouse to see her there, as it were, at hismercy, her mouth open, her eyes dilated with laughter that was afraid, apologetic, ashamed. Then Edgar came along with two buckets of milk. 

"Hello!" he said. "What are you doing?"

"Algebra, " replied Paul. 

"Algebra!" repeated Edgar curiously. Then he passed on with a laugh. Paul took a bite at his forgotten apple, looked at the miserablecabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls, and he wanted topull them up. Then he glanced at Miriam. She was poring over the book, seemed absorbed in it, yet trembling lest she could not get at it. Itmade him cross. She was ruddy and beautiful. Yet her soul seemed to beintensely supplicating. The algebra-book she closed, shrinking, knowinghe was angered; and at the same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurtbecause she did not understand. 

But things came slowly to her. And when she held herself in a grip, seemed so utterly humble before the lesson, it made his blood rouse. He stormed at her, got ashamed, continued the lesson, and grew furiousagain, abusing her. She listened in silence. Occasionally, very rarely, she defended herself. Her liquid dark eyes blazed at him. 

"You don't give me time to learn it, " she said. 

"All right, " he answered, throwing the book on the table and lightinga cigarette. Then, after a while, he went back to her repentant. So thelessons went. He was always either in a rage or very gentle. 

"What do you tremble your SOUL before it for?" he cried. "You don'tlearn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you look at it with yourclear simple wits?"

Often, when he went again into the kitchen, Mrs. Leivers would look athim reproachfully, saying:

"Paul, don't be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick, but I'm sureshe tries. "

"I can't help it, " he said rather pitiably. "I go off like it. "

"You don't mind me, Miriam, do you?" he asked of the girl later. 

"No, " she reassured him in her beautiful deep tones--"no, I don't mind. "

"Don't mind me; it's my fault. "

But, in spite of himself, his blood began to boil with her. It wasstrange that no one else made him in such fury. He flared against her. Once he threw the pencil in her face. There was a silence. She turnedher face slightly aside. 

"I didn't--" he began, but got no farther, feeling weak in all hisbones. She never reproached him or was angry with him. He was oftencruelly ashamed. But still again his anger burst like a bubblesurcharged; and still, when he saw her eager, silent, as it were, blindface, he felt he wanted to throw the pencil in it; and still, when hesaw her hand trembling and her mouth parted with suffering, his heartwas scalded with pain for her. And because of the intensity to which sheroused him, he sought her. 

Then he often avoided her and went with Edgar. Miriam and her brotherwere naturally antagonistic. Edgar was a rationalist, who was curious, and had a sort of scientific interest in life. It was a great bitternessto Miriam to see herself deserted by Paul for Edgar, who seemed so muchlower. But the youth was very happy with her elder brother. The two menspent afternoons together on the land or in the loft doing carpentry, when it rained. And they talked together, or Paul taught Edgar the songshe himself had learned from Annie at the piano. And often all the men, Mr. Leivers as well, had bitter debates on the nationalizing of the landand similar problems. Paul had already heard his mother's views, and asthese were as yet his own, he argued for her. Miriam attended andtook part, but was all the time waiting until it should be over and apersonal communication might begin. 

"After all, " she said within herself, "if the land were nationalized, Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same. " So she waited for theyouth to come back to her. 

He was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home, alone withhis mother, at night, working and working. She sewed or read. Then, looking up from his task, he would rest his eyes for a moment on herface, that was bright with living warmth, and he returned gladly to hiswork. 

"I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking-chair, mother, " he said. 

"I'm sure!" she exclaimed, sniffing with mock scepticism. But she feltit was so, and her heart quivered with brightness. For many hours shesat still, slightly conscious of him labouring away, whilst she workedor read her book. And he, with all his soul's intensity directing hispencil, could feel her warmth inside him like strength. They were bothvery happy so, and both unconscious of it. These times, that meant somuch, and which were real living, they almost ignored. 

He was conscious only when stimulated. A sketch finished, he alwayswanted to take it to Miriam. Then he was stimulated into knowledge ofthe work he had produced unconsciously. In contact with Miriam hegained insight; his vision went deeper. From his mother he drew thelife-warmth, the strength to produce; Miriam urged this warmth intointensity like a white light. 

When he returned to the factory the conditions of work were better. He had Wednesday afternoon off to go to the Art School--Miss Jordan'sprovision--returning in the evening. Then the factory closed at sixinstead of eight on Thursday and Friday evenings. 

One evening in the summer Miriam and he went over the fields by Herod'sFarm on their way from the library home. So it was only three milesto Willey Farm. There was a yellow glow over the mowing-grass, and thesorrel-heads burned crimson. Gradually, as they walked along the highland, the gold in the west sank down to red, the red to crimson, andthen the chill blue crept up against the glow. 

They came out upon the high road to Alfreton, which ran white betweenthe darkening fields. There Paul hesitated. It was two miles home forhim, one mile forward for Miriam. They both looked up the road that ranin shadow right under the glow of the north-west sky. On the crest ofthe hill, Selby, with its stark houses and the up-pricked headstocks ofthe pit, stood in black silhouette small against the sky. 

He looked at his watch. 

"Nine o'clock!" he said. 

The pair stood, loth to part, hugging their books. 

"The wood is so lovely now, " she said. "I wanted you to see it. "

He followed her slowly across the road to the white gate. 

"They grumble so if I'm late, " he said. 

"But you're not doing anything wrong, " she answered impatiently. 

He followed her across the nibbled pasture in the dusk. There was acoolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honeysuckle, and a twilight. The two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully there, among thethrong of dark tree-trunks. He looked round, expectant. 

She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had discovered. Sheknew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, she felt it hadnot come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She wasdissatisfied. 

Dew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mist was rising, andhe hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a strand of fog oronly campion-flowers pallid in a cloud. 

By the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting very eagerand very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not be able to findit; and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately she wanted to bewith him when he stood before the flowers. They were going to have acommunion together--something that thrilled her, something holy. He waswalking beside her in silence. They were very near to each other. Shetrembled, and he listened, vaguely anxious. 

Coming to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front, likemother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on the outermostbranches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent. 

"Where?" he asked. 

"Down the middle path, " she murmured, quivering. 

When they turned the corner of the path she stood still. In the widewalk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could distinguishnothing for some moments; the greying light robbed things of theircolour. Then she saw her bush. 

"Ah!" she cried, hastening forward. 

It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown itsbriers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, rightdown to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great spiltstars, pure white. In bosses of ivory and in large splashed stars theroses gleamed on the darkness of foliage and stems and grass. Paul andMiriam stood close together, silent, and watched. Point after point thesteady roses shone out to them, seeming to kindle something in theirsouls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out theroses. 

Paul looked into Miriam's eyes. She was pale and expectant with wonder, her lips were parted, and her dark eyes lay open to him. His look seemedto travel down into her. Her soul quivered. It was the communion shewanted. He turned aside, as if pained. He turned to the bush. 

"They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake themselves, " hesaid. 

She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, othersexpanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted herhand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them inworship. 

"Let us go, " he said. 

There was a cool scent of ivory roses--a white, virgin scent. Somethingmade him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked in silence. 

"Till Sunday, " he said quietly, and left her; and she walked homeslowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of the night. Hestumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood, in thefree open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to run as fast ashe could. It was like a delicious delirium in his veins. 

Always when he went with Miriam, and it grew rather late, he knew hismother was fretting and getting angry about him--why, he could notunderstand. As he went into the house, flinging down his cap, his motherlooked up at the clock. She had been sitting thinking, because a chillto her eyes prevented her reading. She could feel Paul being drawn awayby this girl. And she did not care for Miriam. "She is one of those whowill want to suck a man's soul out till he has none of his own left, "she said to herself; "and he is just such a gaby as to let himself beabsorbed. She will never let him become a man; she never will. " So, while he was away with Miriam, Mrs. Morel grew more and more worked up. 

She glanced at the clock and said, coldly and rather tired:

"You have been far enough to-night. "

His soul, warm and exposed from contact with the girl, shrank. 

"You must have been right home with her, " his mother continued. 

He would not answer. Mrs. Morel, looking at him quickly, saw his hairwas damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowning in his heavyfashion, resentfully. 

"She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can't get away from her, but must go trailing eight miles at this time of night. "

He was hurt between the past glamour with Miriam and the knowledgethat his mother fretted. He had meant not to say anything, to refuse toanswer. But he could not harden his heart to ignore his mother. 

"I DO like to talk to her, " he answered irritably. 

"Is there nobody else to talk to?"

"You wouldn't say anything if I went with Edgar. "

"You know I should. You know, whoever you went with, I should say itwas too far for you to go trailing, late at night, when you've beento Nottingham. Besides"--her voice suddenly flashed into anger andcontempt--"it is disgusting--bits of lads and girls courting. "

"It is NOT courting, " he cried. 

"I don't know what else you call it. "

"It's not! Do you think we SPOON and do? We only talk. "

"Till goodness knows what time and distance, " was the sarcasticrejoinder. 

Paul snapped at the laces of his boots angrily. 

"What are you so mad about?" he asked. "Because you don't like her. "

"I don't say I don't like her. But I don't hold with children keepingcompany, and never did. "

"But you don't mind our Annie going out with Jim Inger. "

"They've more sense than you two. "

"Why?"

"Our Annie's not one of the deep sort. "

He failed to see the meaning of this remark. But his mother lookedtired. She was never so strong after William's death; and her eyes hurther. 

"Well, " he said, "it's so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleath asked aboutyou. He said he'd missed you. Are you a bit better?"

"I ought to have been in bed a long time ago, " she replied. 

"Why, mother, you know you wouldn't have gone before quarter-past ten. "

"Oh, yes, I should!"

"Oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeable with me, wouldn't you?"

He kissed her forehead that he knew so well: the deep marks between thebrows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, and the proud settingof the temples. His hand lingered on her shoulder after his kiss. Thenhe went slowly to bed. He had forgotten Miriam; he only saw how hismother's hair was lifted back from her warm, broad brow. And somehow, she was hurt. 

Then the next time he saw Miriam he said to her:

"Don't let me be late to-night--not later than ten o'clock. My mothergets so upset. "

Miriam dropped her bead, brooding. 

"Why does she get upset?" she asked. 

"Because she says I oughtn't to be out late when I have to get upearly. "

"Very well!" said Miriam, rather quietly, with just a touch of a sneer. 

He resented that. And he was usually late again. 

That there was any love growing between him and Miriam neither ofthem would have acknowledged. He thought he was too sane for suchsentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. They both were latein coming to maturity, and psychical ripeness was much behind even thephysical. Miriam was exceedingly sensitive, as her mother had alwaysbeen. The slightest grossness made her recoil almost in anguish. Herbrothers were brutal, but never coarse in speech. The men did allthe discussing of farm matters outside. But, perhaps, because of thecontinual business of birth and of begetting which goes on upon everyfarm, Miriam was the more hypersensitive to the matter, and her bloodwas chastened almost to disgust of the faintest suggestion of suchintercourse. Paul took his pitch from her, and their intimacy went on inan utterly blanched and chaste fashion. It could never be mentioned thatthe mare was in foal. 

When he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a week, buthe was happy. His painting went well, and life went well enough. On theGood Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock Stone. There were threelads of his own age, then Annie and Arthur, Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur, apprenticed as an electrician in Nottingham, was home for the holiday. Morel, as usual, was up early, whistling and sawing in the yard. Atseven o'clock the family heard him buy threepennyworth of hot-crossbuns; he talked with gusto to the little girl who brought them, callingher "my darling". He turned away several boys who came with more buns, telling them they had been "kested" by a little lass. Then Mrs. Morelgot up, and the family straggled down. It was an immense luxury toeverybody, this lying in bed just beyond the ordinary time on a weekday. And Paul and Arthur read before breakfast, and had the meal unwashed, sitting in their shirt-sleeves. This was another holiday luxury. Theroom was warm. Everything felt free of care and anxiety. There was asense of plenty in the house. 

While the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. They werenow in another house, an old one, near the Scargill Street home, whichhad been left soon after William had died. Directly came an excited cryfrom the garden:

"Paul! Paul! come and look!"

It was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went out. Therewas a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold day, with asharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields away Bestwood began, with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of which rose the churchtower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel. And beyond went woodsand hills, right away to the pale grey heights of the Pennine Chain. 

Paul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appeared among theyoung currant-bushes. 

"Come here!" she cried. 

"What for?" he answered. 

"Come and see. "

She had been looking at the buds on the currant trees. Paul went up. 

"To think, " she said, "that here I might never have seen them!"

Her son went to her side. Under the fence, in a little bed, was a ravelof poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature bulbs, and threescyllas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep blue flowers. 

"Now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "I was looking at the currantbushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's something very blue; is ita bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories ofthe snow, and such beauties! But where on earth did they come from?"

"I don't know, " said Paul. 

"Well, that's a marvel, now! I THOUGHT I knew every weed and blade inthis garden. But HAVEN'T they done well? You see, that gooseberry-bushjust shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!"

He crouched down and turned up the bells of the little blue flowers. 

"They're a glorious colour!" he said. 

"Aren't they!" she cried. "I guess they come from Switzerland, wherethey say they have such lovely things. Fancy them against the snow! Butwhere have they come from? They can't have BLOWN here, can they?"

Then he remembered having set here a lot of little trash of bulbs tomature. 

"And you never told me, " she said. 

"No! I thought I'd leave it till they might flower. "

"And now, you see! I might have missed them. And I've never had a gloryof the snow in my garden in my life. "

She was full of excitement and elation. The garden was an endless joy toher. Paul was thankful for her sake at last to be in a house with a longgarden that went down to a field. Every morning after breakfast she wentout and was happy pottering about in it. And it was true, she knew everyweed and blade. 

Everybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and they set off, a merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of the mill-race, dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunnel and watched itshoot out on the other. They stood on the foot-bridge over BoathouseStation and looked at the metals gleaming coldly. 

"You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six!" saidLeonard, whose father was a signalman. "Lad, but she doesn't half buzz!"and the little party looked up the lines one way, to London, and theother way, to Scotland, and they felt the touch of these two magicalplaces. 

In Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for the public-houses toopen. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton Gate the ironfoundry blazed. Over everything there were great discussions. At Trowellthey crossed again from Derbyshire into Nottinghamshire. They came tothe Hemlock Stone at dinner-time. Its field was crowded with folk fromNottingham and Ilkeston. 

They had expected a venerable and dignified monument. They founda little, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like a decayedmushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. Leonard andDick immediately proceeded to carve their initials, "L. W. " and "R. P. ", in the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted, because he had read in thenewspaper satirical remarks about initial-carvers, who could find noother road to immortality. Then all the lads climbed to the top of therock to look round. 

Everywhere in the field below, factory girls and lads were eatinglunch or sporting about. Beyond was the garden of an old manor. It hadyew-hedges and thick clumps and borders of yellow crocuses round thelawn. 

"See, " said Paul to Miriam, "what a quiet garden!"

She saw the dark yews and the golden crocuses, then she lookedgratefully. He had not seemed to belong to her among all these others;he was different then--not her Paul, who understood the slightest quiverof her innermost soul, but something else, speaking another languagethan hers. How it hurt her, and deadened her very perceptions. Only whenhe came right back to her, leaving his other, his lesser self, as shethought, would she feel alive again. And now he asked her to look atthis garden, wanting the contact with her again. Impatient of the setin the field, she turned to the quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves ofshut-up crocuses. A feeling of stillness, almost of ecstasy, came overher. It felt almost as if she were alone with him in this garden. 

Then he left her again and joined the others. Soon they started home. Miriam loitered behind, alone. She did not fit in with the others; shecould very rarely get into human relations with anyone: so her friend, her companion, her lover, was Nature. She saw the sun declining wanly. In the dusky, cold hedgerows were some red leaves. She lingered togather them, tenderly, passionately. The love in her finger-tipscaressed the leaves; the passion in her heart came to a glow upon theleaves. 

Suddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road, and she hurriedforward. Turning a corner in the lane, she came upon Paul, who stoodbent over something, his mind fixed on it, working away steadily, patiently, a little hopelessly. She hesitated in her approach, to watch. 

He remained concentrated in the middle of the road. Beyond, one rift ofrich gold in that colourless grey evening seemed to make him stand outin dark relief. She saw him, slender and firm, as if the setting sun hadgiven him to her. A deep pain took hold of her, and she knew shemust love him. And she had discovered him, discovered in him arare potentiality, discovered his loneliness. Quivering as at some"annunciation", she went slowly forward. 

At last he looked up. 

"Why, " he exclaimed gratefully, "have you waited for me!"

She saw a deep shadow in his eyes. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"The spring broken here;" and he showed her where his umbrella wasinjured. 

Instantly, with some shame, she knew he had not done the damage himself, but that Geoffrey was responsible. 

"It is only an old umbrella, isn't it?" she asked. 

She wondered why he, who did not usually trouble over trifles, made sucha mountain of this molehill. 

"But it was William's an' my mother can't help but know, " he saidquietly, still patiently working at the umbrella. 

The words went through Miriam like a blade. This, then, was theconfirmation of her vision of him! She looked at him. But there wasabout him a certain reserve, and she dared not comfort him, not evenspeak softly to him. 

"Come on, " he said. "I can't do it;" and they went in silence along theroad. 

That same evening they were walking along under the trees by NetherGreen. He was talking to her fretfully, seemed to be struggling toconvince himself. 

"You know, " he said, with an effort, "if one person loves, the otherdoes. "

"Ah!" she answered. "Like mother said to me when I was little, 'Lovebegets love. '"

"Yes, something like that, I think it MUST be. "

"I hope so, because, if it were not, love might be a very terriblething, " she said. 

"Yes, but it IS--at least with most people, " he answered. 

And Miriam, thinking he had assured himself, felt strong in herself. Shealways regarded that sudden coming upon him in the lane as a revelation. And this conversation remained graven in her mind as one of the lettersof the law. 

Now she stood with him and for him. When, about this time, he outragedthe family feeling at Willey Farm by some overbearing insult, she stuckto him, and believed he was right. And at this time she dreameddreams of him, vivid, unforgettable. These dreams came again later on, developed to a more subtle psychological stage. 

On the Easter Monday the same party took an excursion to WingfieldManor. It was great excitement to Miriam to catch a train at SethleyBridge, amid all the bustle of the Bank Holiday crowd. They left thetrain at Alfreton. Paul was interested in the street and in the collierswith their dogs. Here was a new race of miners. Miriam did not live tillthey came to the church. They were all rather timid of entering, withtheir bags of food, for fear of being turned out. Leonard, a comic, thinfellow, went first; Paul, who would have died rather than be sent back, went last. The place was decorated for Easter. In the font hundreds ofwhite narcissi seemed to be growing. The air was dim and coloured fromthe windows and thrilled with a subtle scent of lilies and narcissi. Inthat atmosphere Miriam's soul came into a glow. Paul was afraid of thethings he mustn't do; and he was sensitive to the feel of the place. Miriam turned to him. He answered. They were together. He would not gobeyond the Communion-rail. She loved him for that. Her soul expandedinto prayer beside him. He felt the strange fascination of shadowyreligious places. All his latent mysticism quivered into life. She wasdrawn to him. He was a prayer along with her. 

Miriam very rarely talked to the other lads. They at once became awkwardin conversation with her. So usually she was silent. 

It was past midday when they climbed the steep path to the manor. All things shone softly in the sun, which was wonderfully warm andenlivening. Celandines and violets were out. Everybody was tip-top fullwith happiness. The glitter of the ivy, the soft, atmospheric greyof the castle walls, the gentleness of everything near the ruin, wasperfect. 

The manor is of hard, pale grey stone, and the other walls are blank andcalm. The young folk were in raptures. They went in trepidation, almostafraid that the delight of exploring this ruin might be denied them. Inthe first courtyard, within the high broken walls, were farm-carts, withtheir shafts lying idle on the ground, the tyres of the wheels brilliantwith gold-red rust. It was very still. 

All eagerly paid their sixpences, and went timidly through the fineclean arch of the inner courtyard. They were shy. Here on the pavement, where the hall had been, an old thorn tree was budding. All kinds ofstrange openings and broken rooms were in the shadow around them. 

After lunch they set off once more to explore the ruin. This time thegirls went with the boys, who could act as guides and expositors. Therewas one tall tower in a corner, rather tottering, where they say MaryQueen of Scots was imprisoned. 

"Think of the Queen going up here!" said Miriam in a low voice, as sheclimbed the hollow stairs. 

"If she could get up, " said Paul, "for she had rheumatism like anything. I reckon they treated her rottenly. "

"You don't think she deserved it?" asked Miriam. 

"No, I don't. She was only lively. "

They continued to mount the winding staircase. A high wind, blowingthrough the loopholes, went rushing up the shaft, and filled the girl'sskirts like a balloon, so that she was ashamed, until he took the hemof her dress and held it down for her. He did it perfectly simply, as hewould have picked up her glove. She remembered this always. 

Round the broken top of the tower the ivy bushed out, old and handsome. Also, there were a few chill gillivers, in pale cold bud. Miriam wantedto lean over for some ivy, but he would not let her. Instead, she had towait behind him, and take from him each spray as he gathered it and heldit to her, each one separately, in the purest manner of chivalry. Thetower seemed to rock in the wind. They looked over miles and miles ofwooded country, and country with gleams of pasture. 

The crypt underneath the manor was beautiful, and in perfectpreservation. Paul made a drawing: Miriam stayed with him. She wasthinking of Mary Queen of Scots looking with her strained, hopelesseyes, that could not understand misery, over the hills whence no helpcame, or sitting in this crypt, being told of a God as cold as the placeshe sat in. 

They set off again gaily, looking round on their beloved manor thatstood so clean and big on its hill. 

"Supposing you could have THAT farm, " said Paul to Miriam. 

"Yes!"

"Wouldn't it be lovely to come and see you!"

They were now in the bare country of stone walls, which he loved, andwhich, though only ten miles from home, seemed so foreign to Miriam. Theparty was straggling. As they were crossing a large meadow thatsloped away from the sun, along a path embedded with innumerable tinyglittering points, Paul, walking alongside, laced his fingers in thestrings of the bag Miriam was carrying, and instantly she felt Anniebehind, watchful and jealous. But the meadow was bathed in a glory ofsunshine, and the path was jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave herany sign. She held her fingers very still among the strings of the bag, his fingers touching; and the place was golden as a vision. 

At last they came into the straggling grey village of Crich, that lieshigh. Beyond the village was the famous Crich Stand that Paul could seefrom the garden at home. The party pushed on. Great expanse of countryspread around and below. The lads were eager to get to the top of thehill. It was capped by a round knoll, half of which was by now cut away, and on the top of which stood an ancient monument, sturdy and squat, forsignalling in old days far down into the level lands of Nottinghamshireand Leicestershire. 

It was blowing so hard, high up there in the exposed place, that theonly way to be safe was to stand nailed by the wind to the wan of thetower. At their feet fell the precipice where the limestone was quarriedaway. Below was a jumble of hills and tiny villages--Mattock, Ambergate, Stoney Middleton. The lads were eager to spy out the church of Bestwood, far away among the rather crowded country on the left. They weredisgusted that it seemed to stand on a plain. They saw the hills ofDerbyshire fall into the monotony of the Midlands that swept away South. 

Miriam was somewhat scared by the wind, but the lads enjoyed it. Theywent on, miles and miles, to Whatstandwell. All the food was eaten, everybody was hungry, and there was very little money to get home with. But they managed to procure a loaf and a currant-loaf, which they hackedto pieces with shut-knives, and ate sitting on the wall near the bridge, watching the bright Derwent rushing by, and the brakes from Matlockpulling up at the inn. 

Paul was now pale with weariness. He had been responsible for the partyall day, and now he was done. Miriam understood, and kept close to him, and he left himself in her hands. 

They had an hour to wait at Ambergate Station. Trains came, crowded withexcursionists returning to Manchester, Birmingham, and London. 

"We might be going there--folk easily might think we're going that far, "said Paul. 

They got back rather late. Miriam, walking home with Geoffrey, watchedthe moon rise big and red and misty. She felt something was fulfilled inher. 

She had an elder sister, Agatha, who was a school-teacher. Between thetwo girls was a feud. Miriam considered Agatha worldly. And she wantedherself to be a school-teacher. 

One Saturday afternoon Agatha and Miriam were upstairs dressing. Theirbedroom was over the stable. It was a low room, not very large, andbare. Miriam had nailed on the wall a reproduction of Veronese's "St. Catherine". She loved the woman who sat in the window, dreaming. Herown windows were too small to sit in. But the front one was dripped overwith honeysuckle and virginia creeper, and looked upon the tree-tops ofthe oak-wood across the yard, while the little back window, no biggerthan a handkerchief, was a loophole to the east, to the dawn beating upagainst the beloved round hills. 

The two sisters did not talk much to each other. Agatha, who was fairand small and determined, had rebelled against the home atmosphere, against the doctrine of "the other cheek". She was out in the world now, in a fair way to be independent. And she insisted on worldly values, on appearance, on manners, on position, which Miriam would fain haveignored. 

Both girls liked to be upstairs, out of the way, when Paul came. Theypreferred to come running down, open the stair-foot door, and see himwatching, expectant of them. Miriam stood painfully pulling over herhead a rosary he had given her. It caught in the fine mesh of her hair. But at last she had it on, and the red-brown wooden beads looked wellagainst her cool brown neck. She was a well-developed girl, and veryhandsome. But in the little looking-glass nailed against the whitewashedwall she could only see a fragment of herself at a time. Agatha hadbought a little mirror of her own, which she propped up to suit herself. Miriam was near the window. Suddenly she heard the well-known click ofthe chain, and she saw Paul fling open the gate, push his bicycle intothe yard. She saw him look at the house, and she shrank away. He walkedin a nonchalant fashion, and his bicycle went with him as if it were alive thing. 

"Paul's come!" she exclaimed. 

"Aren't you glad?" said Agatha cuttingly. 

Miriam stood still in amazement and bewilderment. 

"Well, aren't you?" she asked. 

"Yes, but I'm not going to let him see it, and think I wanted him. "

Miriam was startled. She heard him putting his bicycle in the stableunderneath, and talking to Jimmy, who had been a pit-horse, and who wasseedy. 

"Well, Jimmy my lad, how are ter? Nobbut sick an' sadly, like? Why, then, it's a shame, my owd lad. "

She heard the rope run through the hole as the horse lifted its headfrom the lad's caress. How she loved to listen when he thought onlythe horse could hear. But there was a serpent in her Eden. She searchedearnestly in herself to see if she wanted Paul Morel. She felt therewould be some disgrace in it. Full of twisted feeling, she was afraidshe did want him. She stood self-convicted. Then came an agony of newshame. She shrank within herself in a coil of torture. Did she want PaulMorel, and did he know she wanted him? What a subtle infamy upon her. She felt as if her whole soul coiled into knots of shame. 

Agatha was dressed first, and ran downstairs. Miriam heard her greetthe lad gaily, knew exactly how brilliant her grey eyes became with thattone. She herself would have felt it bold to have greeted him in suchwise. Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture. In bitter perplexity she kneeled down andprayed:

"O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, if I oughtnot to love him. "

Something anomalous in the prayer arrested her. She lifted her head andpondered. How could it be wrong to love him? Love was God's gift. Andyet it caused her shame. That was because of him, Paul Morel. But, then, it was not his affair, it was her own, between herself and God. She wasto be a sacrifice. But it was God's sacrifice, not Paul Morel's or herown. After a few minutes she hid her face in the pillow again, and said:

"But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me lovehim--as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me love himsplendidly, because he is Thy son. "

She remained kneeling for some time, quite still, and deeply moved, herblack hair against the red squares and the lavender-sprigged squares ofthe patchwork quilt. Prayer was almost essential to her. Then she fellinto that rapture of self-sacrifice, identifying herself with a God whowas sacrificed, which gives to so many human souls their deepest bliss. 

When she went downstairs Paul was lying back in an armchair, holdingforth with much vehemence to Agatha, who was scorning a little paintinghe had brought to show her. Miriam glanced at the two, and avoided theirlevity. She went into the parlour to be alone. 

It was tea-time before she was able to speak to Paul, and then hermanner was so distant he thought he had offended her. 

Miriam discontinued her practice of going each Thursday evening to thelibrary in Bestwood. After calling for Paul regularly during the wholespring, a number of trifling incidents and tiny insults from his familyawakened her to their attitude towards her, and she decided to go nomore. So she announced to Paul one evening she would not call at hishouse again for him on Thursday nights. 

"Why?" he asked, very short. 

"Nothing. Only I'd rather not. "

"Very well. "

"But, " she faltered, "if you'd care to meet me, we could still gotogether. "

"Meet you where?"

"Somewhere--where you like. "

"I shan't meet you anywhere. I don't see why you shouldn't keep callingfor me. But if you won't, I don't want to meet you. "

So the Thursday evenings which had been so precious to her, and to him, were dropped. He worked instead. Mrs. Morel sniffed with satisfaction atthis arrangement. 

He would not have it that they were lovers. The intimacy between themhad been kept so abstract, such a matter of the soul, all thought andweary struggle into consciousness, that he saw it only as a platonicfriendship. He stoutly denied there was anything else between them. Miriam was silent, or else she very quietly agreed. He was a fool whodid not know what was happening to himself. By tacit agreement theyignored the remarks and insinuations of their acquaintances. 

"We aren't lovers, we are friends, " he said to her. "WE know it. Letthem talk. What does it matter what they say. "

Sometimes, as they were walking together, she slipped her arm timidlyinto his. But he always resented it, and she knew it. It caused aviolent conflict in him. With Miriam he was always on the high plane ofabstraction, when his natural fire of love was transmitted into the finestream of thought. She would have it so. If he were jolly and, as sheput it, flippant, she waited till he came back to her, till the changehad taken place in him again, and he was wrestling with his own soul, frowning, passionate in his desire for understanding. And in thispassion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all toherself. But he must be made abstract first. 

Then, if she put her arm in his, it caused him almost torture. Hisconsciousness seemed to split. The place where she was touching him ranhot with friction. He was one internecine battle, and he became cruel toher because of it. 

One evening in midsummer Miriam called at the house, warm from climbing. Paul was alone in the kitchen; his mother could be heard moving aboutupstairs. 

"Come and look at the sweet-peas, " he said to the girl. 

They went into the garden. The sky behind the townlet and the church wasorange-red; the flower-garden was flooded with a strange warm light thatlifted every leaf into significance. Paul passed along a fine row ofsweet-peas, gathering a blossom here and there, all cream and pale blue. Miriam followed, breathing the fragrance. To her, flowers appealed withsuch strength she felt she must make them part of herself. When she bentand breathed a flower, it was as if she and the flower were loving eachother. Paul hated her for it. There seemed a sort of exposure about theaction, something too intimate. 

When he had got a fair bunch, they returned to the house. He listenedfor a moment to his mother's quiet movement upstairs, then he said:

"Come here, and let me pin them in for you. " He arranged them two orthree at a time in the bosom of her dress, stepping back now and then tosee the effect. "You know, " he said, taking the pin out of his mouth, "awoman ought always to arrange her flowers before her glass. "

Miriam laughed. She thought flowers ought to be pinned in one's dresswithout any care. That Paul should take pains to fix her flowers for herwas his whim. 

He was rather offended at her laughter. 

"Some women do--those who look decent, " he said. 

Miriam laughed again, but mirthlessly, to hear him thus mix her up withwomen in a general way. From most men she would have ignored it. Butfrom him it hurt her. 

He had nearly finished arranging the flowers when he heard his mother'sfootstep on the stairs. Hurriedly he pushed in the last pin and turnedaway. 

"Don't let mater know, " he said. 

Miriam picked up her books and stood in the doorway looking with chagrinat the beautiful sunset. She would call for Paul no more, she said. 

"Good-evening, Mrs. Morel, " she said, in a deferential way. She soundedas if she felt she had no right to be there. 

"Oh, is it you, Miriam?" replied Mrs. Morel coolly. 

But Paul insisted on everybody's accepting his friendship with the girl, and Mrs. Morel was too wise to have any open rupture. 

It was not till he was twenty years old that the family could everafford to go away for a holiday. Mrs. Morel had never been away for aholiday, except to see her sister, since she had been married. Now atlast Paul had saved enough money, and they were all going. There was tobe a party: some of Annie's friends, one friend of Paul's, a young manin the same office where William had previously been, and Miriam. 

It was great excitement writing for rooms. Paul and his mother debatedit endlessly between them. They wanted a furnished cottage for twoweeks. She thought one week would be enough, but he insisted on two. 

At last they got an answer from Mablethorpe, a cottage such as theywished for thirty shillings a week. There was immense jubilation. Paulwas wild with joy for his mother's sake. She would have a real holidaynow. He and she sat at evening picturing what it would be like. Anniecame in, and Leonard, and Alice, and Kitty. There was wild rejoicing andanticipation. Paul told Miriam. She seemed to brood with joy over it. But the Morel's house rang with excitement. 

They were to go on Saturday morning by the seven train. Paul suggestedthat Miriam should sleep at his house, because it was so far for herto walk. She came down for supper. Everybody was so excited that evenMiriam was accepted with warmth. But almost as soon as she entered thefeeling in the family became close and tight. He had discovered a poemby Jean Ingelow which mentioned Mablethorpe, and so he must read itto Miriam. He would never have got so far in the direction ofsentimentality as to read poetry to his own family. But now theycondescended to listen. Miriam sat on the sofa absorbed in him. Shealways seemed absorbed in him, and by him, when he was present. Mrs. Morel sat jealously in her own chair. She was going to hear also. Andeven Annie and the father attended, Morel with his head cocked on oneside, like somebody listening to a sermon and feeling conscious ofthe fact. Paul ducked his head over the book. He had got now all theaudience he cared for. And Mrs. Morel and Annie almost contested withMiriam who should listen best and win his favour. He was in very highfeather. 

"But, " interrupted Mrs. Morel, "what IS the 'Bride of Enderby' that thebells are supposed to ring?"

"It's an old tune they used to play on the bells for a warning againstwater. I suppose the Bride of Enderby was drowned in a flood, " hereplied. He had not the faintest knowledge what it really was, but hewould never have sunk so low as to confess that to his womenfolk. Theylistened and believed him. He believed himself. 

"And the people knew what that tune meant?" said his mother. 

"Yes--just like the Scotch when they heard 'The Flowers o' theForest'--and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm. "

"How?" said Annie. "A bell sounds the same whether it's rung backwardsor forwards. "

"But, " he said, "if you start with the deep bell and ring up to the highone--der--der--der--der--der--der--der--der!"

He ran up the scale. Everybody thought it clever. He thought so too. Then, waiting a minute, he continued the poem. 

"Hm!" said Mrs. Morel curiously, when he finished. "But I wisheverything that's written weren't so sad. "

"I canna see what they want drownin' theirselves for, " said Morel. 

There was a pause. Annie got up to clear the table. 

Miriam rose to help with the pots. 

"Let ME help to wash up, " she said. 

"Certainly not, " cried Annie. "You sit down again. There aren't many. "

And Miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat down again to lookat the book with Paul. 

He was master of the party; his father was no good. And great tortureshe suffered lest the tin box should be put out at Firsby instead of atMablethorpe. And he wasn't equal to getting a carriage. His bold littlemother did that. 

"Here!" she cried to a man. "Here!"

Paul and Annie got behind the rest, convulsed with shamed laughter. 

"How much will it be to drive to Brook Cottage?" said Mrs. Morel. 

"Two shillings. "

"Why, how far is it?"

"A good way. "

"I don't believe it, " she said. 

But she scrambled in. There were eight crowded in one old seasidecarriage. 

"You see, " said Mrs. Morel, "it's only threepence each, and if it were atramcar--"

They drove along. Each cottage they came to, Mrs. Morel cried:

"Is it this? Now, this is it!"

Everybody sat breathless. They drove past. There was a universal sigh. 

"I'm thankful it wasn't that brute, " said Mrs. Morel. "I WASfrightened. " They drove on and on. 

At last they descended at a house that stood alone over the dyke by thehighroad. There was wild excitement because they had to cross a littlebridge to get into the front garden. But they loved the house that layso solitary, with a sea-meadow on one side, and immense expanse of landpatched in white barley, yellow oats, red wheat, and green root-crops, flat and stretching level to the sky. 

Paul kept accounts. He and his mother ran the show. The totalexpenses--lodging, food, everything--was sixteen shillings a week perperson. He and Leonard went bathing in the mornings. Morel was wanderingabroad quite early. 

"You, Paul, " his mother called from the bedroom, "eat a piece ofbread-and-butter. "

"All right, " he answered. 

And when he got back he saw his mother presiding in state at thebreakfast-table. The woman of the house was young. Her husband wasblind, and she did laundry work. So Mrs. Morel always washed the pots inthe kitchen and made the beds. 

"But you said you'd have a real holiday, " said Paul, "and now you work. "

"Work!" she exclaimed. "What are you talking about!"

He loved to go with her across the fields to the village and the sea. She was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused her for being a baby. On the whole he stuck to her as if he were HER man. 

Miriam did not get much of him, except, perhaps, when all the otherswent to the "Coons". Coons were insufferably stupid to Miriam, so hethought they were to himself also, and he preached priggishly to Annieabout the fatuity of listening to them. Yet he, too, knew all theirsongs, and sang them along the roads roisterously. And if he foundhimself listening, the stupidity pleased him very much. Yet to Annie hesaid:

"Such rot! there isn't a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody with moregumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and listen. " And to Miriamhe said, with much scorn of Annie and the others: "I suppose they're atthe 'Coons'. "

It was queer to see Miriam singing coon songs. She had a straight chinthat went in a perpendicular line from the lower lip to the turn. Shealways reminded Paul of some sad Botticelli angel when she sang, evenwhen it was:

 "Come down lover's lane For a walk with me, talk with me. "

Only when he sketched, or at evening when the others were at the"Coons", she had him to herself. He talked to her endlessly about hislove of horizontals: how they, the great levels of sky and land inLincolnshire, meant to him the eternality of the will, just as the bowedNorman arches of the church, repeating themselves, meant the doggedleaping forward of the persistent human soul, on and on, nobody knowswhere; in contradiction to the perpendicular lines and to the Gothicarch, which, he said, leapt up at heaven and touched the ecstasy andlost itself in the divine. Himself, he said, was Norman, Miriam wasGothic. She bowed in consent even to that. 

One evening he and she went up the great sweeping shore of sand towardsTheddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ran in a hiss of foam alongthe coast. It was a warm evening. There was not a figure but themselveson the far reaches of sand, no noise but the sound of the sea. Paulloved to see it clanging at the land. He loved to feel himself betweenthe noise of it and the silence of the sandy shore. Miriam was with him. Everything grew very intense. It was quite dark when they turned again. The way home was through a gap in the sandhills, and then along a raisedgrass road between two dykes. The country was black and still. Frombehind the sandhills came the whisper of the sea. Paul and Miriam walkedin silence. Suddenly he started. The whole of his blood seemed to burstinto flame, and he could scarcely breathe. An enormous orange moon wasstaring at them from the rim of the sandhills. He stood still, lookingat it. 

"Ah!" cried Miriam, when she saw it. 

He remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddy moon, theonly thing in the far-reaching darkness of the level. His heart beatheavily, the muscles of his arms contracted. 

"What is it?" murmured Miriam, waiting for him. 

He turned and looked at her. She stood beside him, for ever in shadow. Her face, covered with the darkness of her hat, was watching himunseen. But she was brooding. She was slightly afraid--deeply movedand religious. That was her best state. He was impotent against it. Hisblood was concentrated like a flame in his chest. But he could not getacross to her. There were flashes in his blood. But somehow she ignoredthem. She was expecting some religious state in him. Still yearning, shewas half aware of his passion, and gazed at him, troubled. 

"What is it?" she murmured again. 

"It's the moon, " he answered, frowning. 

"Yes, " she assented. "Isn't it wonderful?" She was curious about him. The crisis was past. 

He did not know himself what was the matter. He was naturally so young, and their intimacy was so abstract, he did not know he wanted to crushher on to his breast to ease the ache there. He was afraid of her. The fact that he might want her as a man wants a woman had in himbeen suppressed into a shame. When she shrank in her convulsed, coiledtorture from the thought of such a thing, he had winced to the depths ofhis soul. And now this "purity" prevented even their first love-kiss. It was as if she could scarcely stand the shock of physical love, even apassionate kiss, and then he was too shrinking and sensitive to give it. 

As they walked along the dark fen-meadow he watched the moon and did notspeak. She plodded beside him. He hated her, for she seemed in some wayto make him despise himself. Looking ahead--he saw the one light in thedarkness, the window of their lamp-lit cottage. 

He loved to think of his mother, and the other jolly people. 

"Well, everybody else has been in long ago!" said his mother as theyentered. 

"What does that matter!" he cried irritably. "I can go a walk if I like, can't I?"

"And I should have thought you could get in to supper with the rest, "said Mrs. Morel. 

"I shall please myself, " he retorted. "It's not LATE. I shall do as Ilike. "

"Very well, " said his mother cuttingly, "then DO as you like. " And shetook no further notice of him that evening. Which he pretended neitherto notice nor to care about, but sat reading. Miriam read also, obliterating herself. Mrs. Morel hated her for making her son like this. She watched Paul growing irritable, priggish, and melancholic. For thisshe put the blame on Miriam. Annie and all her friends joined againstthe girl. Miriam had no friend of her own, only Paul. But she did notsuffer so much, because she despised the triviality of these otherpeople. 

And Paul hated her because, somehow, she spoilt his ease andnaturalness. And he writhed himself with a feeling of humiliation. 

CHAPTER VIII

STRIFE IN LOVE

ARTHUR finished his apprenticeship, and got a job on the electricalplant at Minton Pit. He earned very little, but had a good chance ofgetting on. But he was wild and restless. He did not drink nor gamble. Yet he somehow contrived to get into endless scrapes, always throughsome hot-headed thoughtlessness. Either he went rabbiting in the woods, like a poacher, or he stayed in Nottingham all night instead of cominghome, or he miscalculated his dive into the canal at Bestwood, andscored his chest into one mass of wounds on the raw stones and tins atthe bottom. 

He had not been at his work many months when again he did not come homeone night. 

"Do you know where Arthur is?" asked Paul at breakfast. 

"I do not, " replied his mother. 

"He is a fool, " said Paul. "And if he DID anything I shouldn't mind. Butno, he simply can't come away from a game of whist, or else he must seea girl home from the skating-rink--quite proprietously--and so can't gethome. He's a fool. "

"I don't know that it would make it any better if he did something tomake us all ashamed, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"Well, I should respect him more, " said Paul. 

"I very much doubt it, " said his mother coldly. 

They went on with breakfast. 

"Are you fearfully fond of him?" Paul asked his mother. 

"What do you ask that for?"

"Because they say a woman always like the youngest best. "

"She may do--but I don't. No, he wearies me. "

"And you'd actually rather he was good?"

"I'd rather he showed some of a man's common sense. "

Paul was raw and irritable. He also wearied his mother very often. Shesaw the sunshine going out of him, and she resented it. 

As they were finishing breakfast came the postman with a letter fromDerby. Mrs. Morel screwed up her eyes to look at the address. 

"Give it here, blind eye!" exclaimed her son, snatching it away fromher. 

She started, and almost boxed his ears. 

"It's from your son, Arthur, " he said. 

"What now--!" cried Mrs. Morel. 

"'My dearest Mother, '" Paul read, "'I don't know what made me such afool. I want you to come and fetch me back from here. I came with JackBredon yesterday, instead of going to work, and enlisted. He said he wassick of wearing the seat of a stool out, and, like the idiot you know Iam, I came away with him. 

"'I have taken the King's shilling, but perhaps if you came for me theywould let me go back with you. I was a fool when I did it. I don't wantto be in the army. My dear mother, I am nothing but a trouble to you. But if you get me out of this, I promise I will have more sense andconsideration. . . . '"

Mrs. Morel sat down in her rocking-chair. 

"Well, NOW, " she cried, "let him stop!"

"Yes, " said Paul, "let him stop. "

There was silence. The mother sat with her hands folded in her apron, her face set, thinking. 

"If I'm not SICK!" she cried suddenly. "Sick!"

"Now, " said Paul, beginning to frown, "you're not going to worry yoursoul out about this, do you hear. "

"I suppose I'm to take it as a blessing, " she flashed, turning on herson. 

"You're not going to mount it up to a tragedy, so there, " he retorted. 

"The FOOL!--the young fool!" she cried. 

"He'll look well in uniform, " said Paul irritatingly. 

His mother turned on him like a fury. 

"Oh, will he!" she cried. "Not in my eyes!"

"He should get in a cavalry regiment; he'll have the time of his life, and will look an awful swell. "

"Swell!--SWELL!--a mighty swell idea indeed!--a common soldier!"

"Well, " said Paul, "what am I but a common clerk?"

"A good deal, my boy!" cried his mother, stung. 

"What?"

"At any rate, a MAN, and not a thing in a red coat. "

"I shouldn't mind being in a red coat--or dark blue, that would suit mebetter--if they didn't boss me about too much. "

But his mother had ceased to listen. 

"Just as he was getting on, or might have been getting on, at his job--ayoung nuisance--here he goes and ruins himself for life. What good willhe be, do you think, after THIS?"

"It may lick him into shape beautifully, " said Paul. 

"Lick him into shape!--lick what marrow there WAS out of his bones. ASOLDIER!--a common SOLDIER!--nothing but a body that makes movementswhen it hears a shout! It's a fine thing!"

"I can't understand why it upsets you, " said Paul. 

"No, perhaps you can't. But I understand"; and she sat back in herchair, her chin in one hand, holding her elbow with the other, brimmedup with wrath and chagrin. 

"And shall you go to Derby?" asked Paul. 

"Yes. "

"It's no good. "

"I'll see for myself. "

"And why on earth don't you let him stop. It's just what he wants. "

"Of course, " cried the mother, "YOU know what he wants!"

She got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where she saw herson and the sergeant. It was, however, no good. 

When Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she said suddenly:

"I've had to go to Derby to-day. "

The miner turned up his eyes, showing the whites in his black face. 

"Has ter, lass. What took thee there?"

"That Arthur!"

"Oh--an' what's agate now?"

"He's only enlisted. "

Morel put down his knife and leaned back in his chair. 

"Nay, " he said, "that he niver 'as!"

"And is going down to Aldershot tomorrow. "

"Well!" exclaimed the miner. "That's a winder. " He considered it amoment, said "H'm!" and proceeded with his dinner. Suddenly his facecontracted with wrath. "I hope he may never set foot i' my house again, "he said. 

"The idea!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Saying such a thing!"

"I do, " repeated Morel. "A fool as runs away for a soldier, let 'im lookafter 'issen; I s'll do no more for 'im. "

"A fat sight you have done as it is, " she said. 

And Morel was almost ashamed to go to his public-house that evening. 

"Well, did you go?" said Paul to his mother when he came home. 

"I did. "

"And could you see him?"

"Yes. "

"And what did he say?"

"He blubbered when I came away. "

"H'm!"

"And so did I, so you needn't 'h'm'!"

Mrs. Morel fretted after her son. She knew he would not like the army. He did not. The discipline was intolerable to him. 

"But the doctor, " she said with some pride to Paul, "said he wasperfectly proportioned--almost exactly; all his measurements werecorrect. He IS good-looking, you know. "

"He's awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girls like William, does he?"

"No; it's a different character. He's a good deal like his father, irresponsible. "

To console his mother, Paul did not go much to Willey Farm at this time. And in the autumn exhibition of students' work in the Castle he had twostudies, a landscape in water-colour and a still life in oil, both ofwhich had first-prize awards. He was highly excited. 

"What do you think I've got for my pictures, mother?" he asked, cominghome one evening. She saw by his eyes he was glad. Her face flushed. 

"Now, how should I know, my boy!"

"A first prize for those glass jars--"

"H'm!"

"And a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm. "

"Both first?"

"Yes. "

"H'm!"

There was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said nothing. 

"It's nice, " he said, "isn't it?"

"It is. "

"Why don't you praise me up to the skies?"

She laughed. 

"I should have the trouble of dragging you down again, " she said. 

But she was full of joy, nevertheless. William had brought her hissporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive hisdeath. Arthur was handsome--at least, a good specimen--and warm andgenerous, and probably would do well in the end. But Paul was going todistinguish himself. She had a great belief in him, the more becausehe was unaware of his own powers. There was so much to come out of him. Life for her was rich with promise. She was to see herself fulfilled. Not for nothing had been her struggle. 

Several times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the Castleunknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room looking at the otherexhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not in them a certainsomething which she demanded for her satisfaction. Some made herjealous, they were so good. She looked at them a long time trying tofind fault with them. Then suddenly she had a shock that made her heartbeat. There hung Paul's picture! She knew it as if it were printed onher heart. 

"Name--Paul Morel--First Prize. "

It looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castlegallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And sheglanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front of thesame sketch. 

But she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies going hometo the Park, she thought to herself:

"Yes, you look very well--but I wonder if YOUR son has two first prizesin the Castle. "

And she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Nottingham. AndPaul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle. All his workwas hers. 

One day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He had seen heron the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in town. She was walkingwith a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullen expression, and adefiant carriage. It was strange how Miriam, in her bowed, meditativebearing, looked dwarfed beside this woman with the handsome shoulders. Miriam watched Paul searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, whoignored him. The girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head. 

"Hello!" he said, "you didn't tell me you were coming to town. "

"No, " replied Miriam, half apologetically. "I drove in to Cattle Marketwith father. "

He looked at her companion. 

"I've told you about Mrs. Dawes, " said Miriam huskily; she was nervous. "Clara, do you know Paul?"

"I think I've seen him before, " replied Mrs. Dawes indifferently, asshe shook hands with him. She had scornful grey eyes, a skin like whitehoney, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upper lip that did notknow whether it was raised in scorn of all men or out of eagerness to bekissed, but which believed the former. She carried her head back, as ifshe had drawn away in contempt, perhaps from men also. She wore a large, dowdy hat of black beaver, and a sort of slightly affected simple dressthat made her look rather sack-like. She was evidently poor, and had notmuch taste. Miriam usually looked nice. 

"Where have you seen me?" Paul asked of the woman. 

She looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then:

"Walking with Louie Travers, " she said. 

Louie was one of the "Spiral" girls. 

"Why, do you know her?" he asked. 

She did not answer. He turned to Miriam. 

"Where are you going?" he asked. 

"To the Castle. "

"What train are you going home by?"

"I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time are youfree?"

"You know not till eight to-night, damn it!"

And directly the two women moved on. 

Paul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend ofMrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because she had once been Spiraloverseer at Jordan's, and because her husband, Baxter Dawes, was smithfor the factory, making the irons for cripple instruments, and so on. Through her Miriam felt she got into direct contact with Jordan's, andcould estimate better Paul's position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated fromher husband, and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to beclever. It interested Paul. 

Baxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of thirty-one orthirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul's corner--a big, well-setman, also striking to look at, and handsome. There was a peculiarsimilarity between himself and his wife. He had the same white skin, with a clear, golden tinge. His hair was of soft brown, his moustachewas golden. And he had a similar defiance in his bearing and manner. Butthen came the difference. His eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, weredissolute. They protruded very slightly, and his eyelids hung over themin a way that was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His wholemanner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybodydown who disapproved of him--perhaps because he really disapproved ofhimself. 

From the first day he had hated Paul. Finding the lad's impersonal, deliberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got into a fury. 

"What are yer lookin' at?" he sneered, bullying. 

The boy glanced away. But the smith used to stand behind the counterand talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with a kind ofrottenness. Again he found the youth with his cool, critical gaze fixedon his face. The smith started round as if he had been stung. 

"What'r yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?" he snarled. 

The boy shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

"Why yer--!" shouted Dawes. 

"Leave him alone, " said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuating voice whichmeans, "He's only one of your good little sops who can't help it. "

Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he camethrough with the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met thesmith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence. 

Clara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband the home hadbeen broken up, and she had gone to live with her mother. Dawes lodgedwith his sister. In the same house was a sister-in-law, and somehow Paulknew that this girl, Louie Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She was ahandsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if hewalked along to the station with her as she went home. 

The next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. She hada fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him. The others, except herfather and mother and the young children, had gone out, so the two hadthe parlour together. It was a long, low, warm room. There were three ofPaul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the mantelpiece. On the table and on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of colouredleaves. He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near hisfeet. The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeledthere like a devotee. 

"What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?" she asked quietly. 

"She doesn't look very amiable, " he replied. 

"No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?" she said, in a deep tone, "Yes--in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for somethings. IS she disagreeable?"

"I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied. "

"What with?"

"Well--how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?"

"Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?"

"Ay, why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly. 

"And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him, " hesaid. 

Miriam bowed her head. 

"Ay?" she queried satirically. "What makes you think so?"

"Look at her mouth--made for passion--and the very setback of herthroat--" He threw his head back in Clara's defiant manner. 

Miriam bowed a little lower. 

"Yes, " she said. 

There was a silence for some moments, while he thought of Clara. 

"And what were the things you liked about her?" she asked. 

"I don't know--her skin and the texture of her--and her--I don'tknow--there's a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciate her asan artist, that's all. "

"Yes. "

He wondered why Miriam crouched there brooding in that strange way. Itirritated him. 

"You don't really like her, do you?" he asked the girl. 

She looked at him with her great, dazzled dark eyes. 

"I do, " she said. 

"You don't--you can't--not really. "

"Then what?" she asked slowly. 

"Eh, I don't know--perhaps you like her because she's got a grudgeagainst men. "

That was more probably one of his own reasons for liking Mrs. Dawes, but this did not occur to him. They were silent. There had come into hisforehead a knitting of the brows which was becoming habitual with him, particularly when he was with Miriam. She longed to smooth it away, andshe was afraid of it. It seemed the stamp of a man who was not her manin Paul Morel. 

There were some crimson berries among the leaves in the bowl. He reachedover and pulled out a bunch. 

"If you put red berries in your hair, " he said, "why would you look likesome witch or priestess, and never like a reveller?"

She laughed with a naked, painful sound. 

"I don't know, " she said. 

His vigorous warm hands were playing excitedly with the berries. 

"Why can't you laugh?" he said. "You never laugh laughter. You onlylaugh when something is odd or incongruous, and then it almost seems tohurt you. "

She bowed her head as if he were scolding her. 

"I wish you could laugh at me just for one minute--just for one minute. I feel as if it would set something free. "

"But"--and she looked up at him with eyes frightened and struggling--"Ido laugh at you--I DO. "

"Never! There's always a kind of intensity. When you laugh I couldalways cry; it seems as if it shows up your suffering. Oh, you make meknit the brows of my very soul and cogitate. "

Slowly she shook her head despairingly. 

"I'm sure I don't want to, " she said. 

"I'm so damned spiritual with YOU always!" he cried. 

She remained silent, thinking, "Then why don't you be otherwise. " But hesaw her crouching, brooding figure, and it seemed to tear him in two. 

"But, there, it's autumn, " he said, "and everybody feels like adisembodied spirit then. "

There was still another silence. This peculiar sadness between themthrilled her soul. He seemed so beautiful with his eyes gone dark, andlooking as if they were deep as the deepest well. 

"You make me so spiritual!" he lamented. "And I don't want to bespiritual. "

She took her finger from her mouth with a little pop, and looked up athim almost challenging. But still her soul was naked in her great darkeyes, and there was the same yearning appeal upon her. If he could havekissed her in abstract purity he would have done so. But he could notkiss her thus--and she seemed to leave no other way. And she yearned tohim. 

He gave a brief laugh. 

"Well, " he said, "get that French and we'll do some--some Verlaine. "

"Yes, " she said in a deep tone, almost of resignation. And she rose andgot the books. And her rather red, nervous hands looked so pitiful, hewas mad to comfort her and kiss her. But then be dared not--or couldnot. There was something prevented him. His kisses were wrong for her. They continued the reading till ten o'clock, when they went into thekitchen, and Paul was natural and jolly again with the father andmother. His eyes were dark and shining; there was a kind of fascinationabout him. 

When he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the front wheelpunctured. 

"Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl, " he said to her. "I shall be late, and then I s'll catch it. "

He lighted the hurricane lamp, took off his coat, turned up the bicycle, and set speedily to work. Miriam came with the bowl of water and stoodclose to him, watching. She loved to see his hands doing things. Hewas slim and vigorous, with a kind of easiness even in his most hastymovements. And busy at his work he seemed to forget her. She lovedhim absorbedly. She wanted to run her hands down his sides. She alwayswanted to embrace him, so long as he did not want her. 

"There!" he said, rising suddenly. "Now, could you have done itquicker?"

"No!" she laughed. 

He straightened himself. His back was towards her. She put her two handson his sides, and ran them quickly down. 

"You are so FINE!" she said. 

He laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a wave of flameby her hands. She did not seem to realise HIM in all this. He might havebeen an object. She never realised the male he was. 

He lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the barn floor tosee that the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat. 

"That's all right!" he said. 

She was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken. 

"Did you have them mended?" she asked. 

"No!"

"But why didn't you?"

"The back one goes on a bit. "

"But it's not safe. "

"I can use my toe. "

"I wish you'd had them mended, " she murmured. 

"Don't worry--come to tea tomorrow, with Edgar. "

"Shall we?"

"Do--about four. I'll come to meet you. "

"Very well. "

She was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. Lookingacross, he saw through the uncurtained window of the kitchen the headsof Mr. And Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow. It looked very cosy. The road, with pine trees, was quite black in front. 

"Till tomorrow, " he said, jumping on his bicycle. 

"You'll take care, won't you?" she pleaded. 

"Yes. "

His voice already came out of the darkness. She stood a moment watchingthe light from his lamp race into obscurity along the ground. Sheturned very slowly indoors. Orion was wheeling up over the wood, his dogtwinkling after him, half smothered. For the rest the world was full ofdarkness, and silent, save for the breathing of cattle in their stalls. She prayed earnestly for his safety that night. When he left her, sheoften lay in anxiety, wondering if he had got home safely. 

He dropped down the hills on his bicycle. The roads were greasy, so hehad to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plunged over thesecond, steeper drop in the hill. "Here goes!" he said. It was risky, because of the curve in the darkness at the bottom, and because of thebrewers' waggons with drunken waggoners asleep. His bicycle seemedto fall beneath him, and he loved it. Recklessness is almost a man'srevenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will riskdestroying himself to deprive her altogether. 

The stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers, silver upon theblackness, as he spun past. Then there was the long climb home. 

"See, mother!" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaves on to thetable. 

"H'm!" she said, glancing at them, then away again. She sat reading, alone, as she always did. 

"Aren't they pretty?"

"Yes. "

He knew she was cross with him. After a few minutes he said:

"Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea tomorrow. "

She did not answer. 

"You don't mind?"

Still she did not answer. 

"Do you?" he asked. 

"You know whether I mind or not. "

"I don't see why you should. I have plenty of meals there. "

"You do. "

"Then why do you begrudge them tea?"

"I begrudge whom tea?"

"What are you so horrid for?"

"Oh, say no more! You've asked her to tea, it's quite sufficient. She'llcome. "

He was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merely Miriam sheobjected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed. 

Paul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was glad to seethem coming. They arrived home at about four o'clock. Everywhere wasclean and still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Morel sat in her black dressand black apron. She rose to meet the visitors. With Edgar she wascordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging. Yet Paul thought thegirl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock. 

He helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would have gladlyproffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. There wasabout it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The chairs were onlywooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrug and cushions werecosy; the pictures were prints in good taste; there was a simplicity ineverything, and plenty of books. He was never ashamed in the least ofhis home, nor was Miriam of hers, because both were what they should be, and warm. And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty, thecloth was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were not silver northe knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managedwonderfully while her children were growing up, so that nothing was outof place. 

Miriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But Mrs. Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar. 

At first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew. Morel neverwent to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs. Morel, like a littlechampion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul at the other end; and atfirst Miriam sat next to him. Then the chapel was like home. It was apretty place, with dark pews and slim, elegant pillars, and flowers. Andthe same people had sat in the same places ever since he was a boy. Itwas wonderfully sweet and soothing to sit there for an hour and a half, next to Miriam, and near to his mother, uniting his two loves under thespell of the place of worship. Then he felt warm and happy and religiousat once. And after chapel he walked home with Miriam, whilst Mrs. Morelspent the rest of the evening with her old friend, Mrs. Burns. He waskeenly alive on his walks on Sunday nights with Edgar and Miriam. Henever went past the pits at night, by the lighted lamp-house, the tallblack headstocks and lines of trucks, past the fans spinning slowly likeshadows, without the feeling of Miriam returning to him, keen and almostunbearable. 

She did not very long occupy the Morels' pew. Her father took one forthemselves once more. It was under the little gallery, opposite theMorels'. When Paul and his mother came in the chapel the Leivers's pewwas always empty. He was anxious for fear she would not come: it was sofar, and there were so many rainy Sundays. Then, often very late indeed, she came in, with her long stride, her head bowed, her face hidden underher bat of dark green velvet. Her face, as she sat opposite, was alwaysin shadow. But it gave him a very keen feeling, as if all his soulstirred within him, to see her there. It was not the same glow, happiness, and pride, that he felt in having his mother in charge:something more wonderful, less human, and tinged to intensity by a pain, as if there were something he could not get to. 

At this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed. He wastwenty-one, and she was twenty. She was beginning to dread the spring:he became so wild, and hurt her so much. All the way he went cruellysmashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. He was by nature critical andrather dispassionate. But Miriam suffered exquisite pain, as, with anintellect like a knife, the man she loved examined her religion in whichshe lived and moved and had her being. But he did not spare her. He wascruel. And when they went alone he was even more fierce, as if he wouldkill her soul. He bled her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness. 

"She exults--she exults as she carries him off from me, " Mrs. Morelcried in her heart when Paul had gone. "She's not like an ordinarywoman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. Shewants to draw him out and absorb him till there is nothing left of him, even for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet--she will suckhim up. " So the mother sat, and battled and brooded bitterly. 

And he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wild with torture. He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists, going at a greatrate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood for some minutes, anddid not move. There was a great hollow of darkness fronting him, and onthe black upslopes patches of tiny lights, and in the lowest trough ofthe night, a flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful. Why was hetorn so, almost bewildered, and unable to move? Why did his mother sitat home and suffer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? Andwhy did he hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thoughtof his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then he hatedher--and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feel as if he wereuncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing, as if he had notsufficient sheathing to prevent the night and the space breaking intohim? How he hated her! And then, what a rush of tenderness and humility!

Suddenly he plunged on again, running home. His mother saw on him themarks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had to make her talkto him. Then she was angry with him for going so far with Miriam. 

"Why don't you like her, mother?" he cried in despair. 

"I don't know, my boy, " she replied piteously. "I'm sure I've tried tolike her. I've tried and tried, but I can't--I can't!"

And he felt dreary and hopeless between the two. 

Spring was the worst time. He was changeable, and intense and cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then came the hours when he knewMiriam was expecting him. His mother watched him growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He could do nothing. It was as ifsomething were drawing his soul out towards Willey Farm. Then he put onhis hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. Andas soon as he was on the way he sighed with relief. And when he was withher he was cruel again. 

One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriam sittingbeside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, sobrilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stole along on the water. Theclear spaces in the sky were of clean, cold blue. Paul lay on his backin the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. Sheseemed to want him, and he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wantednow to give her passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt thatshe wanted the soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength andenergy she drew into herself through some channel which united them. Shedid not want to meet him, so that there were two of them, man and womantogether. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to anintensity like madness, which fascinated him, as drug-taking might. 

He was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she werefingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life, asshe heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the end itfrightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search, and his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was, almostinhuman, as if in a trance. 

"Don't talk any more, " she pleaded softly, laying her hand on hisforehead. 

He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body was somewherediscarded. 

"Why not? Are you tired?"

"Yes, and it wears you out. "

He laughed shortly, realising. 

"Yet you always make me like it, " he said. 

"I don't wish to, " she said, very low. 

"Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it. But yourunconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose I want it. "

He went on, in his dead fashion:

"If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel off for you!"

"I!" she cried bitterly--"I! Why, when would you let me take you?"

"Then it's my fault, " he said, and, gathering himself together, he gotup and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague wayhe hated her for it. And he knew he was as much to blame himself. This, however, did not prevent his hating her. 

One evening about this time he had walked along the home road with her. They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood, unable to part. Asthe stars came out the clouds closed. They had glimpses of their ownconstellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for amoment, his dog ran low, struggling with difficulty through the spume ofcloud. 

Orion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. Theyhad gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling, untilthey seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This eveningPaul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed just an ordinaryconstellation to him. He had fought against his glamour and fascination. Miriam was watching her lover's mood carefully. But he said nothingthat gave him away, till the moment came to part, when he stood frowninggloomily at the gathered clouds, behind which the great constellationmust be striding still. 

There was to be a little party at his house the next day, at which shewas to attend. 

"I shan't come and meet you, " he said. 

"Oh, very well; it's not very nice out, " she replied slowly. 

"It's not that--only they don't like me to. They say I care more foryou than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's onlyfriendship. "

Miriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him an effort. Sheleft him, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blewin her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down; andshe despised him for being blown about by any wind of authority. And inher heart of hearts, unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to getaway from her. This she would never have acknowledged. She pitied him. 

At this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's warehouse. Mr. Pappleworth left to set up a business of his own, and Paul remained withMr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages were to be raised to thirtyshillings at the year-end, if things went well. 

Still on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French lesson. Pauldid not go so frequently to Willey Farm, and she grieved at the thoughtof her education's coming to end; moreover, they both loved tobe together, in spite of discords. So they read Balzac, and didcompositions, and felt highly cultured. 

Friday night was reckoning night for the miners. Morel"reckoned"--shared up the money of the stall--either in the New Innat Bretty or in his own house, according as his fellow-butties wished. Barker had turned a non-drinker, so now the men reckoned at Morel'shouse. 

Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still atomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design. 

Morel was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless the week'searnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner, preparedto get washed. It was decorum for the women to absent themselves whilethe men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spy into such a masculineprivacy as the butties' reckoning, nor were they to know the exactamount of the week's earnings. So, whilst her father was splutteringin the scullery, Annie went out to spend an hour with a neighbour. Mrs. Morel attended to her baking. 

"Shut that doo-er!" bawled Morel furiously. 

Annie banged it behind her, and was gone. 

"If tha oppens it again while I'm weshin' me, I'll ma'e thy jaw rattle, "he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Paul and the motherfrowned to hear him. 

Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy waterdripping from him, dithering with cold. 

"Oh, my sirs!" he said. "Wheer's my towel?"

It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise he wouldhave bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before the hotbaking-fire to dry himself. 

"F-ff-f!" he went, pretending to shudder with cold. 

"Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!" said Mrs. Morel. "It's NOT cold. "

"Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery, " saidthe miner, as he rubbed his hair; "nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!"

"And I shouldn't make that fuss, " replied his wife. 

"No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi' thy nesh sides. "

"Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?" asked Paul, curious. 

"Eh, I dunno; that's what they say, " replied his father. "But there'sthat much draught i' yon scullery, as it blows through your ribs likethrough a five-barred gate. "

"It would have some difficulty in blowing through yours, " said Mrs. Morel. 

Morel looked down ruefully at his sides. 

"Me!" he exclaimed. "I'm nowt b'r a skinned rabbit. My bones fair jutsout on me. "

"I should like to know where, " retorted his wife. 

"Iv'ry-wheer! I'm nobbut a sack o' faggots. "

Mrs. Morel laughed. He had still a wonderfully young body, muscular, without any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It might have been thebody of a man of twenty-eight, except that there were, perhaps, too manyblue scars, like tattoo-marks, where the coal-dust remained under theskin, and that his chest was too hairy. But he put his hand on his sideruefully. It was his fixed belief that, because he did not get fat, he was as thin as a starved rat. Paul looked at his father's thick, brownish hands all scarred, with broken nails, rubbing the finesmoothness of his sides, and the incongruity struck him. It seemedstrange they were the same flesh. 

"I suppose, " he said to his father, "you had a good figure once. "

"Eh!" exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid, like achild. 

"He had, " exclaimed Mrs. Morel, "if he didn't hurtle himself up as if hewas trying to get in the smallest space he could. "

"Me!" exclaimed Morel--"me a good figure! I wor niver much more n'r askeleton. "

"Man!" cried his wife, "don't be such a pulamiter!"

"'Strewth!" he said. "Tha's niver knowed me but what I looked as if Iwor goin' off in a rapid decline. "

She sat and laughed. 

"You've had a constitution like iron, " she said; "and never a man had abetter start, if it was body that counted. You should have seen him asa young man, " she cried suddenly to Paul, drawing herself up to imitateher husband's once handsome bearing. 

Morel watched her shyly. He saw again the passion she had had for him. It blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy, rather scared, and humble. Yet again he felt his old glow. And then immediately he felt the ruin hehad made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away fromit. 

"Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh, " he asked her. 

His wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped it on his shoulders. He gave a jump. 

"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!" he cried. "Cowd as death!"

"You ought to have been a salamander, " she laughed, washing his back. Itwas very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The childrendid those things. 

"The next world won't be half hot enough for you, " she added. 

"No, " he said; "tha'lt see as it's draughty for me. "

But she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion, and wentupstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. When he wasdried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair onend, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stoodwarming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulledthem inside out, he scorched them. 

"Goodness, man!" cried Mrs. Morel, "get dressed!"

"Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o'water?" he said. 

At last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black. He did allthis on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiarfriends had been present. 

Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red earthenwarepanchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful ofpaste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As shewas doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact littleman, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hairwas cropped short, his head was bony. Like most miners, he was pale, buthealthy and taut. 

"Evenin', missis, " he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seated himself with asigh. 

"Good-evening, " she replied cordially. 

"Tha's made thy heels crack, " said Morel. 

"I dunno as I have, " said Barker. 

He sat, as the men always did in Morel's kitchen, effacing himselfrather. 

"How's missis?" she asked of him. 

He had told her some time back:

"We're expectin' us third just now, you see. "

"Well, " he answered, rubbing his head, "she keeps pretty middlin', Ithink. "

"Let's see--when?" asked Mrs. Morel. 

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now. "

"Ah! And she's kept fairly?"

"Yes, tidy. "

"That's a blessing, for she's none too strong. "

"No. An' I've done another silly trick. "

"What's that?"

Mrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly. 

"I'm come be-out th' market-bag. "

"You can have mine. "

"Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself. "

"I shan't. I take a string bag always. "

She saw the determined little collier buying in the week's groceries andmeat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. "Barker's little, buthe's ten times the man you are, " she said to her husband. 

Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with aboyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his sevenchildren. But his wife was a passionate woman. 

"I see you've kested me, " he said, smiling rather vapidly. 

"Yes, " replied Barker. 

The newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muffler. His nose waspointed and red. 

"I'm afraid you're cold, Mr. Wesson, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"It's a bit nippy, " he replied. 

"Then come to the fire. "

"Nay, I s'll do where I am. "

Both colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to thehearth. The hearth is sacred to the family. 

"Go thy ways i' th' armchair, " cried Morel cheerily. 

"Nay, thank yer; I'm very nicely here. "

"Yes, come, of course, " insisted Mrs. Morel. 

He rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morel's armchair awkwardly. It wastoo great a familiarity. But the fire made him blissfully happy. 

"And how's that chest of yours?" demanded Mrs. Morel. 

He smiled again, with his blue eyes rather sunny. 

"Oh, it's very middlin', " he said. 

"Wi' a rattle in it like a kettle-drum, " said Barker shortly. 

"T-t-t-t!" went Mrs. Morel rapidly with her tongue. "Did you have thatflannel singlet made?"

"Not yet, " he smiled. 

"Then, why didn't you?" she cried. 

"It'll come, " he smiled. 

"Ah, an' Doomsday!" exclaimed Barker. 

Barker and Morel were both impatient of Wesson. But, then, they wereboth as hard as nails, physically. 

When Morel was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to Paul. 

"Count it, boy, " he asked humbly. 

Paul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the bag upsidedown on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns andloose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks--the writtenpapers giving amount of coal--put the money in order. Then Barkerglanced at the checks. 

Mrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. Morel, asmaster of the house, sat in his armchair, with his back to the hot fire. The two butties had cooler seats. None of them counted the money. 

"What did we say Simpson's was?" asked Morel; and the butties cavilledfor a minute over the dayman's earnings. Then the amount was put aside. 

"An' Bill Naylor's?"

This money also was taken from the pack. 

Then, because Wesson lived in one of the company's houses, and his renthad been deducted, Morel and Barker took four-and-six each. And becauseMorel's coals had come, and the leading was stopped, Barker and Wessontook four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morel gave each ofthem a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns; each half a crowntill there were no more half-crowns; each a shilling till there were nomore shillings. If there was anything at the end that wouldn't split, Morel took it and stood drinks. 

Then the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the house beforehis wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She lookedhastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing on the table, she sawher money lying. Paul had been working all the time. But now he felt hismother counting the week's money, and her wrath rising, "T-t-t-t-t!" went her tongue. 

He frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted again. 

"A measly twenty-five shillings!" she exclaimed. "How much was thecheque?"

"Ten pounds eleven, " said Paul irritably. He dreaded what was coming. 

"And he gives me a scrattlin' twenty-five, an' his club this week! But Iknow him. He thinks because YOU'RE earning he needn't keep the house anylonger. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I'llshow him!"

"Oh, mother, don't!" cried Paul. 

"Don't what, I should like to know?" she exclaimed. 

"Don't carry on again. I can't work. "

She went very quiet. 

"Yes, it's all very well, " she said; "but how do you think I'm going tomanage?"

"Well, it won't make it any better to whittle about it. "

"I should like to know what you'd do if you had it to put up with. "

"It won't be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell. "

He went back to his work, and she tied her bonnet-strings grimly. Whenshe was fretted he could not bear it. But now he began to insist on herrecognizing him. 

"The two loaves at the top, " she said, "will be done in twenty minutes. Don't forget them. "

"All right, " he answered; and she went to market. 

He remained alone working. But his usual intense concentration becameunsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past seven came alow knock, and Miriam entered. 

"All alone?" she said. 

"Yes. "

As if at home, she took off her tam-o'-shanter and her long coat, hanging them up. It gave him a thrill. This might be their own house, his and hers. Then she came back and peered over his work. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery. "

She bent short-sightedly over the drawings. 

It irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his, searching him out. He went into the parlour and returned with a bundleof brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on the floor. Itproved to be a curtain or portiere, beautifully stencilled with a designon roses. 

"Ah, how beautiful!" she cried. 

The spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green stems, all so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay at her feet. She wenton her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouchedvoluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly shelooked up at him. 

"Why does it seem cruel?" she asked. 

"What?"

"There seems a feeling of cruelty about it, " she said. 

"It's jolly good, whether or not, " he replied, folding up his work witha lover's hands. 

She rose slowly, pondering. 

"And what will you do with it?" she asked. 

"Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd ratherhave the money. "

"Yes, " said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriamsympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER. 

He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw toMiriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design. 

"I did that for you, " he said. 

She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He becameembarrassed. 

"By Jove, the bread!" he cried. 

He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. Heput them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted hishands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped itin a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stoodrubbing the bits of dough from his hands. 

"You do like it?" he asked. 

She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laugheduncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for himthe most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All hispassion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him hisimaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understandswhen she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her andfor him. 

While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small andpale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered theroom. She was a friend at the Morel's. 

"Take your things off, " said Paul. 

"No, I'm not stopping. "

She sat down in the armchair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on thesofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with ascent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth. 

"I shouldn't have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers, "said Beatrice wickedly. 

"Why not?" murmured Miriam huskily. 

"Why, let's look at your shoes. "

Miriam remained uncomfortably still. 

"If tha doesna tha durs'na, " laughed Beatrice. 

Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer, irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed howself-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered withmud. 

"Glory! You're a positive muck-heap, " exclaimed Beatrice. "Who cleansyour boots?"

"I clean them myself. "

"Then you wanted a job, " said Beatrice. "It would ha' taken a lot of mento ha' brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge, doesn'tit, 'Postle my duck?"

"Inter alia, " he said. 

"Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean, Miriam?"

There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not seeit. 

"'Among other things, ' I believe, " she said humbly. 

Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly. 

"'Among other things, ' 'Postle?" she repeated. "Do you mean love laughsat mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends, andlady friends, and even at the b'loved himself?"

She affected a great innocence. 

"In fact, it's one big smile, " he replied. 

"Up its sleeve, 'Postle Morel--you believe me, " she said; and she wentoff into another burst of wicked, silent laughter. 

Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul'sfriends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in thelurch--seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then. 

"Are you still at school?" asked Miriam of Beatrice. 

"Yes. "

"You've not had your notice, then?"

"I expect it at Easter. "

"Isn't it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you didn't passthe exam?"

"I don't know, " said Beatrice coldly. 

"Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to meridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass. "

"Short of brains, eh, 'Postle?" said Beatrice briefly. 

"Only brains to bite with, " replied Paul, laughing. 

"Nuisance!" she cried; and, springing from her seat, she rushed andboxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists whileshe wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and seized two handfulsof his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook. 

"Beat!" he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. "Ihate you!"

She laughed with glee. 

"Mind!" she said. "I want to sit next to you. "

"I'd as lief be neighbours with a vixen, " he said, nevertheless makingplace for her between him and Miriam. 

"Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!" she cried; and, with herhair-comb, she combed him straight. "And his nice little moustache!"she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache. "It's a wicked moustache, 'Postle, " she said. "It's a red for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?"

He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside it. 

"And fancy me having Connie's last cig. , " said Beatrice, putting thething between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffeddaintily. 

"Thanks so much, darling, " she said mockingly. 

It gave her a wicked delight. 

"Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?" she asked. 

"Oh, very!" said Miriam. 

He took a cigarette for himself. 

"Light, old boy?" said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him. 

He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winkingat him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, andhis full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and shecould not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him; shemight as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on hisfull red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on hisforehead. 

"Sweet boy!" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a littlekiss on the cheek. 

"I s'll kiss thee back, Beat, " he said. 

"Tha wunna!" she giggled, jumping up and going away. "Isn't heshameless, Miriam?"

"Quite, " said Miriam. "By the way, aren't you forgetting the bread?"

"By Jove!" he cried, flinging open the oven door. 

Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread. 

"Oh, golly!" cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouched before theoven, she peered over his shoulder. "This is what comes of the oblivionof love, my boy. "

Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hotside; another was hard as a brick. 

"Poor mater!" said Paul. 

"You want to grate it, " said Beatrice. "Fetch me the nutmeg-grater. "

She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and shegrated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors opento blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffingher cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf. 

"My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time, " said Beatrice. 

"I!" exclaimed Miriam in amazement. 

"You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. I know why King Alfredburned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postle would fix up a tale about hiswork making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old womanhad come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed the brazen thing's ears whomade the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred's. "

She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in spite ofherself. Paul mended the fire ruefully. 

The garden gate was heard to bang. 

"Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it up in adamp towel. "

Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapingsinto the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She wasan abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light. 

"Smell of burning!" she exclaimed. 

"It's the cigarettes, " replied Beatrice demurely. 

"Where's Paul?"

Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes, verysad. 

"I suppose he's left you to settle it between you, " he said. He noddedsympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice. 

"No, " said Beatrice, "he's gone off with number nine. "

"I just met number five inquiring for him, " said Leonard. 

"Yes--we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby, " said Beatrice. 

Annie laughed. 

"Oh, ay, " said Leonard. "And which bit should you have?"

"I don't know, " said Beatrice. "I'll let all the others pick first. "

"An' you'd have the leavings, like?" said Leonard, twisting up a comicface. 

Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered. 

"This bread's a fine sight, our Paul, " said Annie. 

"Then you should stop an' look after it, " said Paul. 

"You mean YOU should do what you're reckoning to do, " replied Annie. 

"He should, shouldn't he!" cried Beatrice. 

"I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand, " said Leonard. 

"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie. 

"Yes--but I'd been in all week--"

"And you wanted a bit of a change, like, " insinuated Leonard kindly. 

"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever, " Annie agreed. She wasquite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonardand Annie. She would meet her own boy. 

"Don't forget that bread, our Paul, " cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. Idon't think it will rain. "

When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, andsurveyed it sadly. 

"It's a mess!" he said. 

"But, " answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it, after all--twopence, ha'penny. "

"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it toheart. However, it's no good bothering. "

He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distancebetween him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some momentsconsidering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guiltyinside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it servedMiriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he wasthinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over hisforehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marksof Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands. It looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls, why not her?

Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror ashe quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her. 

"Half-past eight!" he said. "We'd better buck up. Where's your French?"

Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every weekshe wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French. He had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions. Andher diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt asif her soul's history were going to be desecrated by him in his presentmood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorouslyscoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul thatwas there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered. 

"'_Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille, '" he read. "'Il faisait encore uncrepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme, et puis, jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chanson vif etresonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ceque vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presque tous lesmatins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri desgrives. Il est si clair_--'"

Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying tounderstand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love forhim. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love wasat fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing aboveher words. 

"Look, " he said quietly, "the past participle conjugated with _avoir_agrees with the direct object when it precedes. "

She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine curlstickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shuddering. Hesaw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted piteously, theblack hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. Shewas coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short ashe watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were nakedwith their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, andthey hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And he knew, before he could kiss her, he mustdrive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept backagain into his heart. He returned to her exercise. 

Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched before the ovenhurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel inthe swift way he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentle in his movements she would have felt so richand warm. As it was, she was hurt. 

He returned and finished the exercise. 

"You've done well this week, " he said. 

She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her entirely. 

"You really do blossom out sometimes, " he said. "You ought to writepoetry. "

She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully. 

"I don't trust myself, " she said. 

"You should try!"

Again she shook her head. 

"Shall we read, or is it too late?" he asked. 

"It is late--but we can read just a little, " she pleaded. 

She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire's "Le Balcon". Then he read it for her. Hisvoice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way oflifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, whenhe was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he weretrampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her headbowed. She could not understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole--norVerlaine. 

 "Behold her singing in the field Yon solitary highland lass. "

That nourished her heart. So did "Fair Ines". And--

 "It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, And breathing holy quiet like a nun. "

These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throatbitterly:

"_Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses_. "

The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging theburnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery. 

"Mater needn't know till morning, " he said. "It won't upset her so muchthen as at night. "

Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he hadreceived, saw what books were there. She took one that had interestedhim. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble tolock the door. 

He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seatedin the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on herknees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paulentered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading thelittle local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down onthe sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read apiece of paper he found on the table. Then--

"I forgot that bread, mother, " he said. 

There was no answer from either woman. 

"Well, " he said, "it's only twopence ha'penny. I can pay you for that. "

Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid them towards hismother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly. 

"Yes, " said Annie, "you don't know how badly my mother is!"

The girl sat staring glumly into the fire. 

"Why is she badly?" asked Paul, in his overbearing way. 

"Well!" said Annie. "She could scarcely get home. "

He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill. 

"WHY could you scarcely get home?" he asked her, still sharply. Shewould not answer. 

"I found her as white as a sheet sitting here, " said Annie, with asuggestion of tears in her voice. 

"Well, WHY?" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilatingpassionately. 

"It was enough to upset anybody, " said Mrs. Morel, "hugging thoseparcels--meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains--"

"Well, why DID you hug them; you needn't have done. "

"Then who would?"

"Let Annie fetch the meat. "

"Yes, and I WOULD fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were offwith Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came. "

"And what was the matter with you?" asked Paul of his mother. 

"I suppose it's my heart, " she replied. Certainly she looked bluishround the mouth. 

"And have you felt it before?"

"Yes--often enough. "

"Then why haven't you told me?--and why haven't you seen a doctor?"

Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring. 

"You'd never notice anything, " said Annie. "You're too eager to be offwith Miriam. "

"Oh, am I--and any worse than you with Leonard?"

"I was in at a quarter to ten. "

There was silence in the room for a time. 

"I should have thought, " said Mrs. Morel bitterly, "that she wouldn'thave occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful of bread. "

"Beatrice was here as well as she. "

"Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt. "

"Why?" he flashed. 

"Because you were engrossed with Miriam, " replied Mrs. Morel hotly. 

"Oh, very well--then it was NOT!" he replied angrily. 

He was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he began to read. Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twisted into aplait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night. 

Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wanted to upbraid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he was troubled. So, instead of running away to bed, as he would have liked to do, he sat andwaited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly. 

"You'd better go to bed before your father comes in, " said the motherharshly. "And if you're going to have anything to eat, you'd better getit. "

"I don't want anything. "

It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Fridaynight, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go andfind it in the pantry this night. This insulted her. 

"If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine thescene, " said Mrs. Morel. "But you're never too tired to go if SHE willcome for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then. "

"I can't let her go alone. "

"Can't you? And why does she come?"

"Not because I ask her. "

"She doesn't come without you want her--"

"Well, what if I DO want her--" he replied. 

"Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go trapseing upthere miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to goto Nottingham in the morning--"

"If I hadn't, you'd be just the same. "

"Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinatingthat you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was bitterlysarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement thathurt Paul to see. 

"I do like her, " he said, "but--"

"LIKE her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seems to meyou like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, noranyone now for you. "

"What nonsense, mother--you know I don't love her--I--I tell you I DON'Tlove her--she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want herto. "

"Then why do you fly to her so often?"

"I DO like to talk to her--I never said I didn't. But I DON'T love her. "

"Is there nobody else to talk to?"

"Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that you'renot interested in, that--"

"What things?"

Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant. 

"Why--painting--and books. YOU don't care about Herbert Spencer. "

"No, " was the sad reply. "And YOU won't at my age. "

"Well, but I do now--and Miriam does--"

"And how do you know, " Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, "that I shouldn't. Do you ever try me!"

"But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a picture'sdecorative or not; you don't care what MANNER it is in. "

"How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk tome about these things, to try?"

"But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know t's not. "

"What is it, then--what is it, then, that matters to me?" she flashed. He knitted his brows with pain. 

"You're old, mother, and we're young. "

He only meant that the interests of HER age were not the interests ofhis. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrongthing. 

"Yes, I know it well--I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I havenothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you--the restis for Miriam. "

He could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that he was life to her. And, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only supreme thing. 

"You know it isn't, mother, you know it isn't!"

She was moved to pity by his cry. 

"It looks a great deal like it, " she said, half putting aside herdespair. 

"No, mother--I really DON'T love her. I talk to her, but I want to comehome to you. "

He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to goto bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round hisneck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whimpering voice, sounlike her own that he writhed in agony:

"I can't bear it. I could let another woman--but not her. She'd leave meno room, not a bit of room--"

And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly. 

"And I've never--you know, Paul--I've never had a husband--not really--"

He stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat. 

"And she exults so in taking you from me--she's not like ordinarygirls. "

"Well, I don't love her, mother, " he murmured, bowing his head andhiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed him a long, fervent kiss. 

"My boy!" she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love. 

Without knowing, he gently stroked her face. 

"There, " said his mother, "now go to bed. You'll be so tired in themorning. " As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. "There'syour father--now go. " Suddenly she looked at him almost as if in fear. "Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy. "

His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling. 

"Ha--mother!" he said softly. 

Morel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one corner of his eye. He balanced in the doorway. 

"At your mischief again?" he said venomously. 

Mrs. Morel's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard who hadcome in thus upon her. 

"At any rate, it is sober, " she said. 

"H'm--h'm! h'm--h'm!" he sneered. He went into the passage, hung up hishat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps to the pantry. Hereturned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morelhad bought for her son. 

"Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more thantwenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork-pie tostuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer. "

"Wha-at--wha-at!" snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. "Wha-at--notfor me?" He looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in avicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire. 

Paul started to his feet. 

"Waste your own stuff!" he cried. 

"What--what!" suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clenching his fist. "I'll show yer, yer young jockey!"

"All right!" said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. "Showme!"

He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at something. Morel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. The young manstood, smiling with his lips. 

"Ussha!" hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just pasthis son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really touch theyoung man, but swerved an inch away. 

"Right!" said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, wherein another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke. But he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale anddark at the mouth. Morel was dancing up to deliver another blow. 

"Father!" said Paul, so that the word rang. 

Morel started, and stood at attention. 

"Mother!" moaned the boy. "Mother!"

She began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him, althoughshe could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. He laid herdown on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky, which at lastshe could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he kneeled infront of her he did not cry, but the tears ran down his face quickly. Morel, on the opposite side of the room, sat with his elbows on hisknees glaring across. 

"What's a-matter with 'er?" he asked. 

"Faint!" replied Paul. 

"H'm!"

The elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled off to bed. Hislast fight was fought in that home. 

Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother's hand. 

"Don't be poorly, mother--don't be poorly!" he said time after time. 

"It's nothing, my boy, " she murmured. 

At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and raked the fire. Then he cleared the room, put everything straight, laid the things forbreakfast, and brought his mother's candle. 

"Can you go to bed, mother?"

"Yes, I'll come. "

"Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him. "

"No. I'll sleep in my own bed. "

"Don't sleep with him, mother. "

"I'll sleep in my own bed. "

She rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her closely upstairs, carrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close. 

"Good-night, mother. "

"Good-night!" she said. 

He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery. And yet, somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he still loved his motherbest. It was the bitter peace of resignation. 

The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a greathumiliation to him. 

Everybody tried to forget the scene. 

CHAPTER IX

DEFEAT OF MIRIAM

PAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepestof his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, orwounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, andthere was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good dealagainst her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old feeling that she wasto be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had when she prayed, wasmingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe sheever would have him. She did not believe in herself primarily: doubtedwhether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly shenever saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She sawtragedy, sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud, in renunciation she was strong, for she did not trust herself to supporteveryday life. She was prepared for the big things and the deep things, like tragedy. It was the sufficiency of the small day-life she could nottrust. 

The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet shefelt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroomwindow, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood, in whose branches atwilight was tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon. Grey-greenrosettes of honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, shefancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded. 

Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a brightgrey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glitteredas he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughed towards the house. To-day he walked with shut lips and cold, cruel bearing, that hadsomething of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, andcould tell from that keen-looking, aloof young body of his what washappening inside him. There was a cold correctness in the way he put hisbicycle in its place, that made her heart sink. 

She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that shethought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding herof Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfullya woman, and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriouslyformed. Her face was still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. Buther eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He wouldnotice her new blouse. 

He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family toa description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel, conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat atthe head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be sobeautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now takingon one expression and then another, in imitation of various people hewas mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality. He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers, just awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in theirshirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loveda "take-off" more than anything. 

He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups from the shelves. 

When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally. 

"You were late, " she said. 

"Was I?" he answered. 

There was silence for a while. 

"Was it rough riding?" she asked. 

"I didn't notice it. " She continued quickly to lay the table. When shehad finished--

"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at thedaffodils?" she said. 

He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden underthe budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He waspale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows, which she loved, could look so hurting. 

"Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detected an underneathfeeling of weariness about him. 

"No, I think not, " he answered. 

"It must be rough on the road--the wood moans so. "

"You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helps me here. "

"You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand, " she murmured. 

"Is there need to cycle to know that!" he said. 

She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forward in silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house was a thornhedge, under which daffodils were craning forward from among theirsheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowers were greenishwith cold. But still some had burst, and their gold ruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster, took a wild-lookingdaffodil between her hands, turned up its face of gold to her, and boweddown, caressing it with her mouth and cheeks and brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets, watching her. One after another sheturned up to him the faces of the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly, fondling them lavishly all the while. 

"Aren't they magnificent?" she murmured. 

"Magnificent! It's a bit thick--they're pretty!"

She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watchedher crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses. 

"Why must you always be fondling things?" he said irritably. 

"But I love to touch them, " she replied, hurt. 

"Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted topull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit more restraint, orreserve, or something?"

She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke herlips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was somuch kinder than he; it almost made her cry. 

"You wheedle the soul out of things, " he said. "I would neverwheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight. "

He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from himmechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm andhard against her. 

"You're always begging things to love you, " he said, "as if you were abeggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--"

Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to hernostrils. 

"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal craving is to beloved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, asif you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortagesomewhere. "

She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not thefaintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted, tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayingslike sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. Sheonly sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She neverrealised in a flash. Over everything she brooded and brooded. 

After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no notice ofMiriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday, waited forhim. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to trackthis mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than amood. 

"Shall we go through the wood a little way?" she asked him, knowing henever refused a direct request. 

They went down to the warren. On the middle path they passed a trap, anarrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs, baited with the guts of arabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye. 

"Isn't it dreadful?" she asked. 

"I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rabbit'sthroat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!"

He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry forhim. 

"We will go back to the house, " he said. "I don't want to walk out. "

They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds were comingunfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monument squaredand brown, like a pillar of stone. There was a little bed of hay fromthe last cutting. 

"Let us sit here a minute, " said Miriam. 

He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard wall ofhay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowed with sunset, tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the woods dark andyet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops, distinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the east was tender with a magenta flushunder which the land lay still and rich. 

"Isn't it beautiful?" she pleaded. 

But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then. 

At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed, prancedhis two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back, laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, butit came leaping back. 

"Get out, " said the lad, "or I'll dot thee one. "

But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little battlewith the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, however, only floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two foughttogether, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning all over. Miriamwatched them. There was something pathetic about the man. He wanted sobadly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over wasreally loving. Bill got up, panting with happiness, his brown eyesrolling in his white face, and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. Thelad frowned. 

"Bill, I've had enough o' thee, " he said. 

But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back. 

"No, " he said--"no--I've had enough. "

And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun. 

He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beautyhe begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not thecourage to leave Miriam. 

"Why are you sad?" she asked humbly. 

"I'm not sad; why should I be, " he answered. "I'm only normal. "

She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he wasdisagreeable. 

"But what is the matter?" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly. 

"Nothing!"

"Nay!" she murmured. 

He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it. 

"You'd far better not talk, " he said. 

"But I wish to know--" she replied. 

He laughed resentfully. 

"You always do, " he said. 

"It's not fair to me, " she murmured. 

He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, diggingup little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. Shegently and firmly laid her band on his wrist. 

"Don't!" she said. "Put it away. "

He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he wasbottled up. 

"What is it?" she pleaded softly. 

He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they full of torment. 

"You know, " he said at length, rather wearily--"you know--we'd betterbreak off. "

It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before hereyes. 

"Why!" she murmured. "What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no good--"

She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatientwith him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him. 

"We agreed on friendship, " he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. "Howoften HAVE we agreed for friendship! And yet--it neither stops there, nor gets anywhere else. "

He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient withhim. 

"I can only give friendship--it's all I'm capable of--it's a flaw in mymake-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hate a toppling balance. Let us have done. "

There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved himmore than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had notin herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of hersoul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise noracknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. Shewould never let herself want him. She would merely see. 

"But what has happened?" she said. 

"Nothing--it's all in myself--it only comes out just now. We're alwayslike this towards Easter-time. "

He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she neverfloundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chieflyhumiliated. 

"What do you want?" she asked him. 

"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopolise you whenI'm not--You see, I'm deficient in something with regard to you--"

He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her achance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy hewas! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he, ah! she loved his soul. Was HE deficient in something? Perhaps he was. 

"But I don't understand, " she said huskily. "Yesterday--"

The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering. 

"I know, " he cried, "you never will! You'll never believe that Ican't--can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark--"

"What?" she murmured. Now she dreaded. 

"Love you. "

He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Loveher! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about notloving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belongedto her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencinghim. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreignness of anotherinfluence. 

"What have they been saying at home?" she asked. 

"It's not that, " he answered. 

And then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness, hispeople. They did not know what things were really worth. 

He and she talked very little more that night. After all he left her tocycle with Edgar. 

He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie in his life. When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unrealfeel about her. And nobody else mattered. There was one place in theworld that stood solid and did not melt into unreality: the place wherehis mother was. Everybody else could grow shadowy, almost non-existentto him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life, from which he could not escape, was his mother. 

And in the same way she waited for him. In him was established her lifenow. After all, the life beyond offered very little to Mrs. Morel. Shesaw that our chance for DOING is here, and doing counted with her. Paulwas going to prove that she had been right; he was going to make a manwhom nothing should shift off his feet; he was going to alter the faceof the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt hersoul went with him. Whatever he did she felt her soul stood by him, ready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when hewas with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul. 

And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of thesatisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She lovedhim first; he loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His new younglife, so strong and imperious, was urged towards something else. It madehim mad with restlessness. She saw this, and wished bitterly that Miriamhad been a woman who could take this new life of his, and leave her theroots. He fought against his mother almost as he fought against Miriam. 

It was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam had suffereda great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endurethe ignominy of his abandoning her? That would only be superficialand temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. Butmeanwhile, how he would torture her with his battle against her. Sheshrank from it. 

However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leivers was gladto see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that he foundthings hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was goodto him. She did him that great kindness of treating him almost withreverence. 

He met her with the young children in the front garden. 

"I'm glad you've come, " said the mother, looking at him with her greatappealing brown eyes. "It is such a sunny day. I was just going down thefields for the first time this year. "

He felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went, talkingsimply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitude that shewas deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated. 

At the bottom of the Mow Close they found a thrush's nest. 

"Shall I show you the eggs?" he said. 

"Do!" replied Mrs. Leivers. "They seem SUCH a sign of spring, and sohopeful. "

He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding them in the palmof his hand. 

"They are quite hot--I think we frightened her off them, " he said. 

"Ay, poor thing!" said Mrs. Leivers. 

Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemedto her, cradled them so well. 

"Isn't it a strange warmth!" she murmured, to get near him. 

"Blood heat, " he answered. 

She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefullyover the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she lovedhim; he seemed so simple and sufficient to himself. And she could notget to him. 

After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took "Tartarin deTarascon". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the stack. He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dogcame racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzlein the man's chest. Paul fingered his ear for a moment. Then he pushedhim away. 

"Go away, Bill, " he said. "I don't want you. "

Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. Therewas a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. Itwas not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared. 

Turning his face a little to one side, so that she could not see him, hebegan, speaking slowly and painfully:

"Do you think--if I didn't come up so much--you might get to likesomebody else--another man?"

So this was what he was still harping on. 

"But I don't know any other men. Why do you ask?" she replied, in a lowtone that should have been a reproach to him. 

"Why, " he blurted, "because they say I've no right to come up likethis--without we mean to marry--"

Miriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. Shehad been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much. 

"Who says?" she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do withit. They had not. 

"Mother--and the others. They say at this rate everybody will considerme engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it's not fair toyou. And I've tried to find out--and I don't think I love you as a manought to love his wife. What do you think about it?"

Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle. People should leave him and her alone. 

"I don't know, " she murmured. 

"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?" he asked definitely. It made her tremble. 

"No, " she answered truthfully. "I don't think so--we're too young. "

"I thought perhaps, " he went on miserably, "that you, with yourintensity in things, might have given me more--than I could ever make upto you. And even now--if you think it better--we'll be engaged. "

Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such achild for people to do as they liked with. 

"No, I don't think so, " she said firmly. 

He pondered a minute. 

"You see, " he said, "with me--I don't think one person would evermonopolize me--be everything to me--I think never. "

This she did not consider. 

"No, " she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her darkeyes flashed. 

"This is your mother, " she said. "I know she never liked me. "

"No, no, it isn't, " he said hastily. "It was for your sake she spokethis time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myselfengaged. " There was a silence. "And if I ask you to come down any time, you won't stop away, will you?"

She did not answer. By this time she was very angry. 

"Well, what shall we do?" she said shortly. "I suppose I'd better dropFrench. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can goon alone. "

"I don't see that we need, " he said. "I can give you a French lesson, surely. "

"Well--and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop coming to chapel, because I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've noneed to come home with me. I can go alone. "

"All right, " he answered, rather taken aback. "But if I ask Edgar, he'llalways come with us, and then they can say nothing. "

There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For alltheir talk down at his home there would not be much difference. Shewished they would mind their own business. 

"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?" heasked. 

"Oh no, " replied Miriam, without looking at him. 

He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, noanchor of righteousness that held him. 

"Because, " he continued, "a man gets across his bicycle--and goes towork--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods. "

"No, I shan't bother, " said Miriam. And she meant it. 

It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors. 

"How white Paul looks!" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. "Miriam, you shouldn'thave let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken cold, Paul?"

"Oh, no!" he laughed. 

But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriampitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he rose to go. 

"You're not going home, are you?" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously. 

"Yes, " he replied. "I said I'd be early. " He was very awkward. 

"But this IS early, " said Mrs. Leivers. 

Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for hisbicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. 

"Well--good-night, all!" he faltered. 

She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went pastthe window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in away that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain. 

She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passedthrough the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur anda miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck. 

Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her toread and be busy. 

At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the familyso much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest place on earth tohim. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he wouldhave been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm heloved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's bootstramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being troddenon; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything wasso silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere ofromance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved thegardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on thenaked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness, the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills ofthe other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism;he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar, wholit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill--even thesow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besidesMiriam. He could not give it up. 

So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only all the family, including the father, joined in charades and games at evening. Andlater, Miriam drew them together, and they read Macbeth out of pennybooks, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. Leivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learnedsongs together from tonic sol-fa, singing in a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely alone with Miriam. She waited. When sheand Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literarysociety in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodoxnowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling withPaul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Fridaynights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone, walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently. 

One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar hadstayed to Communion--he wondered what it was like--with Mrs. Morel. SoPaul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He was more or less underher spell again. As usual, they were discussing the sermon. He wassetting now full sail towards Agnosticism, but such a religiousAgnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the RenanVie de Jesus stage. Miriam was the threshing-floor on which he threshedout all his beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, thetruth came out for him. She alone was his threshing-floor. She alonehelped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted tohis argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he graduallyrealized where he was wrong. And what he realized, she realized. Shefelt he could not do without her. 

They came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullerywindow, and they entered. All the time he went on with his discussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes from thepantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her knee. She worea large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, buthe liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown andruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him. 

She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed the lithemovement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. Miriam liked the way he reached up--so sharp, straight to the mark. Heturned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John. As he satin the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking, she felt as ifhe were using her unconsciously as a man uses his tools at some work heis bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulness of his voice was like areaching to something, and it was as if she were what he reached with. She sat back on the sofa away from him, and yet feeling herself the veryinstrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure. 

Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when he came tothe verse, "A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrow becauseher hour is come", he missed it out. Miriam had felt him growinguncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words did not follow. Hewent on reading, but she did not hear. A grief and shame made her bendher head. Six months ago he would have read it simply. Now there was ascotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really somethinghostile between them, something of which they were ashamed. 

She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument, butcould not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel hadgone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey Farm. 

Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something else hewanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There wasbetween them now always a ground for strife. She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in life was herself. If she could proveit, both to herself and to him, the rest might go; she could simplytrust to the future. 

So in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meet Mrs. Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him, whenever they spokeof Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not likeher. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself tothe test. She believed that there were in him desires for higher things, and desires for lower, and that the 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 was coiled ontop of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt, and somehow, wherever she was, seemed to make things look paltry and insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen seemed too small and meanaltogether. Miriam's beautiful twilighty parlour looked stiff andstupid. All the Leivers were eclipsed like candles. They foundher rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, butindifferent, and rather hard. 

Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swung off hisbicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would bedisappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went out to meet him, bowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming outcrimson under the cool green shadow of 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 put on a handsome tie, ofwhich 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'd bringme 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-day had been thenewcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together towards thehouse. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush thedust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and tie. 

Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her whiteneck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at himindifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in amanner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to flingsomething to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin muslin at the topof 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 only came withfather--and so--she's not been here very long. "

Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands werelarge, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque, and white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed herhands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on thetable. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept herface slightly averted. 

"You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening, " he said toher. 

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 deal cleverer thanmost men. "

"Well, I didn't say she wasn't, " he said, deprecating. "She's lovablefor 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, afterall, 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 some deprivationwhich Miss Bonford suffered. 

"Well, " he said, "I thought she was warm, and awfully nice--only toofrail. 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. "AndI'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blacking her bootsif she wanted me to. "

But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for alittle while. The other woman held aloof. 

"Well, " he said, "I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?"

"I believe, " said Miriam, "he's gone for a load of coal. He should beback directly. "

"Then, " he said, "I'll go and meet him. "

Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose andleft them. 

On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking lazilybeside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she draggedthe clanking load of coal. The young farmer's face lighted up as he sawhis friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, warm eyes. His clotheswere old and rather disreputable, and he walked 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 pursedup 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 she saysdisdainfully 'Nevermore, ' and if she thinks back she says it in 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 wasrather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked outof the window. She didn't look. 

On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Pauland Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from thepelts 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 neck was sun-redwhen he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paulwatched him sometimes. 

"'Mary Morrison'?" suggested the younger. 

Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all thesongs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he wascarting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in aclear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, thenthe other, abused his horse. 

Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them--even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbedin 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 werepresent 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, " shesaid. 

"You might as well insist on having people's voices trained before youallowed them to talk, " he replied. "Really, people sing for their ownpleasure, 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 insilence. 

After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leivers said toClara:

"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 put behindyou, " he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt hehad been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he wentdown the brick track. 

Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara andher for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they weregoing beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, looking through thebrake at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a fewsunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beastseemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift, away there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, amongthe fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult. 

The three stood charmed. 

"What a treat to be a knight, " he said, "and to have a pavilion here. "

"And to have us shut up safely?" replied Clara. 

"Yes, " he answered, "singing with your maids at your broidery. I wouldcarry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have'W. S. P. U. ' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant. "

"I have no doubt, " said Clara, "that you would much rather fight for awoman than let her fight for herself. "

"I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before alooking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow. "

"And YOU are the looking-glass?" she asked, with a curl of 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 sawthat the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heartgrew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom hehad neglected till then. 

At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenantof Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held thehalter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he were tired. Thethree stood to let him pass over the stepping-stones of the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal should walk on such springy toes, with an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them. 

"Tell your father, Miss Leivers, " he said, in a peculiar piping voice, "that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fence three days an'runnin'. "

"Which?" asked Miriam, tremulous. 

The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks, andlooking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from under itslowered 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 itswhite fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself in the brook. 

"No hanky-pankyin', " said the man affectionately to the beast. 

It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely through thesecond brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon, watched ithalf-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped and pointed to thefence under some willows. 

"There, you see where they got through, " he said. "My man's druv 'emback 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 interested in the creature. 

"Yes--'e's been a tidy step to-day. "

They went through the gate, and saw approaching them from thebig farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of aboutthirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. Asit saw her, the big bay stallion whinneyed again. She came up excitedly. 

"Are you home again, my boy!" she said tenderly to the horse, not tothe man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. Shesmuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she had been hidingbehind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sighof pleasure. She held his head in her arms against 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 ages since you've beendown. "

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 big fellows 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 should like to go bythe 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 bethankful. "

"What fish are there in the pond?" he asked. 

They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steepbank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paulwalked with Miss Limb. 

"I shouldn't mind swimming here, " he said. 

"Do, " she replied. "Come when you like. My brother will be awfullypleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one totalk 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 could come whenwe liked. "

"Of course there's the farm-hands, " said Miss Limb. 

They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill, leaving thelonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank. 

The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky, givenover 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 being too lonely?"

"Yes, " said Miriam. "It's not the right sort of life for her. I thinkit's cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her 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 walking with herhand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked through the dead thistlesand the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, herhandsome body seemed to be blundering up the hill. A hot wave went overPaul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. Heforgot Miriam, who was walking beside him talking to him. She glanced athim, finding he did not answer 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 ran with histhoughts. 

"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 ofwhich were backed by the wood, the other sides by high loose hedges ofhawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrown bushes were gapsthat the cattle might have walked through had there 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 thathad never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above thecoarse tussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan, fairyshipping. 

"Ah!" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. Hesmiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara, a little wayoff, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayedclose together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee, quickly gathering the best blossoms, moving from tuft to tuftrestlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowerslovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick andalmost scientific. Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers. He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a right to them. Shehad more reverence for them: they held something she had not. 

The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. Ashe gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was stillwandering 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 die anyquicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice ina bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because itlooks 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 room in 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 clumps of tangledflowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminousfoam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing somescent from the cowslips. 

"I think, " said Miriam, "if you treat them with reverence you don't dothem 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'sall. " He held out his bunch. 

Miriam was silent. He picked some more. 

"Look at these!" he continued; "sturdy and lusty like little trees andlike boys with fat legs. "

Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bendingforward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, sucha beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swungslightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful andstrong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scatteringa handful of cowslips over 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 almostpitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell onher 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 from her hair. She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled inher hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers hehad sprinkled over her. 

At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field andstood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed upto them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased 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 terrified theywould 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--those bursting outof their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those fromthe open tiptoeing into the forests. "

"I should think the second, " she answered. 

"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to forceyourself 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 was full ofshadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank 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 throughthe scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were cominginto shape, all shadow. 

"Shall we go?" she asked. 

And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the paththey could see the light of home right across, and on the ridge of thehill a thin dark outline with little lights, where the colliery villagetouched the sky. 

"It has been nice, hasn't it?" he asked. 

Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent. 

"Don't you think so?" he persisted. 

But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tellby the way she moved, as if she didn't care, that she suffered. 

At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright andenthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railwaycarriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as ifshe were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, tofasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her withhis hand. 

They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for thecathedral. 

"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 the cathedralquietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternalrepose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, wasreflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all hisyoung will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still freshand pink and downy, but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, sinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and therewas on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beatagainst it with 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 bright into life again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the window at thecathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the relentlessness oflife. And the crow's-feet near her 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'Tlike it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!"

"You never mind my money, " he said. "You forget I'm a fellow taking hisgirl 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 lookikey. "

"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 stood above GloryHole, 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's the 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 littlepublic-house, where she rested. 

"It's nothing, " she said. "My heart is only a bit old; one must expectit. "

He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart was crushed in ahot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash things in fury. 

They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And every step seemed likea weight on his chest. He felt as if his heart would burst. At lastthey 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 togetherin the cathedral. They attended a little service in the choir. She wastimid. 

"I suppose it is open to anybody?" she asked him. 

"Yes, " he replied. "Do you think they'd have the damned cheek to send usaway. "

"Well, I'm sure, " she exclaimed, "they would if they heard yourlanguage. "

Her face seemed to shine again with joy and peace during the service. And all the time he was wanting to rage and smash things and cry. 

Afterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking at the townbelow, he blurted suddenly:

"Why can't a man have a YOUNG mother? What is she old for?"

"Well, " his mother laughed, "she can scarcely help it. "

"And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look--they say the young ones have theadvantage--but look, THEY had the young mother. You should have had mefor your eldest son. "

"I didn't arrange it, " she remonstrated. "Come to consider, you're asmuch to blame as me. "

He turned on her, white, his eyes furious. 

"What are you old for!" he said, mad with his impotence. "WHY can't youwalk? WHY can't you come with me to places?"

"At one time, " she replied, "I could have run up that hill a good dealbetter than you. "

"What's the good of that to ME?" he cried, hitting his fist on the wall. Then he became plaintive. "It's too bad of you to be ill. Little, itis--"

"Ill!" she cried. "I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it, that's all. "

They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They got jollyagain over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats, he told herabout Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions. 

"Then who does she live with?"

"With her mother, on Bluebell Hill. "

"And have they enough to keep them?"

"I don't think so. I think they do lace work. "

"And wherein lies her charm, my boy?"

"I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seemsstraight, you know--not a bit deep, not a bit. "

"But she's a good deal older than you. "

"She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three. "

"You haven't told me what you like her for. "

"Because I don't know--a sort of defiant way she's got--a sort of angryway. "

Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her son to fallin love with some woman who would--she did not know what. But he frettedso, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished heknew some nice woman--She did not know what she wished, but left itvague. At any rate, she was not hostile to the idea of Clara. 

Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to work inBirmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him:

"You don't look very well, my lad. "

"I dunno, " he said. "I feel anyhow or nohow, ma. "

He called her "ma" already in his boyish fashion. 

"Are you sure they're good lodgings?" she asked. 

"Yes--yes. Only--it's a winder when you have to pour your own teaout--an' nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and sup it up. It somehow takes a' the taste out of it. "

Mrs. Morel laughed. 

"And so it knocks you up?" she said. 

"I dunno. I want to get married, " he blurted, twisting his fingers andlooking down at his boots. There was a silence. 

"But, " she exclaimed, "I thought you said you'd wait another year. "

"Yes, I did say so, " he replied stubbornly. 

Again she considered. 

"And you know, " she said, "Annie's a bit of a spendthrift. She's savedno more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you haven't had muchchance. "

He coloured up to the ears. 

"I've got thirty-three quid, " he said. 

"It doesn't go far, " she answered. 

He said nothing, but twisted his fingers. 

"And you know, " she said, "I've nothing--"

"I didn't want, ma!" he cried, very red, suffering and remonstrating. 

"No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take away five poundsfor the wedding and things--it leaves twenty-nine pounds. You won't domuch on that. "

He twisted still, impotent, stubborn, not looking up. 

"But do you really want to get married?" she asked. "Do you feel as ifyou ought?"

He gave her one straight look from his blue eyes. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"Then, " she replied, "we must all do the best we can for it, lad. "

The next time he looked up there were tears in his eyes. 

"I don't want Annie to feel handicapped, " he said, struggling. 

"My lad, " she said, "you're steady--you've got a decent place. If a manhad NEEDED me I'd have married him on his last week's wages. She mayfind it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls ARE like that. They lookforward to the fine home they think they'll have. But I had expensivefurniture. It's not everything. "

So the wedding took place almost immediately. Arthur came home, and wassplendid in uniform. Annie looked nice in a dove-grey dress that shecould take for Sundays. Morel called her a fool for getting married, andwas cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Morel had white tips in her bonnet, and some white on her blouse, and was teased by both her sons forfancying herself so grand. Leonard was jolly and cordial, and felt afearful fool. Paul could not quite see what Annie wanted to getmarried for. He was fond of her, and she of him. Still, he hoped ratherlugubriously that it would turn out all right. Arthur was astonishinglyhandsome in his scarlet and yellow, and he knew it well, but wassecretly ashamed of the uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen, on leaving her mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on theback and said:

"But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you. "

Morel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonardlooked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him:

"I s'll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsible for her. "

"You can, " he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And it was all over. 

When Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as he often did, with his mother. 

"You're not sorry she's married, mother, are you?" he asked. 

"I'm not sorry she's married--but--it seems strange that she should gofrom me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer to go with herLeonard. That's how mothers are--I know it's silly. "

"And shall you be miserable about her?"

"When I think of my own wedding day, " his mother answered, "I can onlyhope her life will be different. "

"But you can trust him to be good to her?"

"Yes, yes. They say he's not good enough for her. But I say if a manis GENUINE, as he is, and a girl is fond of him--then--it should be allright. He's as good as she. "

"So you don't mind?"

"I would NEVER have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn't FEEL tobe genuine through and through. And yet, there's a gap now she's gone. "

They were both miserable, and wanted her back again. It seemed to Paulhis mother looked lonely, in her new black silk blouse with its bit ofwhite trimming. 

"At any rate, mother, I s'll never marry, " he said. 

"Ay, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet. Only wait ayear or two. "

"But I shan't marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we'll have aservant. "

"Ay, my lad, it's easy to talk. We'll see when the time comes. "

"What time? I'm nearly twenty-three. "

"Yes, you're not one that would marry young. But in three years' time--"

"I shall be with you just the same. "

"We'll see, my boy, we'll see. "

"But you don't want me to marry?"

"I shouldn't like to think of you going through your life withoutanybody to care for you and do--no. "

"And you think I ought to marry?"

"Sooner or later every man ought. "

"But you'd rather it were later. "

"It would be hard--and very hard. It's as they say:

 "'A son's my son till he takes him a wife, But my daughter's my daughter the whole of her life. '"

"And you think I'd let a wife take me from you?"

"Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as you, " Mrs. Morel smiled. 

"She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere. "

"She wouldn't--till she'd got you--and then you'd see. "

"I never will see. I'll never marry while I've got you--I won't. "

"But I shouldn't like to leave you with nobody, my boy, " she cried. 

"You're not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'll giveyou till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four. Then I'llmarry a staid body. See!"

His mother sat and laughed. 

"Go to bed, " she said--"go to bed. "

"And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it'll bejust all right. I s'll perhaps be rich with my painting. "

"Will you go to bed!"

"And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself--a little QueenVictoria trotting round. "

"I tell you to go to bed, " she laughed. 

He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always the same. 

Mrs. Morel sat brooding--about her daughter, about Paul, about Arthur. She fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely bound. And shefelt she MUST live now, to be with her children. Life was so rich forher. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply heloved her. He was a creature of the moment. Never yet had he been forcedto realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. He was in perfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair satclose to his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose, something almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the funred mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong. It was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother'speople--good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxious abouthim. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how far would hego?

The army had not really done him any good. He resented bitterly theauthority of the officers. He hated having to obey as if he were ananimal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attentionto getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion. Often he got into scrapes, but they were the manly scrapes thatare easily condoned. So he made a good time out of it, whilst hisself-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks andhandsome figure, his refinement, his decent education to get him mostof what he wanted, and he was not disappointed. Yet he was restless. Something seemed to gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was neveralone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and lovedand despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despised himslightly. 

Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and shedecided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he waslike a lad taking a holiday. 

He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough hepicked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. Thetwo often went long walks together, Arthur taking her arm in soldier'sfashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play the piano whilst he sang. Then Arthur would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyeswere bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat together onthe sofa. He seemed to flaunt his body: she was aware of him so--thestrong chest, the sides, the thighs in their close-fitting trousers. 

He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She wouldsometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she would only take a few whiffsat his cigarette. 

"Nay, " he said to her one evening, when she reached for his cigarette. "Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss if ter's a mind. "

"I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all, " she answered. 

"Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff, " he said, "along wi' t' kiss. "

"I want a draw at thy fag, " she cried, snatching for the cigarettebetween his lips. 

He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was small and quickas lightning. He just escaped. 

"I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss, " he said. 

"Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel, " she said, sitting back. 

"Ha'e a smoke kiss?"

The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near hers. 

"Shonna!" she replied, turning away her head. 

He took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth, and put hislips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustache stood out like abrush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips, then suddenly snatchedthe cigarette from his fingers and darted away. He, leaping after her, seized the comb from her back hair. She turned, threw the cigarette athim. He picked it up, put it in his mouth, and sat down. 

"Nuisance!" she cried. "Give me my comb!"

She was afraid that her hair, specially done for him, would come down. She stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb between his knees. 

"I've non got it, " he said. 

The cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke. 

"Liar!" she said. 

"'S true as I'm here!" he laughed, showing his hands. 

"You brazen imp!" she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the comb, which he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him, pulling at hissmooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till he lay back on the sofashaking with laughter. The cigarette fell from his mouth almost singeinghis throat. Under his delicate tan the blood flushed up, and he laughedtill his blue eyes were blinded, his throat swollen almost to choking. Then he sat up. Beatrice was putting in her comb. 

"Tha tickled me, Beat, " he said thickly. 

Like a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his face. Hestarted up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. Slowly the flushmounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then her head. He sat downsulkily. She went into the scullery to adjust her hair. In private thereshe shed a few tears, she did not know what for. 

When she returned she was pursed up close. But it was only a film overher fire. He, with ruffled hair, was sulking upon the sofa. She sat downopposite, in the armchair, and neither spoke. The clock ticked in thesilence like blows. 

"You are a little cat, Beat, " he said at length, half apologetically. 

"Well, you shouldn't be brazen, " she replied. 

There was again a long silence. He whistled to himself like a man muchagitated but defiant. Suddenly she went across to him and kissed him. 

"Did it, pore fing!" she mocked. 

He lifted his face, smiling curiously. 

"Kiss?" he invited her. 

"Daren't I?" she asked. 

"Go on!" he challenged, his mouth lifted to her. 

Deliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile that seemed tooverspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immediately hisarms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss was finished she drewback her head from him, put her delicate fingers on his neck, throughthe open collar. Then she closed her eyes, giving herself up again in akiss. 

She acted of her own free will. What she would do she did, and madenobody responsible. 

Paul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youth were gone. Now it was a home of grown-up people. Annie was a married woman, Arthurwas following his own pleasure in a way unknown to his folk. For so longthey had all lived at home, and gone out to pass their time. But now, for Annie and Arthur, life lay outside their mother's house. They camehome for holiday and for rest. So there was that strange, half-emptyfeeling about the house, as if the birds had flown. Paul became more andmore unsettled. Annie and Arthur had gone. He was restless to follow. Yet home was for him beside his mother. And still there was somethingelse, something outside, something he wanted. 

He grew more and more restless. Miriam did not satisfy him. His old maddesire to be with her grew weaker. Sometimes he met Clara in Nottingham, sometimes he went to meetings with her, sometimes he saw her at WilleyFarm. But on these last occasions the situation became strained. Therewas a triangle of antagonism between Paul and Clara and Miriam. WithClara he took on a smart, worldly, mocking tone very antagonistic toMiriam. It did not matter what went before. She might be intimate andsad with him. Then as soon as Clara appeared, it all vanished, and heplayed to the newcomer. 

Miriam had one beautiful evening with him in the hay. He had been onthe horse-rake, and having finished, came to help her to put the hay incocks. Then he talked to her of his hopes and despairs, and his wholesoul seemed to lie bare before her. She felt as if she watched the veryquivering stuff of life in him. The moon came out: they walked hometogether: he seemed to have come to her because he needed her so badly, and she listened to him, gave him all her love and her faith. It seemedto her he brought her the best of himself to keep, and that she wouldguard it all her life. Nay, the sky did not cherish the stars moresurely and eternally than she would guard the good in the soul of PaulMorel. She went on home alone, feeling exalted, glad in her faith. 

And then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have tea in thehayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to gold and shadow. And allthe time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made higher and higher heapsof hay that they were jumping over. Miriam did not care for the game, and stood aside. Edgar and Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Pauljumped. Paul won, because he was light. Clara's blood was roused. Shecould run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed atthe hay-cock and leaped, landed on the other side, her breasts shaken, her thick hair come undone. 

"You touched!" he cried. "You touched!"

"No!" she flashed, turning to Edgar. "I didn't touch, did I? Wasn't Iclear?"

"I couldn't say, " laughed Edgar. 

None of them could say. 

"But you touched, " said Paul. "You're beaten. "

"I did NOT touch!" she cried. 

"As plain as anything, " said Paul. 

"Box his ears for me!" she cried to Edgar. 

"Nay, " Edgar laughed. "I daren't. You must do it yourself. "

"And nothing can alter the fact that you touched, " laughed Paul. 

She was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads and menwas gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he was to humbleher. 

"I think you are despicable!" she said. 

And again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam. 

"And I KNEW you couldn't jump that heap, " he teased. 

She turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the only personshe listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he of her. It pleasedthe men to see this battle between them. But Miriam was tortured. 

Paul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. He couldbe unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul Morel. There was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his running after hissatisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitterto think that he should throw away his soul for this flippant traffic oftriviality with Clara. She walked in bitterness and silence, while theother two rallied each other, and Paul sported. 

And afterwards, he would not own it, but he was rather ashamed ofhimself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled. 

"It's not religious to be religious, " he said. "I reckon a crow isreligious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because itfeels itself carried to where it's going, not because it thinks it isbeing eternal. "

But Miriam knew that one should be religious in everything, have God, whatever God might be, present in everything. 

"I don't believe God knows such a lot about Himself, " he cried. "Goddoesn't KNOW things, He IS things. And I'm sure He's not soulful. "

And then it seemed to her that Paul was arguing God on to his own side, because he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a longbattle between him and her. He was utterly unfaithful to her even in herown presence; then he was ashamed, then repentant; then he hated her, and went off again. Those were the ever-recurring conditions. 

She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained--sad, pensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time hegrieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience; andhe felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. Hecould not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. Hecould not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, whichwas three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her. 

When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have beenwritten to her. 

"May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, ischanging, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and leftyou its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I havegiven it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, youare a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun--as a mysticmonk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret--no, have regretted--the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do nottalk to you through the senses--rather through the spirit. That is whywe cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would bedreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If peoplemarry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may becommonplace with each other without feeling awkward--not as two souls. So I feel it. 

"Ought I to send this letter?--I doubt it. But there--it is best tounderstand. Au revoir. "

Miriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A yearlater she broke the seal to show her mother the letter. 

"You are a nun--you are a nun. " The words went into her heart again andagain. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so deeply, fixedly, like a mortal wound. 

She answered him two days after the party. 

"'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one littlemistake, '" she quoted. "Was the mistake mine?"

Almost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her at thesame time a little "Omar Khayyam. "

"I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put meto shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympathy. But infundamentals we may always be together I think. 

"I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many asketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which, to my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovelyjoke, that. Au revoir. "

This was the end of the first phase of Paul's love affair. He was nowabout twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex instinctthat Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew particularly strong. Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that thickening and quickeningof his blood, that peculiar concentration in the breast, as if somethingwere alive there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warninghim that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. Buthe belonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowedher right. 

CHAPTER X

CLARA

WHEN he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to thewinter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a gooddeal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he metother artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious. 

One morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery. Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into thekitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly waving aletter and crying "Hurrah!" as if she had gone mad. He was shocked andfrightened. 

"Why, mother!" he exclaimed. 

She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved theletter, crying:

"Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!"

He was afraid of her--the small, severe woman with graying hair suddenlybursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraidsomething had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door. 

"His picture's got first prize, Fred, " she cried, "and is sold fortwenty guineas. "

"My word, that's something like!" said the young postman, whom they hadknown all his life. 

"And Major Moreton has bought it!" she cried. 

"It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel, " said thepostman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a luckyletter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraidlest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed afterall. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it wastrue. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy. 

"Mother!" he exclaimed. 

"Didn't I SAY we should do it!" she said, pretending she was not crying. 

He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea. 

"You didn't think, mother--" he began tentatively. 

"No, my son--not so much--but I expected a good deal. "

"But not so much, " he said. 

"No--no--but I knew we should do it. "

And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat withhis shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl's, and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet. 

"Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy Arthur out. Now you needn't borrow any. It'll just do. "

"Indeed, I shan't take it all, " she said. 

"But why?"

"Because I shan't. "

"Well--you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine. "

They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to take onlythe five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got overthe stress of emotion by quarrelling. 

Morel came home at night from the pit, saying:

"They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold it toLord Henry Bentley for fifty pound. "

"Oh, what stories people do tell!" she cried. 

"Ha!" he answered. "I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha'dtold Fred Hodgkisson. "

"As if I would tell him such stuff!"

"Ha!" assented the miner. 

But he was disappointed nevertheless. 

"It's true he has got the first prize, " said Mrs. Morel. 

The miner sat heavily in his chair. 

"Has he, beguy!" he exclaimed. 

He stared across the room fixedly. 

"But as for fifty pounds--such nonsense!" She was silent awhile. "MajorMoreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true. "

"Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!" exclaimed Morel. 

"Yes, and it was worth it. "

"Ay!" he said. "I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of apaintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!"

He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed, as if it werenothing. 

"And when does he handle th' money?" asked the collier. 

"That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home, I suppose. "

There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead of eating hisdinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarled with work lay on thetable. His wife pretended not to see him rub the back of his hand acrosshis eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust on his black face. 

"Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadna ha' killed'im, " he said quietly. 

The thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade. Itleft her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest. 

Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said:

"Mother, I want an evening suit. "

"Yes, I was afraid you would, " she said. She was glad. There wasa moment or two of silence. "There's that one of William's, " shecontinued, "that I know cost four pounds ten and which he'd only wornthree times. "

"Should you like me to wear it, mother?" he asked. 

"Yes. I think it would fit you--at least the coat. The trousers wouldwant shortening. "

He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, he lookedstrange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with an eveningcoat and vest. It was rather large. 

"The tailor can make it right, " she said, smoothing her hand over hisshoulder. "It's beautiful stuff. I never could find in my heart to letyour father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now. "

And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought of hereldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. Shepassed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. Theother was dead. 

He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had beenWilliam's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with pride and joy. Hewas started now. The studs she and the children had bought for Williamwere in his shirt-front; he wore one of William's dress shirts. But hehad an elegant figure. His face was rough, but warm-looking and ratherpleasing. He did not look particularly a gentleman, but she thought helooked quite a man. 

He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It wasas if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her to these newfriends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening. 

"Go along with you!" she said. "What do they want to know me for?"

"They do!" he cried indignantly. "If they want to know me--and they saythey do--then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever asI am. "

"Go along with you, child!" she laughed. 

But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. Theskin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. Butshe began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regretted whatthey had been--so small and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on herhaving more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She evenwent so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair. Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and was sure she looked asight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. MajorMoreton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morelremained unchanged, or rather, lapsed slowly. 

Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion wasfading into the background. He had shovelled away an the beliefs thatwould hamper him, had cleared the ground, and come more or less to thebedrock of belief that one should feel inside oneself for right andwrong, and should have the patience to gradually realise one's God. Nowlife interested him more. 

"You know, " he said to his mother, "I don't want to belong to thewell-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to thecommon people. "

"But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn't you be in a tear. YOU knowyou consider yourself equal to any gentleman. "

"In myself, " he answered, "not in my class or my education or mymanners. But in myself I am. "

"Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?"

"Because--the difference between people isn't in their class, but inthemselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas, and from thecommon people--life itself, warmth. You feel their hates and loves. "

"It's all very well, my boy. But, then, why don't you go and talk toyour father's pals?"

"But they're rather different. "

"Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do you mix withnow--among the common people? Those that exchange ideas, like the middleclasses. The rest don't interest you. "

"But--there's the life--"

"I don't believe there's a jot more life from Miriam than you could getfrom any educated girl--say Miss Moreton. It is YOU who are snobbishabout class. "

She frankly WANTED him to climb into the middle classes, a thing notvery difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the end to marry a lady. 

Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept uphis connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor go the wholelength of engagement. And this indecision seemed to bleed him of hisenergy. Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognised leaningtowards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman, she wished hewould fall in love with one of the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid, and would refuse to love or even to admire a girlmuch, just because she was his social superior. 

"My boy, " said his mother to him, "all your cleverness, your breakingaway from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn't seem tobring you much happiness. "

"What is happiness!" he cried. "It's nothing to me! How AM I to behappy?"

The plump question disturbed her. 

"That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some GOODwoman who would MAKE you happy--and you began to think of settling yourlife--when you have the means--so that you could work without all thisfretting--it would be much better for you. "

He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound of Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyes full of pain andfire. 

"You mean easy, mother, " he cried. "That's a woman's whole doctrine forlife--ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it. "

"Oh, do you!" replied his mother. "And do you call yours a divinediscontent?"

"Yes. I don't care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So longas life's full, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. I'm afraidyour happiness would bore me. "

"You never give it a chance, " she said. Then suddenly all her passionof grief over him broke out. "But it does matter!" she cried. "And youOUGHT to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn't be a happy one!"

"Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left you so much worseoff than the folk who've been happier. I reckon you've done well. And Iam the same. Aren't I well enough off?"

"You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's about all you do, as far as I can see. "

"But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best--"

"It isn't. And one OUGHT to be happy, one OUGHT. "

By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of this kindoften took place between her and her son, when she seemed to fight forhis very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. Shewas ill and pitiful. 

"Never mind, Little, " he murmured. "So long as you don't feel life'spaltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness orunhappiness. "

She pressed him to her. 

"But I want you to be happy, " she said pathetically. 

"Eh, my dear--say rather you want me to live. "

Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate sheknew he would not live. He had that poignant carelessness about himself, his own suffering, his own life, which is a form of slow suicide. Italmost broke her heart. With all the passion of her strong nature shehated Miriam for having in this subtle way undermined his joy. It didnot matter to her that Miriam could not help it. Miriam did it, and shehated her. 

She wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equal to be hismate--educated and strong. But he would not look at anybody above himin station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate that feeling waswholesome. His mother prayed and prayed for him, that he might not bewasted. That was all her prayer--not for his soul or his righteousness, but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hoursshe thought and prayed for him. 

He drifted away from Miriam imperceptibly, without knowing he was going. Arthur only left the army to be married. The baby was born six monthsafter his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job under the firm again, attwenty-one shillings a week. She furnished for him, with the help ofBeatrice's mother, a little cottage of two rooms. He was caught now. Itdid not matter how he kicked and struggled, he was fast. For a time hechafed, was irritable with his young wife, who loved him; he went almostdistracted when the baby, which was delicate, cried or gave trouble. Hegrumbled for hours to his mother. She only said: "Well, my lad, you didit yourself, now you must make the best of it. " And then the gritcame out in him. He buckled to work, undertook his responsibilities, acknowledged that he belonged to his wife and child, and did make a goodbest of it. He had never been very closely inbound into the family. Nowhe was gone altogether. 

The months went slowly along. Paul had more or less got into connectionwith the Socialist, Suffragette, Unitarian people in Nottingham, owingto his acquaintance with Clara. One day a friend of his and of Clara's, in Bestwood, asked him to take a message to Mrs. Dawes. He went in theevening across Sneinton Market to Bluebell Hill. He found the house ina mean little street paved with granite cobbles and having causeways ofdark blue, grooved bricks. The front door went up a step from off thisrough pavement, where the feet of the passersby rasped and clattered. The brown paint on the door was so old that the naked wood showedbetween the rents. He stood on the street below and knocked. There camea heavy footstep; a large, stout woman of about sixty towered above him. He looked up at her from the pavement. She had a rather severe face. 

She admitted him into the parlour, which opened on to the street. It wasa small, stuffy, defunct room, of mahogany, and deathly enlargements ofphotographs of departed people done in carbon. Mrs. Radford left him. She was stately, almost martial. In a moment Clara appeared. She flusheddeeply, and he was covered with confusion. It seemed as if she did notlike being discovered in her home circumstances. 

"I thought it couldn't be your voice, " she said. 

But she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She invited himout of the mausoleum of a parlour into the kitchen. 

That was a little, darkish room too, but it was smothered in white lace. The mother had seated herself again by the cupboard, and was drawingthread from a vast web of lace. A clump of fluff and ravelled cotton wasat her right hand, a heap of three-quarter-inch lace lay on herleft, whilst in front of her was the mountain of lace web, piling thehearthrug. Threads of curly cotton, pulled out from between the lengthsof lace, strewed over the fender and the fireplace. Paul dared not goforward, for fear of treading on piles of white stuff. 

On the table was a jenny for carding the lace. There was a pack of browncardboard squares, a pack of cards of lace, a little box of pins, and onthe sofa lay a heap of drawn lace. 

The room was all lace, and it was so dark and warm that the white, snowystuff seemed the more distinct. 

"If you're coming in you won't have to mind the work, " said Mrs. Radford. "I know we're about blocked up. But sit you down. "

Clara, much embarrassed, gave him a chair against the wall opposite thewhite heaps. Then she herself took her place on the sofa, shamedly. 

"Will you drink a bottle of stout?" Mrs. Radford asked. "Clara, get hima bottle of stout. "

He protested, but Mrs. Radford insisted. 

"You look as if you could do with it, " she said. "Haven't you never anymore colour than that?"

"It's only a thick skin I've got that doesn't show the blood through, "he answered. 

Clara, ashamed and chagrined, brought him a bottle of stout and a glass. He poured out some of the black stuff. 

"Well, " he said, lifting the glass, "here's health!"

"And thank you, " said Mrs. Radford. 

He took a drink of stout. 

"And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don't set the house onfire, " said Mrs. Radford. 

"Thank you, " he replied. 

"Nay, you needn't thank me, " she answered. "I s'll be glad to smell abit of smoke in th' 'ouse again. A house o' women is as dead as a housewi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'm not a spider as likes a corner tomyself. I like a man about, if he's only something to snap at. "

Clara began to work. Her jenny spun with a subdued buzz; the whitelace hopped from between her fingers on to the card. It was filled; shesnipped off the length, and pinned the end down to the banded lace. Thenshe put a new card in her jenny. Paul watched her. She sat square andmagnificent. Her throat and arms were bare. The blood still mantledbelow her ears; she bent her head in shame of her humility. Her face wasset on her work. Her arms were creamy and full of life beside the whitelace; her large, well-kept hands worked with a balanced movement, as ifnothing would hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her all the time. Hesaw the arch of her neck from the shoulder, as she bent her head; he sawthe coil of dun hair; he watched her moving, gleaming arms. 

"I've heard a bit about you from Clara, " continued the mother. "You'rein Jordan's, aren't you?" She drew her lace unceasing. 

"Yes. "

"Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to ask ME for oneof my toffies. "

"Did he?" laughed Paul. "And did he get it?"

"Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't--which was latterly. For he's thesort that takes all and gives naught, he is--or used to be. "

"I think he's very decent, " said Paul. 

"Yes; well, I'm glad to hear it. "

Mrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was somethingdetermined about her that he liked. Her face was falling loose, but hereyes were calm, and there was something strong in her that made itseem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheeks were ananachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a woman in the primeof life. She continued drawing the lace with slow, dignified movements. The big web came up inevitably over her apron; the length of lace fellaway at her side. Her arms were finely shapen, but glossy and yellowas old ivory. They had not the peculiar dull gleam that made Clara's sofascinating to him. 

"And you've been going with Miriam Leivers?" the mother asked him. 

"Well--" he answered. 

"Yes, she's a nice girl, " she continued. "She's very nice, but she's abit too much above this world to suit my fancy. "

"She is a bit like that, " he agreed. 

"She'll never be satisfied till she's got wings and can fly overeverybody's head, she won't, " she said. 

Clara broke in, and he told her his message. She spoke humbly to him. Hehad surprised her in her drudgery. To have her humble made him feel asif he were lifting his head in expectation. 

"Do you like jennying?" he asked. 

"What can a woman do!" she replied bitterly. 

"Is it sweated?"

"More or less. Isn't ALL woman's work? That's another trick the men haveplayed, since we force ourselves into the labour market. "

"Now then, you shut up about the men, " said her mother. "If the womenwasn't fools, the men wouldn't be bad uns, that's what I say. No man wasever that bad wi' me but what he got it back again. Not but what they'rea lousy lot, there's no denying it. "

"But they're all right really, aren't they?" he asked. 

"Well, they're a bit different from women, " she answered. 

"Would you care to be back at Jordan's?" he asked Clara. 

"I don't think so, " she replied. 

"Yes, she would!" cried her mother; "thank her stars if she could getback. Don't you listen to her. She's for ever on that 'igh horse ofhers, an' it's back's that thin an' starved it'll cut her in two one ofthese days. "

Clara suffered badly from her mother. Paul felt as if his eyes werecoming very wide open. Wasn't he to take Clara's fulminations soseriously, after all? She spun steadily at her work. He experienced athrill of joy, thinking she might need his help. She seemed denied anddeprived of so much. And her arm moved mechanically, that should neverhave been subdued to a mechanism, and her head was bowed to the lace, that never should have been bowed. She seemed to be stranded thereamong the refuse that life has thrown away, doing her jennying. It wasa bitter thing to her to be put aside by life, as if it had no use forher. No wonder she protested. 

She came with him to the door. He stood below in the mean street, looking up at her. So fine she was in her stature and her bearing, shereminded him of Juno dethroned. As she stood in the doorway, she wincedfrom the street, from her surroundings. 

"And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall?"

He was talking quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her grey eyes atlast met his. They looked dumb with humiliation, pleading with a kind ofcaptive misery. He was shaken and at a loss. He had thought her high andmighty. 

When he left her, he wanted to run. He went to the station in a sort ofdream, and was at home without realising he had moved out of her street. 

He had an idea that Susan, the overseer of the Spiral girls, was aboutto be married. He asked her the next day. 

"I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your getting married. What aboutit?"

Susan flushed red. 

"Who's been talking to you?" she replied. 

"Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you WERE thinking--"

"Well, I am, though you needn't tell anybody. What's more, I wish Iwasn't!"

"Nay, Susan, you won't make me believe that. "

"Shan't I? You CAN believe it, though. I'd rather stop here a thousandtimes. "

Paul was perturbed. 

"Why, Susan?"

The girl's colour was high, and her eyes flashed. 

"That's why!"

"And must you?"

For answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candour andgentleness which made the women trust him. He understood. 

"Ah, I'm sorry, " he said. 

Tears came to her eyes. 

"But you'll see it'll turn out all right. You'll make the best of it, "he continued rather wistfully. 

"There's nothing else for it. "

"Yea, there's making the worst of it. Try and make it all right. "

He soon made occasion to call again on Clara. 

"Would you, " he said, "care to come back to Jordan's?"

She put down her work, laid her beautiful arms on the table, and lookedat him for some moments without answering. Gradually the flush mountedher cheek. 

"Why?" she asked. 

Paul felt rather awkward. 

"Well, because Susan is thinking of leaving, " he said. 

Clara went on with her jennying. The white lace leaped in little jumpsand bounds on to the card. He waited for her. Without raising her head, she said at last, in a peculiar low voice:

"Have you said anything about it?"

"Except to you, not a word. "

There was again a long silence. 

"I will apply when the advertisement is out, " she said. 

"You will apply before that. I will let you know exactly when. "

She went on spinning her little machine, and did not contradict him. 

Clara came to Jordan's. Some of the older hands, Fanny among them, remembered her earlier rule, and cordially disliked the memory. Clarahad always been "ikey", reserved, and superior. She had never mixed withthe girls as one of themselves. If she had occasion to find fault, shedid it coolly and with perfect politeness, which the defaulter felt tobe a bigger insult than crassness. Towards Fanny, the poor, overstrunghunchback, Clara was unfailingly compassionate and gentle, as a resultof which Fanny shed more bitter tears than ever the rough tongues of theother overseers had caused her. 

There was something in Clara that Paul disliked, and much that piquedhim. If she were about, he always watched her strong throat or her neck, upon which the blonde hair grew low and fluffy. There was a fine down, almost invisible, upon the skin of her face and arms, and when once hehad perceived it, he saw it always. 

When he was at his work, painting in the afternoon, she would come andstand near to him, perfectly motionless. Then he felt her, though sheneither spoke nor touched him. Although she stood a yard away he feltas if he were in contact with her. Then he could paint no more. He flungdown the brushes, and turned to talk to her. 

Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and cold. 

"You are affected in that piece, " she would say; and, as there was anelement of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled with anger. 

Again: "What of this?" he would ask enthusiastically. 

"H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound. "It doesn't interest me much. "

"Because you don't understand it, " he retorted. 

"Then why ask me about it?"

"Because I thought you would understand. "

She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She maddened him. Hewas furious. Then he abused her, and went into passionate exposition ofhis stuff. This amused and stimulated her. But she never owned that shehad been wrong. 

During the ten years that she had belonged to the women's movementshe had acquired a fair amount of education, and, having had some ofMiriam's passion to be instructed, had taught herself French, and couldread in that language with a struggle. She considered herself as a womanapart, and particularly apart, from her class. The girls in the Spiraldepartment were all of good homes. It was a small, special industry, andhad a certain distinction. There was an air of refinement in both rooms. But Clara was aloof also from her fellow-workers. 

None of these things, however, did she reveal to Paul. She was not theone to give herself away. There was a sense of mystery about her. Shewas so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her history was openon the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden from everybody. It wasexciting. And then sometimes he caught her looking at him from underher brows with an almost furtive, sullen scrutiny, which made him movequickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were, covered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile. She was to him extraordinarily provocative, because of the knowledge sheseemed to possess, and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain. 

One day he picked up a copy of _Lettres de mon Moulin_ from herwork-bench. 

"You read French, do you?" he cried. 

Clara glanced round negligently. She was making an elastic stockingof heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, balancedregularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or to adjust theneedles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and fine pencils ofhair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. She turned a fewmore rounds, and stopped. 

"What did you say?" she asked, smiling sweetly. 

Paul's eyes glittered at her insolent indifference to him. 

"I did not know you read French, " he said, very polite. 

"Did you not?" she replied, with a faint, sarcastic smile. 

"Rotten swank!" he said, but scarcely loud enough to be heard. 

He shut his mouth angrily as he watched her. She seemed to scorn thework she mechanically produced; yet the hose she made were as nearlyperfect as possible. 

"You don't like Spiral work, " he said. 

"Oh, well, all work is work, " she answered, as if she knew all about it. 

He marvelled at her coldness. He had to do everything hotly. She must besomething special. 

"What would you prefer to do?" he asked. 

She laughed at him indulgently, as she said:

"There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice, that Ihaven't wasted time considering. "

"Pah!" he said, contemptuous on his side now. "You only say that becauseyou're too proud to own up what you want and can't get. "

"You know me very well, " she replied coldly. 

"I know you think you're terrific great shakes, and that you live underthe eternal insult of working in a factory. "

He was very angry and very rude. She merely turned away from him indisdain. He walked whistling down the room, flirted and laughed withHilda. 

Later on he said to himself:

"What was I so impudent to Clara for?" He was rather annoyed withhimself, at the same time glad. "Serve her right; she stinks with silentpride, " he said to himself angrily. 

In the afternoon he came down. There was a certain weight on hisheart which he wanted to remove. He thought to do it by offering herchocolates. 

"Have one?" he said. "I bought a handful to sweeten me up. "

To his great relief, she accepted. He sat on the work-bench beside hermachine, twisting a piece of silk round his finger. She loved him forhis quick, unexpected movements, like a young animal. His feet swungas he pondered. The sweets lay strewn on the bench. She bent over hermachine, grinding rhythmically, then stooping to see the stockingthat hung beneath, pulled down by the weight. He watched the handsomecrouching of her back, and the apron-strings curling on the floor. 

"There is always about you, " he said, "a sort of waiting. Whatever I seeyou doing, you're not really there: you are waiting--like Penelope whenshe did her weaving. " He could not help a spurt of wickedness. "I'llcall you Penelope, " he said. 

"Would it make any difference?" she said, carefully removing one of herneedles. 

"That doesn't matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say, you seem toforget I'm your boss. It just occurs to me. "

"And what does that mean?" she asked coolly. 

"It means I've got a right to boss you. "

"Is there anything you want to complain about?"

"Oh, I say, you needn't be nasty, " he said angrily. 

"I don't know what you want, " she said, continuing her task. 

"I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully. "

"Call you 'sir', perhaps?" she asked quietly. 

"Yes, call me 'sir'. I should love it. "

"Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir. "

His mouth closed, and a frown came on his face. He jumped suddenly down. 

"You're too blessed superior for anything, " he said. 

And he went away to the other girls. He felt he was being angrier thanhe had any need to be. In fact, he doubted slightly that he was showingoff. But if he were, then he would. Clara heard him laughing, in a wayshe hated, with the girls down the next room. 

When at evening he went through the department after the girls had gone, he saw his chocolates lying untouched in front of Clara's machine. Heleft them. In the morning they were still there, and Clara was at work. Later on Minnie, a little brunette they called Pussy, called to him:

"Hey, haven't you got a chocolate for anybody?"

"Sorry, Pussy, " he replied. "I meant to have offered them; then I wentand forgot 'em. "

"I think you did, " she answered. 

"I'll bring you some this afternoon. You don't want them after they'vebeen lying about, do you?"

"Oh, I'm not particular, " smiled Pussy. 

"Oh no, " he said. "They'll be dusty. "

He went up to Clara's bench. 

"Sorry I left these things littering about, " he said. 

She flushed scarlet. He gathered them together in his fist. 

"They'll be dirty now, " he said. "You should have taken them. I wonderwhy you didn't. I meant to have told you I wanted you to. "

He flung them out of the window into the yard below. He just glanced ather. She winced from his eyes. 

In the afternoon he brought another packet. 

"Will you take some?" he said, offering them first to Clara. "These arefresh. "

She accepted one, and put it on to the bench. 

"Oh, take several--for luck, " he said. 

She took a couple more, and put them on the bench also. Then she turnedin confusion to her work. He went on up the room. 

"Here you are, Pussy, " he said. "Don't be greedy!"

"Are they all for her?" cried the others, rushing up. 

"Of course they're not, " he said. 

The girls clamoured round. Pussy drew back from her mates. 

"Come out!" she cried. "I can have first pick, can't I, Paul?"

"Be nice with 'em, " he said, and went away. 

"You ARE a dear, " the girls cried. 

"Tenpence, " he answered. 

He went past Clara without speaking. She felt the three chocolate creamswould burn her if she touched them. It needed all her courage to slipthem into the pocket of her apron. 

The girls loved him and were afraid of him. He was so nice while hewas nice, but if he were offended, so distant, treating them as if theyscarcely existed, or not more than the bobbins of thread. And then, ifthey were impudent, he said quietly: "Do you mind going on with yourwork, " and stood and watched. 

When he celebrated his twenty-third birthday, the house was in trouble. Arthur was just going to be married. His mother was not well. Hisfather, getting an old man, and lame from his accidents, was givena paltry, poor job. Miriam was an eternal reproach. He felt he owedhimself to her, yet could not give himself. The house, moreover, neededhis support. He was pulled in all directions. He was not glad it was hisbirthday. It made him bitter. 

He got to work at eight o'clock. Most of the clerks had not turned up. The girls were not due till 8. 30. As he was changing his coat, he hearda voice behind him say:

"Paul, Paul, I want you. "

It was Fanny, the hunchback, standing at the top of her stairs, her faceradiant with a secret. Paul looked at her in astonishment. 

"I want you, " she said. 

He stood, at a loss. 

"Come on, " she coaxed. "Come before you begin on the letters. "

He went down the half-dozen steps into her dry, narrow, "finishing-off"room. Fanny walked before him: her black bodice was short--the waist wasunder her armpits--and her green-black cashmere skirt seemed verylong, as she strode with big strides before the young man, himself sograceful. She went to her seat at the narrow end of the room, where thewindow opened on to chimney-pots. Paul watched her thin hands and herflat red wrists as she excitedly twitched her white apron, which wasspread on the bench in front of her. She hesitated. 

"You didn't think we'd forgot you?" she asked, reproachful. 

"Why?" he asked. He had forgotten his birthday himself. 

"'Why, ' he says! 'Why!' Why, look here!" She pointed to the calendar, and he saw, surrounding the big black number "21", hundreds of littlecrosses in black-lead. 

"Oh, kisses for my birthday, " he laughed. "How did you know?"

"Yes, you want to know, don't you?" Fanny mocked, hugely delighted. "There's one from everybody--except Lady Clara--and two from some. But Ishan't tell you how many I put. "

"Oh, I know, you're spooney, " he said. 

"There you ARE mistaken!" she cried, indignant. "I could never be sosoft. " Her voice was strong and contralto. 

"You always pretend to be such a hard-hearted hussy, " he laughed. "Andyou know you're as sentimental--"

"I'd rather be called sentimental than frozen meat, " Fanny blurted. Paulknew she referred to Clara, and he smiled. 

"Do you say such nasty things about me?" he laughed. 

"No, my duck, " the hunchback woman answered, lavishly tender. She wasthirty-nine. "No, my duck, because you don't think yourself a finefigure in marble and us nothing but dirt. I'm as good as you, aren't I, Paul?" and the question delighted her. 

"Why, we're not better than one another, are we?" he replied. 

"But I'm as good as you, aren't I, Paul?" she persisted daringly. 

"Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you're better. "

She was rather afraid of the situation. She might get hysterical. 

"I thought I'd get here before the others--won't they say I'm deep! Nowshut your eyes--" she said. 

"And open your mouth, and see what God sends you, " he continued, suitingaction to words, and expecting a piece of chocolate. He heard the rustleof the apron, and a faint clink of metal. "I'm going to look, " he said. 

He opened his eyes. Fanny, her long cheeks flushed, her blue eyesshining, was gazing at him. There was a little bundle of paint-tubes onthe bench before him. He turned pale. 

"No, Fanny, " he said quickly. 

"From us all, " she answered hastily. 

"No, but--"

"Are they the right sort?" she asked, rocking herself with delight. 

"Jove! they're the best in the catalogue. "

"But they're the right sorts?" she cried. 

"They're off the little list I'd made to get when my ship came in. " Hebit his lip. 

Fanny was overcome with emotion. She must turn the conversation. 

"They was all on thorns to do it; they all paid their shares, all exceptthe Queen of Sheba. "

The Queen of Sheba was Clara. 

"And wouldn't she join?" Paul asked. 

"She didn't get the chance; we never told her; we wasn't going to haveHER bossing THIS show. We didn't WANT her to join. "

Paul laughed at the woman. He was much moved. At last he must go. Shewas very close to him. Suddenly she flung her arms round his neck andkissed him vehemently. 

"I can give you a kiss to-day, " she said apologetically. "You've lookedso white, it's made my heart ache. "

Paul kissed her, and left her. Her arms were so pitifully thin that hisheart ached also. 

That day he met Clara as he ran downstairs to wash his hands atdinner-time. 

"You have stayed to dinner!" he exclaimed. It was unusual for her. 

"Yes; and I seem to have dined on old surgical-appliance stock. I MUSTgo out now, or I shall feel stale india-rubber right through. "

She lingered. He instantly caught at her wish. 

"You are going anywhere?" he asked. 

They went together up to the Castle. Outdoors she dressed very plainly, down to ugliness; indoors she always looked nice. She walked withhesitating steps alongside Paul, bowing and turning away from him. Dowdy in dress, and drooping, she showed to great disadvantage. He couldscarcely recognise her strong form, that seemed to slumber with power. She appeared almost insignificant, drowning her stature in her stoop, asshe shrank from the public gaze. 

The Castle grounds were very green and fresh. Climbing the precipitousascent, he laughed and chattered, but she was silent, seeming to broodover something. There was scarcely time to go inside the squat, squarebuilding that crowns the bluff of rock. They leaned upon the wall wherethe cliff runs sheer down to the Park. Below them, in their holes in thesandstone, pigeons preened themselves and cooed softly. Away down uponthe boulevard at the foot of the rock, tiny trees stood in theirown pools of shadow, and tiny people went scurrying about in almostludicrous importance. 

"You feel as if you could scoop up the folk like tadpoles, and have ahandful of them, " he said. 

She laughed, answering:

"Yes; it is not necessary to get far off in order to see usproportionately. The trees are much more significant. "

"Bulk only, " he said. 

She laughed cynically. 

Away beyond the boulevard the thin stripes of the metals showed upon therailway-track, whose margin was crowded with little stacks of timber, beside which smoking toy engines fussed. Then the silver string of thecanal lay at random among the black heaps. Beyond, the dwellings, verydense on the river flat, looked like black, poisonous herbage, in thickrows and crowded beds, stretching right away, broken now and then bytaller plants, right to where the river glistened in a hieroglyph acrossthe country. The steep scarp cliffs across the river looked puny. Greatstretches of country darkened with trees and faintly brightened withcorn-land, spread towards the haze, where the hills rose blue beyondgrey. 

"It is comforting, " said Mrs. Dawes, "to think the town goes no farther. It is only a LITTLE sore upon the country yet. "

"A little scab, " Paul said. 

She shivered. She loathed the town. Looking drearily across at thecountry which was forbidden her, her impassive face, pale and hostile, she reminded Paul of one of the bitter, remorseful angels. 

"But the town's all right, " he said; "it's only temporary. This is thecrude, clumsy make-shift we've practised on, till we find out what theidea is. The town will come all right. "

The pigeons in the pockets of rock, among the perched bushes, cooedcomfortably. To the left the large church of St. Mary rose into space, to keep close company with the Castle, above the heaped rubble of thetown. Mrs. Dawes smiled brightly as she looked across the country. 

"I feel better, " she said. 

"Thank you, " he replied. "Great compliment!"

"Oh, my brother!" she laughed. 

"H'm! that's snatching back with the left hand what you gave with theright, and no mistake, " he said. 

She laughed in amusement at him. 

"But what was the matter with you?" he asked. "I know you were broodingsomething special. I can see the stamp of it on your face yet. "

"I think I will not tell you, " she said. 

"All right, hug it, " he answered. 

She flushed and bit her lip. 

"No, " she said, "it was the girls. "

"What about 'em?" Paul asked. 

"They have been plotting something for a week now, and to-day they seemparticularly full of it. All alike; they insult me with their secrecy. "

"Do they?" he asked in concern. 

"I should not mind, " she went on, in the metallic, angry tone, "if theydid not thrust it into my face--the fact that they have a secret. "

"Just like women, " said he. 

"It is hateful, their mean gloating, " she said intensely. 

Paul was silent. He knew what the girls gloated over. He was sorry to bethe cause of this new dissension. 

"They can have all the secrets in the world, " she went on, broodingbitterly; "but they might refrain from glorying in them, and making mefeel more out of it than ever. It is--it is almost unbearable. "

Paul thought for a few minutes. He was much perturbed. 

"I will tell you what it's all about, " he said, pale and nervous. "It'smy birthday, and they've bought me a fine lot of paints, all thegirls. They're jealous of you"--he felt her stiffen coldly at the word'jealous'--"merely because I sometimes bring you a book, " he addedslowly. "But, you see, it's only a trifle. Don't bother about it, willyou--because"--he laughed quickly--"well, what would they say if theysaw us here now, in spite of their victory?"

She was angry with him for his clumsy reference to their presentintimacy. It was almost insolent of him. Yet he was so quiet, sheforgave him, although it cost her an effort. 

Their two hands lay on the rough stone parapet of the Castle wall. Hehad inherited from his mother a fineness of mould, so that his handswere small and vigorous. Hers were large, to match her large limbs, butwhite and powerful looking. As Paul looked at them he knew her. "She iswanting somebody to take her hands--for all she is so contemptuous ofus, " he said to himself. And she saw nothing but his two hands, so warmand alive, which seemed to live for her. He was brooding now, staringout over the country from under sullen brows. The little, interestingdiversity of shapes had vanished from the scene; all that remained was avast, dark matrix of sorrow and tragedy, the same in all the housesand the river-flats and the people and the birds; they were only shapendifferently. And now that the forms seemed to have melted away, thereremained the mass from which all the landscape was composed, a dark massof struggle and pain. The factory, the girls, his mother, thelarge, uplifted church, the thicket of the town, merged into oneatmosphere--dark, brooding, and sorrowful, every bit. 

"Is that two o'clock striking?" Mrs. Dawes said in surprise. 

Paul started, and everything sprang into form, regained itsindividuality, its forgetfulness, and its cheerfulness. 

They hurried back to work. 

When he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post, examining thework up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing, the evening postmancame in. 

"'Mr. Paul Morel, '" he said, smiling, handing Paul a package. "A lady'shandwriting! Don't let the girls see it. "

The postman, himself a favourite, was pleased to make fun of the girls'affection for Paul. 

It was a volume of verse with a brief note: "You will allow me to sendyou this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathise and wish youwell. --C. D. " Paul flushed hot. 

"Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord, who ever'd havethought it!"

He was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmth of her. In the glow he could almost feel her as if she were present--her arms, her shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them, almost contain them. 

This move on the part of Clara brought them into closer intimacy. Theother girls noticed that when Paul met Mrs. Dawes his eyes lifted andgave that peculiar bright greeting which they could interpret. Knowinghe was unaware, Clara made no sign, save that occasionally she turnedaside her face from him when he came upon her. 

They walked out together very often at dinner-time; it was quite open, quite frank. Everybody seemed to feel that he was quite unaware of thestate of his own feeling, and that nothing was wrong. He talked to hernow with some of the old fervour with which he had talked to Miriam, buthe cared less about the talk; he did not bother about his conclusions. 

One day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly they cameto a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate, she saton the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still, with a dim haze, andyellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet. 

"How old were you when you married?" he asked quietly. 

"Twenty-two. "

Her voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would tell him now. 

"It is eight years ago?"

"Yes. "

"And when did you leave him?"

"Three years ago. "

"Five years! Did you love him when you married him?"

She was silent for some time; then she said slowly:

"I thought I did--more or less. I didn't think much about it. And hewanted me. I was very prudish then. "

"And you sort of walked into it without thinking?"

"Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life. "

"_Somnambule_? But--when did you wake up?"

"I don't know that I ever did, or ever have--since I was a child. "

"You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn'twake you?"

"No; he never got there, " she replied, in a monotone. 

The brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hips stood nakedand scarlet. 

"Got where?" he asked. 

"At me. He never really mattered to me. "

The afternoon was so gently warm and dim. Red roofs of the cottagesburned among the blue haze. He loved the day. He could feel, but hecould not understand, what Clara was saying. 

"But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?"

She shuddered lightly. 

"He--he sort of degraded me. He wanted to bully me because he hadn'tgot me. And then I felt as if I wanted to run, as if I was fastened andbound up. And he seemed dirty. "

"I see. "

He did not at all see. 

"And was he always dirty?" he asked. 

"A bit, " she replied slowly. "And then he seemed as if he couldn't getAT me, really. And then he got brutal--he WAS brutal!"

"And why did you leave him finally?"

"Because--because he was unfaithful to me--"

They were both silent for some time. Her hand lay on the gate-post asshe balanced. He put his own over it. His heart beat quickly. 

"But did you--were you ever--did you ever give him a chance?"

"Chance? How?"

"To come near to you. "

"I married him--and I was willing--"

They both strove to keep their voices steady. 

"I believe he loves you, " he said. 

"It looks like it, " she replied. 

He wanted to take his hand away, and could not. She saved him byremoving her own. After a silence, he began again:

"Did you leave him out of count all along?"

"He left me, " she said. 

"And I suppose he couldn't MAKE himself mean everything to you?"

"He tried to bully me into it. "

But the conversation had got them both out of their depth. Suddenly Pauljumped down. 

"Come on, " he said. "Let's go and get some tea. "

They found a cottage, where they sat in the cold parlour. She poured outhis tea. She was very quiet. He felt she had withdrawn again from him. After tea, she stared broodingly into her tea-cup, twisting her weddingring all the time. In her abstraction she took the ring off her finger, stood it up, and spun it upon the table. The gold became a diaphanous, glittering globe. It fell, and the ring was quivering upon the table. She spun it again and again. Paul watched, fascinated. 

But she was a married woman, and he believed in simple friendship. Andhe considered that he was perfectly honourable with regard to her. It was only a friendship between man and woman, such as any civilisedpersons might have. 

He was like so many young men of his own age. Sex had become socomplicated in him that he would have denied that he ever could wantClara or Miriam or any woman whom he knew. Sex desire was a sort ofdetached thing, that did not belong to a woman. He loved Miriam with hissoul. He grew warm at the thought of Clara, he battled with her, heknew the curves of her breast and shoulders as if they had been mouldedinside him; and yet he did not positively desire her. He would havedenied it for ever. He believed himself really bound to Miriam. If everhe should marry, some time in the far future, it would be his duty tomarry Miriam. That he gave Clara to understand, and she said nothing, but left him to his courses. He came to her, Mrs. Dawes, wheneverhe could. Then he wrote frequently to Miriam, and visited the girloccasionally. So he went on through the winter; but he seemed not sofretted. His mother was easier about him. She thought he was gettingaway from Miriam. 

Miriam knew now how strong was the attraction of Clara for him; butstill she was certain that the best in him would triumph. His feelingfor Mrs. Dawes--who, moreover, was a married woman--was shallow andtemporal, compared with his love for herself. He would come back to her, she was sure; with some of his young freshness gone, perhaps, but curedof his desire for the lesser things which other women than herself couldgive him. She could bear all if he were inwardly true to her and mustcome back. 

He saw none of the anomaly of his position. Miriam was his old friend, lover, and she belonged to Bestwood and home and his youth. Clara was anewer friend, and she belonged to Nottingham, to life, to the world. Itseemed to him quite plain. 

Mrs. Dawes and he had many periods of coolness, when they saw little ofeach other; but they always came together again. 

"Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?" he asked her. It was a thing thatseemed to trouble him. 

"In what way?"

"Oh, I don't know. But weren't you horrid with him? Didn't you dosomething that knocked him to pieces?"

"What, pray?"

"Making him feel as if he were nothing--I know, " Paul declared. 

"You are so clever, my friend, " she said coolly. 

The conversation broke off there. But it made her cool with him for sometime. 

She very rarely saw Miriam now. The friendship between the two women wasnot broken off, but considerably weakened. 

"Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?" Clara asked himjust after Christmas. 

"I promised to go up to Willey Farm, " he replied. 

"Oh, very well. "

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked. 

"Why should I?" she answered. 

Which almost annoyed him. 

"You know, " he said, "Miriam and I have been a lot to each other eversince I was sixteen--that's seven years now. "

"It's a long time, " Clara replied. 

"Yes; but somehow she--it doesn't go right--"

"How?" asked Clara. 

"She seems to draw me and draw me, and she wouldn't leave a single hairof me free to fall out and blow away--she'd keep it. "

"But you like to be kept. "

"No, " he said, "I don't. I wish it could be normal, give and take--likeme and you. I want a woman to keep me, but not in her pocket. "

"But if you love her, it couldn't be normal, like me and you. "

"Yes; I should love her better then. She sort of wants me so much that Ican't give myself. "

"Wants you how?"

"Wants the soul out of my body. I can't help shrinking back from her. "

"And yet you love her!"

"No, I don't love her. I never even kiss her. "

"Why not?" Clara asked. 

"I don't know. "

"I suppose you're afraid, " she said. 

"I'm not. Something in me shrinks from her like hell--she's so good, when I'm not good. "

"How do you know what she is?"

"I do! I know she wants a sort of soul union. "

"But how do you know what she wants?"

"I've been with her for seven years. "

"And you haven't found out the very first thing about her. "

"What's that?"

"That she doesn't want any of your soul communion. That's your ownimagination. She wants you. "

He pondered over this. Perhaps he was wrong. 

"But she seems--" he began. 

"You've never tried, " she answered. 

CHAPTER XI

THE TEST ON MIRIAM

WITH the spring came again the old madness and battle. Now he knew hewould have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? He told himselfit was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and him which neithercould break through. He might have married her; but his circumstancesat home made it difficult, and, moreover, he did not want to marry. Marriage was for life, and because they had become close companions, heand she, he did not see that it should inevitably follow they should beman and wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage with Miriam. Hewished he did. He would have given his head to have felt a joyous desireto marry her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? Therewas some obstacle; and what was the obstacle? It lay in the physicalbondage. He shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her he feltbound up inside himself. He could not go out to her. Something struggledin him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said sheeven wanted him; then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kissher? Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did hefeel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself toher; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil and the shrinkingfrom her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no aversion forher. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong desire battling with astill stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were apositive force, which fought and won in both of them. And with her hefelt it so hard to overcome; yet he was nearest to her, and with heralone could he deliberately break through. And he owed himself to her. Then, if they could get things right, they could marry; but he would notmarry unless he could feel strong in the joy of it--never. He could nothave faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself ina marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all hislife, make it a nullity. He would try what he COULD do. 

And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, dreamingher religion; and he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear tofail her. It would all come right if they tried. 

He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were likehimself, bound in by their own virginity, which they could not breakout of. They were so sensitive to their women that they would go withoutthem for ever rather than do them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sonsof mothers whose husbands had blundered rather brutally through theirfeminine sanctities, they were themselves too diffident and shy. Theycould easier deny themselves than incur any reproach from a woman; fora woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense of theirmother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy, rather than risk the other person. 

He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, broughtthe tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang. Annie was playing a song on the piano. As Miriam sang her mouth seemedhopeless. She sang like a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so muchof the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, sospiritual. Again, hot as steel, came up the pain in him. Why must he askher for the other thing? Why was there his blood battling with her? Ifonly he could have been always gentle, tender with her, breathing withher the atmosphere of reverie and religious dreams, he would givehis right hand. It was not fair to hurt her. There seemed an eternalmaidenhood about her; and when he thought of her mother, he saw thegreat brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and shocked out ofher virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of her seven children. They had been born almost leaving her out of count, not of her, but uponher. So she could never let them go, because she never had possessedthem. 

Mrs. Morel saw him going again frequently to Miriam, and was astonished. He said nothing to his mother. He did not explain nor excuse himself. Ifhe came home late, and she reproached him, he frowned and turned on herin an overbearing way:

"I shall come home when I like, " he said; "I am old enough. "

"Must she keep you till this time?"

"It is I who stay, " he answered. 

"And she lets you? But very well, " she said. 

And she went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for him; but she laylistening until he came, often long after. It was a great bitternessto her that he had gone back to Miriam. She recognised, however, theuselessness of any further interference. He went to Willey Farm as aman now, not as a youth. She had no right over him. There was a coldnessbetween him and her. He hardly told her anything. Discarded, she waitedon him, cooked for him still, and loved to slave for him; but her faceclosed again like a mask. There was nothing for her to do now but thehousework; for all the rest he had gone to Miriam. She could not forgivehim. Miriam killed the joy and the warmth in him. He had been such ajolly lad, and full of the warmest affection; now he grew colder, moreand more irritable and gloomy. It reminded her of William; but Paul wasworse. He did things with more intensity, and more realisation of whathe was about. His mother knew how he was suffering for want of a woman, and she saw him going to Miriam. If he had made up his mind, nothingon earth would alter him. Mrs. Morel was tired. She began to give up atlast; she had finished. She was in the way. 

He went on determinedly. He realised more or less what his mother felt. It only hardened his soul. He made himself callous towards her; but itwas like being callous to his own health. It undermined him quickly; yethe persisted. 

He lay back in the rocking-chair at Willey Farm one evening. He had beentalking to Miriam for some weeks, but had not come to the point. Now hesaid suddenly:

"I am twenty-four, almost. "

She had been brooding. She looked up at him suddenly in surprise. 

"Yes. What makes you say it?"

There was something in the charged atmosphere that she dreaded. 

"Sir Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four. "

She laughed quaintly, saying:

"Does it need Sir Thomas More's sanction?"

"No; but one ought to marry about then. "

"Ay, " she answered broodingly; and she waited. 

"I can't marry you, " he continued slowly, "not now, because we've nomoney, and they depend on me at home. "

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't be ashamedbefore 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 you know I can'thelp 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--like a 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 have been toofierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that to be so muchafraid 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 took the motion fromyou, 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 feelnaked 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 dark withtorture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have thisdeflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. Hewas restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. Hemight 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. Sheput her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He tookit and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himselfaside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more likenullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, when it would driveher away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him andkissed her. 

They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him, she watched his eyes; they were staring across the room, with a peculiardark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. Shecould feel his heart throbbing heavily in 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 mouth waskissing her throat. 

Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her full gaze oflove. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from her, andthen was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment ofanguish. 

"Kiss me, " she whispered. 

He shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer andcloser. 

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--as if therewas 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 us not want, getaway from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that. "

"Yes, " she said, and she felt stunned. 

As she stood under the drooping-thorn tree, in the darkness by theroadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. Inthe darkness, where he could not see her but only feel her, his passionflooded him. He clasped her very close. 

"Sometime you will have me?" he murmured, hiding his face on hershoulder. 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 arm against herback, where it went round her waist. "It rests me so. "

He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back to resther. 

"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 risk for youreally--not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?"

"Oh, I can trust you. " The answer came quick and strong. "It's notthat--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 heartdied 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 her body stiff. 

"You SHALL have me, " she said, through her shut teeth. 

His heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close, and his mouthwas on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. He disengagedher. 

"Won't you be late?" she asked gently. 

He sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited, wishing he wouldgo. At last he kissed her quickly and climbed the fence. Looking roundhe saw the pale blotch of her face down in the darkness under thehanging tree. There was no more of her but this pale blotch. 

"Good-bye!" she called softly. She had no body, only a voice and a dimface. He turned away and ran down the road, his fists clenched; andwhen he came to the wall over the lake he leaned there, almost stunned, looking up the black water. 

Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid of people, whatthey might say; but she dreaded the issue with him. Yes, she wouldlet him have her if he insisted; and then, when she thought of itafterwards, her heart went down. He would be disappointed, he would findno satisfaction, and then he would go away. Yet he was so insistent; andover this, which did not seem so all-important to her, was their loveto break down. After all, he was only like other men, seeking hissatisfaction. Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper!She could trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possessionwas a great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there. Perhaps it was so. There was something divine in it; then she wouldsubmit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And atthe thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily, hard, as ifagainst something; but Life forced her through this gate of suffering, too, and she would submit. At any rate, it would give him what hewanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded and broodedherself towards accepting him. 

He courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot, she put hisface from her, held it between her hands, and looked in his eyes. He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love, earnest andsearching, made him turn away. Not for an instant would she let himforget. Back again he had to torture himself into a sense of hisresponsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leaving himselfto the great hunger and impersonality of passion; he must be broughtback to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if from a swoon of passionshe caged him back to the littleness, the personal relationship. Hecould not bear it. "Leave me alone--leave me alone!" he wanted to cry;but she wanted him to look at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, fullof the dark, impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her. 

There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at the backof the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarlet and crimsondrops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gathering the fruitone evening. It had been a hot day, and now the clouds were rolling inthe sky, dark and warm. Paul combed high in the tree, above the scarletroofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily, made the whole treerock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirred the blood. The youngman, perched insecurely in the slender branches, rocked till he feltslightly drunk, reached down the boughs, where the scarlet beadycherries hung thick underneath, and tore off handful after handful ofthe sleek, cool-fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck ashe stretched forward, their chill finger-tips sending a flash down hisblood. All shades of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson, glowed and met his eyes under a darkness of leaves. 

The sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Immense piles ofgold flared out in the south-east, heaped in soft, glowing yellow rightup 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 twilight and 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 lookedvery soft, turned up to him. 

"How high you are!" she said. 

Beside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds, thieves thathad been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hanging quite bleached, likeskeletons, picked clear of flesh. He looked down again to Miriam. 

"Clouds are on fire, " he said. 

"Beautiful!" she cried. 

She seemed so small, so soft, so tender, down there. He threw a handfulof cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He laughed with alow, chuckling sound, and pelted her. She ran for shelter, pickingup some cherries. Two fine red pairs she hung over her ears; then shelooked 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 fall topieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the darkness. Goldflamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarletsank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quickly the passion went out ofthe sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul scrambled quickly down withhis basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve as 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 fingersthrough the tear. "How warm!" she said. 

He laughed. There was a new, strange note in his voice, one that madeher 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 plantation of trees andpines. 

"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 pricked her face. She was afraid. Paul was silent and strange. 

"I like the darkness, " he said. "I wish it were thicker--good, thickdarkness. "

He seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person: she was only to himthen a woman. She was afraid. 

He stood against a pine-tree trunk and took her in his arms. Sherelinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which she feltsomething of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man was a stranger toher. 

Later it began to rain. The pine-trees smelled very strong. Paul laywith his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles, listening to thesharp hiss of the rain--a steady, keen noise. His heart was down, veryheavy. Now he realised that she had not been with him all the time, that her soul had stood apart, in a sort of horror. He was physically atrest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very sad, and very tender, his fingers wandered over her face pitifully. Now again she loved himdeeply. He was tender and beautiful. 

"The rain!" he said. 

"Yes--is it coming on you?"

She put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feel ifthe raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he lay with hisface on the dead pine-leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. He did notmind if the raindrops came on him: he would have lain and got wetthrough: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if his living were smearedaway into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentlereaching-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 beurgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to meltout 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, feelinga slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fear lest she shouldlose him. 

"The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only apresence. "

She was afraid, and said nothing. 

"A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that'swhat we do in death--sleep in wonder. "

She had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the mystic. Shetrod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy "Hush!" on thetrees. 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 is oureffort--to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep--that is verybeautiful, 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. Hestill kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness in hisvoice. Instinctively, they all left him alone. 

About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottage inWoodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It was abeautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, withred brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the backanother garden was separated from the fields by a tall old hedge. Itwas very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found time for herbeloved reading, and for writing little introspective pieces whichinterested her. 

At the holiday-time her grandmother, being better, was driven to Derbyto stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a crotchety oldlady, and might return the second day or the third; so Miriam stayedalone in the cottage, which also pleased her. 

Paul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rule peaceful and happytimes. He did not embarrass her much; but then on the Monday of theholiday he was to spend a whole day with her. 

It was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where he wasgoing. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him; buthe had three days that were all his own, when he was going to do as heliked. It was sweet to rush through the morning lanes on his bicycle. 

He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy preparingdinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the little kitchen, ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was smalland cosy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort of linen in squaresof red and pale blue, old, much washed, but pretty. There was a stuffedowl in a case over a corner cupboard. The sunlight came through theleaves of the scented geraniums in the window. She was cooking a chickenin his honour. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man andwife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought shegave a feeling of home almost like his mother; and no one could lookmore beautiful, with her tumbled curls, when she was flushed from thefire. 

The dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he carved. Theytalked all the time with unflagging zest. Then he wiped the dishes shehad washed, and they went out down the fields. There was a bright littlebrook that ran into a bog at the foot of a very steep bank. Herethey wandered, picking still a few marsh-marigolds and many big blueforget-me-nots. Then she sat on the bank with her hands full of flowers, mostly golden water-blobs. As she put her face down into the marigolds, it was all overcast with a yellow shine. 

"Your face is bright, " he said, "like a transfiguration. "

She looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her, laying hishands 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 heldher hand fast all the time. 

"And the water singing to itself as it runs--do you love it?" She lookedat 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 upon the sweet thyme, and he looked down at her simply. 

"Will you come?" he asked. 

They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens camescampering down the path to her. He locked the door, and they had thelittle 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 stoodunable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half-smiling withwonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went forward to her, her handslifted in a little pleading movement, and he looked at her face, andstopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him, still and resigned andloving; she lay as if she had given herself up to sacrifice: there washer body for him; but the look at the back of her eyes, like a creatureawaiting immolation, arrested him, and all his blood fell back. 

"You are sure you want me?" he asked, as if a cold shadow had come overhim. 

"Yes, quite sure. "

She was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that she was doingsomething for him. He could hardly bear it. She lay to be sacrificed forhim because she loved him so much. And he had to sacrifice her. For asecond, he wished he were sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes againto her, and his blood beat back again. 

And afterwards he loved her--loved her to the last fibre of his being. He loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was something hecould not bear for her sake. He stayed with her till quite late atnight. As he rode home he felt that he was finally initiated. He was ayouth no longer. But why had he the dull pain in his soul? Why did thethought of death, the after-life, seem so sweet and consoling?

He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passion beforeit was gone. He had always, almost wilfully, to put her out of count, and act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not doit often, and there remained afterwards always the sense of failure andof death. If he were really with her, he had to put aside himself andhis desire. If he would have her, he had to put her aside. 

"When I come to you, " he asked her, his eyes dark with pain and 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 out against hershoulder--"you see--as we are--how can I get used to you? It would comeall 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 thing in marriagethat 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 inTHAT 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 Iwant 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 in which he saidthese things grieved her deeply. It had always been a failure betweenthem. Tacitly, she acquiesced in what he felt. 

And after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly one Sundaynight, 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 about him which shehad wondered at. She almost guessed. She would leave 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 little knitting of his brows, such as she had seenwhen he was a small baby, and which had been gone for many years. Nowit was the same again. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go onalone, make his own way. 

He continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved her utterly. But it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. At first itwas only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could not go on. He wantedto run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he ceased to ask her to havehim. Instead of drawing them together, it put them apart. And then herealised, consciously, that it was no good. It was useless trying: itwould never be a success between them. 

For some months he had seen very little of Clara. They had occasionallywalked out for half an hour at dinner-time. But he always reservedhimself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his brow cleared, and hewas gay again. She treated him indulgently, as if he were a child. Hethought he did not mind. But deep below the surface it 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 Iwas telling her about the strike, and how the women took it. "

"Yes. "

So he gave the account of himself. 

But insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he felt for Claradrew him away from Miriam, for whom he felt responsible, and to whom hefelt he belonged. He thought he was being quite faithful to her. It wasnot easy to estimate exactly the strength and warmth of one's feelingsfor a woman till they have run away with one. 

He began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessop, at theart school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstrator at the university;Newton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar and Miriam's younger brothers. Pleading work, he sketched and studied with Jessop. He called in theuniversity for Swain, and the two went "down town" together. Having comehome in the train with Newton, he called and had a game of billiardswith him in the Moon and Stars. If he gave to Miriam the excuse of hismen 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 cotton stuff withloose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleeves fell back, and herbeautiful strong arms shone out. 

"Half a minute, " he cried. "Hold your arm still. "

He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawings contained someof the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always wentscrupulously 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 corner where I canwork. Often I can do every single thing they need in the department, before dinner. Then I work for myself in the afternoon, and just see tothings at night. "

"Yes, " she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book. 

Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward and poredover his things. He hated her way of patiently casting him up, as if hewere an endless psychological account. When he was with her, he hatedher for having got him, and yet not got him, and he tortured her. Shetook 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 likelooking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience, not his mate. He hated her violently, and was more cruel to her. Theydragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara. 

At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at home one evening. Therewas between him and his mother a peculiar condition of people franklyfinding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel was strong on her feet again. He was not going to stick to Miriam. Very well; then she would standaloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, thisbursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. Thisevening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense. He worked feverishly and mechanically, so that he could escape fromhimself. It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scentof madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he gotup 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 of the garden, makingthe sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a dim white fence of lilieswent across the garden, and the air all round seemed to stir with scent, as if it were alive. He went across the bed of pinks, whose keen perfumecame sharply across the rocking, heavy scent of the lilies, and stoodalongside the white barrier of flowers. They flagged all loose, as ifthey were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the fieldto watch the moon sink under. 

A corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moon slid quitequickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind him the great flowersleaned as if they were calling. And then, like a shock, he caughtanother perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round, he foundthe purple iris, touched their fleshy throats and their dark, graspinghands. At any rate, he had found something. They stood stiff in thedarkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon thecrest of the hill. It was gone; all was dark. The corncrake calledstill. 

Breaking off a pink, he suddenly went indoors. 

"Come, my boy, " said his mother. "I'm sure it's time you went to bed. "

He stood with the pink against his lips. 

"I shall break off with Miriam, mother, " he answered calmly. 

She looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring back at her, unswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took off her glasses. Hewas white. The male was up in him, dominant. She did not want to see himtoo clearly. 

"But I thought--" she began. 

"Well, " he answered, "I don't love her. I don't want to marry her--so Ishall have done. "

"But, " exclaimed his mother, amazed, "I thought lately you had made upyour mind to have her, and so I said nothing. "

"I had--I wanted to--but now I don't want. It's no good. I shall breakoff on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I?"

"You know best. You know I said so long ago. "

"I can't help that now. I shall break off on Sunday. "

"Well, " said his mother, "I think it will be best. But lately I decidedyou had made up your mind to have her, so I said nothing, and shouldhave said nothing. But I say as I have always said, I DON'T think she issuited to you. "

"On Sunday I break off, " he said, smelling the pink. He put the flowerin his mouth. Unthinking, he bared his teeth, closed them on the blossomslowly, and had a mouthful of petals. These he spat into the fire, kissed his mother, and went to bed. 

On Sunday he went up to the farm in the early afternoon. He had writtenMiriam that they would walk over the fields to Hucknall. His mother wasvery tender with him. He said nothing. But she saw the effort it wascosting. The peculiar set look on his face stilled her. 

"Never mind, my son, " she said. "You will be so much better when it isall over. "

Paul glanced swiftly at his mother in surprise and resentment. He didnot want sympathy. 

Miriam met him at the lane-end. She was wearing a new dress of figuredmuslin that had short sleeves. Those short sleeves, and Miriam'sbrown-skinned arms beneath them--such pitiful, resigned arms--gave himso much pain that they helped to make him cruel. She had made herselflook so beautiful and fresh for him. She seemed to blossom for himalone. Every time he looked at her--a mature young woman now, andbeautiful in her new dress--it hurt so much that his heart seemed almostto be bursting with the restraint he put on it. But he had decided, andit was irrevocable. 

On the hills they sat down, and he lay with his head in her lap, whilstshe fingered his hair. She knew that "he was not there, " as she put it. Often, when she had him with her, she looked for him, and could not findhim. But this afternoon she was not prepared. 

It was nearly five o'clock when he told her. They were sitting on thebank of a stream, where the lip of turf hung over a hollow bank ofyellow earth, and he was hacking away with a stick, as he did when hewas perturbed and cruel. 

"I have been thinking, " he said, "we ought to break off. "

"Why?" she cried in surprise. 

"Because it's no good going on. "

"Why is it no good?"

"It isn't. I don't want to marry. I don't want ever to marry. And ifwe're not going to marry, it's no good going on. "

"But why do you say this now?"

"Because I've made up my mind. "

"And what about these last months, and the things you told me then?"

"I can't help it! I don't want to go on. "

"You don't want any more of me?"

"I want us to break off--you be free of me, I free of you. "

"And what about these last months?"

"I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true. "

"Then why are you different now?"

"I'm not--I'm the same--only I know it's no good going on. "

"You haven't told me why it's no good. "

"Because I don't want to go on--and I don't want to marry. "

"How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn't?"

"I know; but I want us to break off. "

There was silence for a moment or two, while he dug viciously at theearth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasonable child. Hewas like an infant which, when it has drunk its fill, throws away andsmashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she could get hold of himand WRING some consistency out of him. But she was helpless. Then shecried:

"I have said you were only fourteen--you are only FOUR!"

He still dug at the earth viciously. He heard. 

"You are a child of four, " she repeated in her anger. 

He did not answer, but said in his heart: "All right; if I'm a child offour, what do you want me for? I don't want another mother. " But he saidnothing to her, and there was silence. 

"And have you told your people?" she asked. 

"I have told my mother. "

There was another long interval of silence. 

"Then what do you WANT?" she asked. 

"Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all theseyears; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you, and you willgo your way without me. You will have an independent life of your ownthen. "

There was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness, she couldnot help registering. She knew she felt in a sort of bondage to him, which she hated because she could not control it. She hated her love forhim from the moment it grew too strong for her. And, deep down, she hadhated him because she loved him and he dominated her. She had resistedhis domination. She had fought to keep herself free of him in the lastissue. And she was free of him, even more than he of her. 

"And, " he continued, "we shall always be more or less each other's work. You have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us start and live byourselves. "

"What do you want to do?" she asked. 

"Nothing--only to be free, " he answered. 

She, however, knew in her heart that Clara's influence was over him toliberate him. But she said nothing. 

"And what have I to tell my mother?" she asked. 

"I told my mother, " he answered, "that I was breaking off--clean andaltogether. "

"I shall not tell them at home, " she said. 

Frowning, "You please yourself, " he said. 

He knew he had landed her in a nasty hole, and was leaving her in thelurch. It angered him. 

"Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken off, " hesaid. "It's true enough. "

She bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She hadknown it would come to this; she had seen it all along. It chimed withher bitter expectation. 

"Always--it has always been so!" she cried. "It has been one long battlebetween us--you fighting away from me. "

It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heartstood still. Was this how she saw it?

"But we've had SOME perfect hours, SOME perfect times, when we weretogether!" he pleaded. 

"Never!" she cried; "never! It has always been you fighting me off. "

"Not always--not at first!" he pleaded. 

"Always, from the very beginning--always the same!"

She had finished, but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wantedto say: "It has been good, but it is at an end. " And she--she whose lovehe had believed in when he had despised himself--denied that their lovehad ever been love. "He had always fought away from her?" Then it hadbeen monstrous. There had never been anything really between them; allthe time he had been imagining something where there was nothing. Andshe had known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. Shehad known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her!

He sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appeared in acynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with her. She had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, anddespised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel. 

"You ought to marry a man who worships you, " he said; "then you could doas you liked with him. Plenty of men will worship you, if you get on theprivate side of their natures. You ought to marry one such. They wouldnever fight you off. "

"Thank you!" she said. "But don't advise me to marry someone else anymore. You've done it before. "

"Very well, " he said; "I will say no more. "

He sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow, instead of giving one. Their eight years of friendship and love, THE eight years of his life, were nullified. 

"When did you think of this?" she asked. 

"I thought definitely on Thursday night. "

"I knew it was coming, " she said. 

That pleased him bitterly. "Oh, very well! If she knew then it doesn'tcome as a surprise to her, " he thought. 

"And have you said anything to Clara?" she asked. 

"No; but I shall tell her now. "

There was a silence. 

"Do you remember the things you said this time last year, in mygrandmother's house--nay last month even?"

"Yes, " he said; "I do! And I meant them! I can't help that it's failed. "

"It has failed because you want something else. "

"It would have failed whether or not. YOU never believed in me. "

She laughed strangely. 

He sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she had deceived him. She had despised him when he thought she worshipped him. She had let himsay wrong things, and had not contradicted him. She had let him fightalone. But it stuck in his throat that she had despised him whilst hethought she worshipped him. She should have told him when she foundfault with him. She had not played fair. He hated her. All these yearsshe had treated him as if he were a hero, and thought of him secretly asan infant, a foolish child. Then why had she left the foolish child tohis folly? His heart was hard against her. 

She sat full of bitterness. She had known--oh, well she had known!All the time he was away from her she had summed him up, seen hislittleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soulagainst him. She was not overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt. She had known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strangedominance over her? His very movements fascinated her as if she werehypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean. Why this bondage for her? Why was it the movement of his arm stirred heras nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why, even now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey?She would obey him in his trifling commands. But once he was obeyed, then she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would. She was sure of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he was not a man!He was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachmentof his soul would not keep him. Very well, he would have to go. But hewould come back when he had tired of his new sensation. 

He hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She rose. He satflinging lumps of earth in the stream. 

"We will go and have tea here?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she answered. 

They chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea. He held forth onthe love of ornament--the cottage parlour moved him thereto--and itsconnection with aesthetics. She was cold and quiet. As they walked home, she asked:

"And we shall not see each other?"

"No--or rarely, " he answered. 

"Nor write?" she asked, almost sarcastically. 

"As you will, " he answered. "We're not strangers--never should be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You pleaseyourself. "

"I see!" she answered cuttingly. 

But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made agreat cleavage in his life. He had had a great shock when she had toldhim their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mattered. If itnever had been much, there was no need to make a fuss that it was ended. 

He left her at the lane-end. As she went home, solitary, in her newfrock, having her people to face at the other end, he stood still withshame and pain in the highroad, thinking of the suffering he caused her. 

In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went into theWillow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who had been out for theday, drinking a modest glass of port. They had some chocolates on thetable. Paul sat near with his whisky. He noticed the girls whisperingand nudging. Presently one, a bonny dark hussy, leaned to him and said:

"Have a chocolate?"

The others laughed loudly at her impudence. 

"All right, " said Paul. "Give me a hard one--nut. I don't like creams. "

"Here you are, then, " said the girl; "here's an almond for you. "

She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. She poppedit in, and blushed. 

"You ARE nice!" he said. 

"Well, " she answered, "we thought you looked overcast, and they dared meoffer you a chocolate. "

"I don't mind if I have another--another sort, " he said. 

And presently they were all laughing together. 

It was nine o'clock when he got home, falling dark. He entered the housein silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose anxiously. 

"I told her, " he said. 

"I'm glad, " replied the mother, with great relief. 

He hung up his cap wearily. 

"I said we'd have done altogether, " he said. 

"That's right, my son, " said the mother. "It's hard for her now, butbest in the long run. I know. You weren't suited for her. "

He laughed shakily as he sat down. 

"I've had such a lark with some girls in a pub, " he said. 

His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He told herabout the girls in the Willow Tree. Mrs. Morel looked at him. It seemedunreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much horror and misery. 

"Now have some supper, " she said very gently. 

Afterwards he said wistfully:

"She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first, and soshe's not disappointed. "

"I'm afraid, " said his mother, "she doesn't give up hopes of you yet. "

"No, " he said, "perhaps not. "

"You'll find it's better to have done, " she said. 

"I don't know, " he said desperately. 

"Well, leave her alone, " replied his mother. So he left her, and she wasalone. Very few people cared for her, and she for very few people. Sheremained alone with herself, waiting. 

CHAPTER XII

PASSION

HE was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood by his art. Liberty's had taken several of his painted designs on various stuffs, and he could sell designs for embroideries, for altar-cloths, andsimilar things, in one or two places. It was not very much he madeat present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends with thedesigner for a pottery firm, and was gaining some knowledge of his newacquaintance's art. The applied arts interested him very much. At thesame time he laboured slowly at his pictures. He loved to paint largefigures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and castshadows, like the impressionists; rather definite figures that had acertain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo's people. Andthese he fitted into a landscape, in what he thought true proportion. He worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew. He believedfirmly in his work, that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits ofdepression, shrinking, everything, he believed in his work. 

He was twenty-four when he said his first confident thing to his mother. 

"Mother, " he said, "I s'll make a painter that they'll attend to. "

She sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleased shrug ofthe shoulders. 

"Very well, my boy, we'll see, " she said. 

"You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you're not swanky one of thesedays!"

"I'm quite content, my boy, " she smiled. 

"But you'll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie!"

Minnie was the small servant, a girl of fourteen. 

"And what about Minnie?" asked Mrs. Morel, with dignity. 

"I heard her this morning: 'Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was going to do that, 'when you went out in the rain for some coal, " he said. "That looks a lotlike your being able to manage servants!"

"Well, it was only the child's niceness, " said Mrs. Morel. 

"And you apologising to her: 'You can't do two things at once, canyou?'"

"She WAS busy washing up, " replied Mrs. Morel. 

"And what did she say? 'It could easy have waited a bit. Now look howyour feet paddle!'"

"Yes--brazen young baggage!" said Mrs. Morel, smiling. 

He looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm and rosy againwith love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshine were on her for amoment. He continued his work gladly. She seemed so well when she washappy that he forgot her grey hair. 

And that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight for a holiday. Itwas too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morel was fullof joy and wonder. But he would have her walk with him more than shewas able. She had a bad fainting bout. So grey her face was, so blue hermouth! It was agony to him. He felt as if someone were pushing a knifein his chest. Then she was better again, and he forgot. But the anxietyremained inside him, like a wound that did not close. 

After leaving Miriam he went almost straight to Clara. On the Mondayfollowing the day of the rupture he went down to the work-room. Shelooked up at him and smiled. They had grown very intimate unawares. Shesaw a new brightness about him. 

"Well, Queen of Sheba!" he said, laughing. 

"But why?" she asked. 

"I think it suits you. You've got a new frock on. "

She flushed, asking:

"And what of it?"

"Suits you--awfully! I could design you a dress. "

"How would it be?"

He stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded. Hekept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of her. Shehalf-started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse tighter, smoothed itover her breast. 

"More SO!" he explained. 

But they were both of them flaming with blushes, and immediately heran away. He had touched her. His whole body was quivering with thesensation. 

There was already a sort of secret understanding between them. The nextevening he went to the cinematograph with her for a few minutes beforetrain-time. As they sat, he saw her hand lying near him. For somemoments he dared not touch it. The pictures danced and dithered. Thenhe took her hand in his. It was large and firm; it filled his grasp. Heheld it fast. She neither moved nor made any sign. When they came outhis train was due. He hesitated. 

"Good-night, " she said. He darted away across the road. 

The next day he came again, talking to her. She was rather superior withhim. 

"Shall we go a walk on Monday?" he asked. 

She turned her face aside. 

"Shall you tell Miriam?" she replied sarcastically. 

"I have broken off with her, " he said. 

"When?"

"Last Sunday. "

"You quarrelled?"

"No! I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely I shouldconsider myself free. "

Clara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She was so quiet andso superb!

On the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink coffee with himin a restaurant, meeting him after work was over. She came, lookingvery reserved and very distant. He had three-quarters of an hour totrain-time. 

"We will walk a little while, " he said. 

She agreed, and they went past the Castle into the Park. He was afraidof her. She walked moodily at his side, with a kind of resentful, reluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to take her hand. 

"Which way shall we go?" he asked as they walked in darkness. 

"I don't mind. "

"Then we'll go up the steps. "

He suddenly turned round. They had passed the Park steps. She stoodstill in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her. She stood aloof. He caught her suddenly in his arms, held her strainedfor a moment, kissed her. Then he let her go. 

"Come along, " he said, penitent. 

She followed him. He took her hand and kissed her finger-tips. They wentin silence. When they came to the light, he let go her hand. Neitherspoke till they reached the station. Then they looked each other in theeyes. 

"Good-night, " she said. 

And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically. People talked tohim. He heard faint echoes answering them. He was in a delirium. He feltthat he would go mad if Monday did not come at once. On Monday he wouldsee her again. All himself was pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened. He could not bear it. He could not see her till Monday. And Sundayintervened--hour after hour of tension. He wanted to beat his headagainst the door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whiskyon the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must not beupset, that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There hesat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out of the window atthe far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought nor slept, but satperfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold that he cameto himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two. It wasafter three o'clock. He was exhausted, but still there was the tormentof knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bed and slept. Then hecycled all day long, till he was fagged out. And he scarcely knew wherehe had been. But the day after was Monday. He slept till four o'clock. Then he lay and thought. He was coming nearer to himself--he could seehimself, real, somewhere in front. She would go a walk with him in theafternoon. Afternoon! It seemed years ahead. 

Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard him potteringabout. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavy boots scraping theyard. Cocks were still crowing. A cart went down the road. His mothergot up. She knocked the fire. Presently she called him softly. Heanswered as if he were asleep. This shell of himself did well. 

He was walking to the station--another mile! The train was nearNottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels? But it did not matter; itwould get there before dinner-time. He was at Jordan's. She wouldcome in half an hour. At any rate, she would be near. He had donethe letters. She would be there. Perhaps she had not come. He randownstairs. Ah! he saw her through the glass door. Her shouldersstooping a little to her work made him feel he could not go forward; hecould not stand. He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quitecold. Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real self withthis shell. 

"And this afternoon, " he struggled to say. "You will come?"

"I think so, " she replied, murmuring. 

He stood before her, unable to say a word. She hid her face from him. Again came over him the feeling that he would lose consciousness. He sethis teeth and went upstairs. He had done everything correctly yet, andhe would do so. All the morning things seemed a long way off, as theydo to a man under chloroform. He himself seemed under a tight bandof constraint. Then there was his other self, in the distance, doingthings, entering stuff in a ledger, and he watched that far-off himcarefully to see he made no mistake. 

But the ache and strain of it could not go on much longer. He workedincessantly. Still it was only twelve o'clock. As if he had nailed hisclothing against the desk, he stood there and worked, forcing everystroke out of himself. It was a quarter to one; he could clear away. Then he ran downstairs. 

"You will meet me at the Fountain at two o'clock, " he said. 

"I can't be there till half-past. "

"Yes!" he said. 

She saw his dark, mad eyes. 

"I will try at a quarter past. "

And he had to be content. He went and got some dinner. All the timehe was still under chloroform, and every minute was stretched outindefinitely. He walked miles of streets. Then he thought he would belate at the meeting-place. He was at the Fountain at five past two. Thetorture of the next quarter of an hour was refined beyond expression. Itwas the anguish of combining the living self with the shell. Then he sawher. She came! And he was there. 

"You are late, " he said. 

"Only five minutes, " she answered. 

"I'd never have done it to you, " he laughed. 

She was in a dark blue costume. He looked at her beautiful figure. 

"You want some flowers, " he said, going to the nearest florist's. 

She followed him in silence. He bought her a bunch of scarlet, brick-redcarnations. She put them in her coat, flushing. 

"That's a fine colour!" he said. 

"I'd rather have had something softer, " she said. 

He laughed. 

"Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street?" he said. 

She hung her head, afraid of the people they met. He looked sideways ather as they walked. There was a wonderful close down on her face nearthe ear that he wanted to touch. And a certain heaviness, the heavinessof a very full ear of corn that dips slightly in the wind, that therewas about her, made his brain spin. He seemed to be spinning down thestreet, everything going round. 

As they sat in the tramcar, she leaned her heavy shoulder against him, and he took her hand. He felt himself coming round from the anaesthetic, beginning to breathe. Her ear, half-hidden among her blonde hair, wasnear to him. The temptation to kiss it was almost too great. But therewere other people on top of the car. It still remained to him to kissit. After all, he was not himself, he was some attribute of hers, likethe sunshine that fell on her. 

He looked quickly away. It had been raining. The big bluff of the Castlerock was streaked with rain, as it reared above the flat of the town. They crossed the wide, black space of the Midland Railway, and passedthe cattle enclosure that stood out white. Then they ran down sordidWilford Road. 

She rocked slightly to the tram's motion, and as she leaned againsthim, rocked upon him. He was a vigorous, slender man, with exhaustlessenergy. His face was rough, with rough-hewn features, like the commonpeople's; but his eyes under the deep brows were so full of life thatthey fascinated her. They seemed to dance, and yet they were stilltrembling on the finest balance of laughter. His mouth the same was justgoing to spring into a laugh of triumph, yet did not. There was a sharpsuspense about him. She bit her lip moodily. His hand was hard clenchedover hers. 

They paid their two halfpennies at the turnstile and crossed the bridge. The Trent was very full. It swept silent and insidious under the bridge, travelling in a soft body. There had been a great deal of rain. On theriver levels were flat gleams of flood water. The sky was grey, withglisten of silver here and there. In Wilford churchyard the dahlias weresodden with rain--wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path thatwent along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade. 

There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the greenmeadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The riverslid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itselflike some subtle, complex creature. Clara walked moodily beside him. 

"Why, " she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, "did you leaveMiriam?"

He frowned. 

"Because I WANTED to leave her, " he said. 

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to go on with her. And I didn't want to marry. "

She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path. Drops of water fell from the elm-trees. 

"You didn't want to marry Miriam, or you didn't want to marry at all?"she asked. 

"Both, " he answered--"both!"

They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools ofwater. 

"And what did she say?" Clara asked. 

"Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always HAD battledher off. "

Clara pondered over this for a time. 

"But you have really been going with her for some time?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

"And now you don't want any more of her?"

"No. I know it's no good. "

She pondered again. 

"Don't you think you've treated her rather badly?" she asked. 

"Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been nogood going on. Two wrongs don't make a right. "

"How old ARE you?" Clara asked. 

"Twenty-five. "

"And I am thirty, " she said. 

"I know you are. "

"I shall be thirty-one--or AM I thirty-one?"

"I neither know nor care. What does it matter!"

They were at the entrance to the Grove. The wet, red track, alreadysticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass. On either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle, arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell. All was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and heheld both her hands. Laughing, she looked down into his eyes. Then sheleaped. Her breast came against his; he held her, and covered her facewith kisses. 

They went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released hishand and put it round her waist. 

"You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly, " she said. 

They walked along. His finger-tips felt the rocking of her breast. Allwas silent and deserted. On the left the red wet plough-land showedthrough the doorways between the elm-boles and their branches. On theright, looking down, they could see the tree-tops of elms growing farbeneath them, hear occasionally the gurgle of the river. Sometimesthere below they caught glimpses of the full, soft-sliding Trent, and ofwater-meadows dotted with small cattle. 

"It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come, " hesaid. 

But he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush wasfusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that pouted disconsolate. Shestirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string. 

Halfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the Grove rose highest abovethe river, their forward movement faltered to an end. He led her acrossto the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path. The cliff of redearth sloped swiftly down, through trees and bushes, to the river thatglimmered and was dark between the foliage. The far-below water-meadowswere very green. He and she stood leaning against one another, silent, afraid, their bodies touching all along. There came a quick gurgle fromthe river below. 

"Why, " he asked at length, "did you hate Baxter Dawes?"

She turned to him with a splendid movement. Her mouth was offered him, and her throat; her eyes were half-shut; her breast was tilted as if itasked for him. He flashed with a small laugh, shut his eyes, and mether in a long, whole kiss. Her mouth fused with his; their bodies weresealed and annealed. It was some minutes before they withdrew. They werestanding beside the public path. 

"Will you go down to the river?" he asked. 

She looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over the brimof the declivity and began to climb down. 

"It is slippery, " he said. 

"Never mind, " she replied. 

The red clay went down almost sheer. He slid, went from one tuftof grass to the next, hanging on to the bushes, making for a littleplatform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laughing withexcitement. Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her. He frowned. At last he caught her hand, and she stood beside him. Thecliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyesflashed. He looked at the big drop below them. 

"It's risky, " he said; "or messy, at any rate. Shall we go back?"

"Not for my sake, " she said quickly. 

"All right. You see, I can't help you; I should only hinder. Give methat little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!"

They stood perched on the face of the declivity, under the trees. 

"Well, I'll go again, " he said. 

Away he went, slipping, staggering, sliding to the next tree, into whichhe fell with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. Shecame after cautiously, hanging on to the twigs and grasses. So theydescended, stage by stage, to the river's brink. There, to his disgust, the flood had eaten away the path, and the red decline ran straight intothe water. He dug in his heels and brought himself up violently. Thestring of the parcel broke with a snap; the brown parcel bounded down, leaped into the water, and sailed smoothly away. He hung on to his tree. 

"Well, I'll be damned!" he cried crossly. Then he laughed. She wascoming perilously down. 

"Mind!" he warned her. He stood with his back to the tree, waiting. "Come now, " he called, opening his arms. 

She let herself run. He caught her, and together they stood watching thedark water scoop at the raw edge of the bank. The parcel had sailed outof sight. 

"It doesn't matter, " she said. 

He held her close and kissed her. There was only room for their fourfeet. 

"It's a swindle!" he said. "But there's a rut where a man has been, soif we go on I guess we shall find the path again. "

The river slid and twined its great volume. On the other bank cattlewere feeding on the desolate flats. The cliff rose high above Paul andClara on their right hand. They stood against the tree in the waterysilence. 

"Let us try going forward, " he said; and they struggled in the redclay along the groove a man's nailed boots had made. They were hot andflushed. Their barkled shoes hung heavy on their steps. At last theyfound the broken path. It was littered with rubble from the water, butat any rate it was easier. They cleaned their boots with twigs. Hisheart was beating thick and fast. 

Suddenly, coming on to the little level, he saw two figures of menstanding silent at the water's edge. His heart leaped. They werefishing. He turned and put his hand up warningly to Clara. Shehesitated, buttoned her coat. The two went on together. 

The fishermen turned curiously to watch the two intruders on theirprivacy and solitude. They had had a fire, but it was nearly out. Allkept perfectly still. The men turned again to their fishing, stoodover the grey glinting river like statues. Clara went with bowed head, flushing; he was laughing to himself. Directly they passed out of sightbehind the willows. 

"Now they ought to be drowned, " said Paul softly. 

Clara did not answer. They toiled forward along a tiny path on theriver's lip. Suddenly it vanished. The bank was sheer red solid clayin front of them, sloping straight into the river. He stood and cursedbeneath his breath, setting his teeth. 

"It's impossible!" said Clara. 

He stood erect, looking round. Just ahead were two islets in the stream, covered with osiers. But they were unattainable. The cliff came downlike a sloping wall from far above their heads. Behind, not far back, were the fishermen. Across the river the distant cattle fed silentlyin the desolate afternoon. He cursed again deeply under his breath. Hegazed up the great steep bank. Was there no hope but to scale back tothe public path?

"Stop a minute, " he said, and, digging his heels sideways into the steepbank of red clay, he began nimbly to mount. He looked across at everytree-foot. At last he found what he wanted. Two beech-trees side by sideon the hill held a little level on the upper face between their roots. It was littered with damp leaves, but it would do. The fishermen wereperhaps sufficiently out of sight. He threw down his rainproof and wavedto her to come. 

She toiled to his side. Arriving there, she looked at him heavily, dumbly, and laid her head on his shoulder. He held her fast as he lookedround. They were safe enough from all but the small, lonely cows overthe river. He sunk his mouth on her throat, where he felt her heavypulse beat under his lips. Everything was perfectly still. There wasnothing in the afternoon but themselves. 

When she arose, he, looking on the ground all the time, saw suddenlysprinkled on the black wet beech-roots many scarlet carnation petals, like splashed drops of blood; and red, small splashes fell from herbosom, streaming down her dress to her feet. 

"Your flowers are smashed, " he said. 

She looked at him heavily as she put back her hair. Suddenly he put hisfinger-tips on her cheek. 

"Why dost look so heavy?" he reproached her. 

She smiled sadly, as if she felt alone in herself. He caressed her cheekwith his fingers, and kissed her. 

"Nay!" he said. "Never thee bother!"

She gripped his fingers tight, and laughed shakily. Then she dropped herhand. He put the hair back from her brows, stroking her temples, kissingthem lightly. 

"But tha shouldna worrit!" he said softly, pleading. 

"No, I don't worry!" she laughed tenderly and resigned. 

"Yea, tha does! Dunna thee worrit, " he implored, caressing. 

"No!" she consoled him, kissing him. 

They had a stiff climb to get to the top again. It took them a quarterof an hour. When he got on to the level grass, he threw off his cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and sighed. 

"Now we're back at the ordinary level, " he said. 

She sat down, panting, on the tussocky grass. Her cheeks were flushedpink. He kissed her, and she gave way to joy. 

"And now I'll clean thy boots and make thee fit for respectable folk, "he said. 

He kneeled at her feet, worked away with a stick and tufts of grass. Sheput her fingers in his hair, drew his head to her, and kissed it. 

"What am I supposed to be doing, " he said, looking at her laughing;"cleaning shoes or dibbling with love? Answer me that!"

"Just whichever I please, " she replied. 

"I'm your boot-boy for the time being, and nothing else!" But theyremained looking into each other's eyes and laughing. Then they kissedwith little nibbling kisses. 

"T-t-t-t!" he went with his tongue, like his mother. "I tell you, nothing gets done when there's a woman about. "

And he returned to his boot-cleaning, singing softly. She touched histhick hair, and he kissed her fingers. He worked away at her shoes. Atlast they were quite presentable. 

"There you are, you see!" he said. "Aren't I a great hand at restoringyou to respectability? Stand up! There, you look as irreproachable asBritannia herself!"

He cleaned his own boots a little, washed his hands in a puddle, andsang. They went on into Clifton village. He was madly in love with her;every movement she made, every crease in her garments, sent a hot flashthrough him and seemed adorable. 

The old lady at whose house they had tea was roused into gaiety by them. 

"I could wish you'd had something of a better day, " she said, hoveringround. 

"Nay!" he laughed. "We've been saying how nice it is. "

The old lady looked at him curiously. There was a peculiar glowand charm about him. His eyes were dark and laughing. He rubbed hismoustache with a glad movement. 

"Have you been saying SO!" she exclaimed, a light rousing in her oldeyes. 

"Truly!" he laughed. 

"Then I'm sure the day's good enough, " said the old lady. 

She fussed about, and did not want to leave them. 

"I don't know whether you'd like some radishes as well, " she said toClara; "but I've got some in the garden--AND a cucumber. "

Clara flushed. She looked very handsome. 

"I should like some radishes, " she answered. 

And the old lady pottered off gleefully. 

"If she knew!" said Clara quietly to him. 

"Well, she doesn't know; and it shows we're nice in ourselves, at anyrate. You look quite enough to satisfy an archangel, and I'm sure I feelharmless--so--if it makes you look nice, and makes folk happy when theyhave us, and makes us happy--why, we're not cheating them out of much!"

They went on with the meal. When they were going away, the old lady cametimidly with three tiny dahlias in full blow, neat as bees, and speckledscarlet and white. She stood before Clara, pleased with herself, saying:

"I don't know whether--" and holding the flowers forward in her oldhand. 

"Oh, how pretty!" cried Clara, accepting the flowers. 

"Shall she have them all?" asked Paul reproachfully of the old woman. 

"Yes, she shall have them all, " she replied, beaming with joy. "You havegot enough for your share. "

"Ah, but I shall ask her to give me one!" he teased. 

"Then she does as she pleases, " said the old lady, smiling. And shebobbed a little curtsey of delight. 

Clara was rather quiet and uncomfortable. As they walked along, he said:

"You don't feel criminal, do you?"

She looked at him with startled grey eyes. 

"Criminal!" she said. "No. "

"But you seem to feel you have done a wrong?"

"No, " she said. "I only think, 'If they knew!'"

"If they knew, they'd cease to understand. As it is, they do understand, and they like it. What do they matter? Here, with only the trees and me, you don't feel not the least bit wrong, do you?"

He took her by the arm, held her facing him, holding her eyes with his. Something fretted him. 

"Not sinners, are we?" he said, with an uneasy little frown. 

"No, " she replied. 

He kissed her, laughing. 

"You like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe, " he said. "I believeEve enjoyed it, when she went cowering out of Paradise. "

But there was a certain glow and quietness about her that made him glad. When he was alone in the railway-carriage, he found himself tumultuouslyhappy, and the people exceedingly nice, and the night lovely, andeverything good. 

Mrs. Morel was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not goodnow, and there had come that ivory pallor into her face which he nevernoticed, and which afterwards he never forgot. She did not mention herown ill-health to him. After all, she thought, it was not much. 

"You are late!" she said, looking at him. 

His eyes were shining; his face seemed to glow. He smiled to her. 

"Yes; I've been down Clifton Grove with Clara. "

His mother looked at him again. 

"But won't people talk?" she said. 

"Why? They know she's a suffragette, and so on. And what if they dotalk!"

"Of course, there may be nothing wrong in it, " said his mother. "But youknow what folks are, and if once she gets talked about--"

"Well, I can't help it. Their jaw isn't so almighty important, afterall. "

"I think you ought to consider HER. "

"So I DO! What can people say?--that we take a walk together. I believeyou're jealous. "

"You know I should be GLAD if she weren't a married woman. "

"Well, my dear, she lives separate from her husband, and talks onplatforms; so she's already singled out from the sheep, and, as far asI can see, hasn't much to lose. No; her life's nothing to her, so what'sthe worth of nothing? She goes with me--it becomes something. Then shemust pay--we both must pay! Folk are so frightened of paying; they'drather starve and die. "

"Very well, my son. We'll see how it will end. "

"Very well, my mother. I'll abide by the end. "

"We'll see!"

"And she's--she's AWFULLY nice, mother; she is really! You don't know!"

"That's not the same as marrying her. "

"It's perhaps better. "

There was silence for a while. He wanted to ask his mother something, but was afraid. 

"Should you like to know her?" He hesitated. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Morel coolly. "I should like to know what she's like. "

"But she's nice, mother, she is! And not a bit common!"

"I never suggested she was. "

"But you seem to think she's--not as good as--She's better thanninety-nine folk out of a hundred, I tell you! She's BETTER, she is!She's fair, she's honest, she's straight! There isn't anything underhandor superior about her. Don't be mean about her!"

Mrs. Morel flushed. 

"I am sure I am not mean about her. She may be quite as you say, but--"

"You don't approve, " he finished. 

"And do you expect me to?" she answered coldly. 

"Yes!--yes!--if you'd anything about you, you'd be glad! Do you WANT tosee her?"

"I said I did. "

"Then I'll bring her--shall I bring her here?"

"You please yourself. "

"Then I WILL bring her here--one Sunday--to tea. If you think a horridthing about her, I shan't forgive you. "

His mother laughed. 

"As if it would make any difference!" she said. He knew he had won. 

"Oh, but it feels so fine, when she's there! She's such a queen in herway. "

Occasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam andEdgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very much thesame with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her presence. Oneevening she was alone when he accompanied her. They began by talkingbooks: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. Morel had said that his andMiriam's affair was like a fire fed on books--if there were no morevolumes it would die out. Miriam, for her part, boasted that she couldread him like a book, could place her finger any minute on the chapterand the line. He, easily taken in, believed that Miriam knew more abouthim than anyone else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself, like the simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his owndoings. It flattered him immensely that he was of such supreme interest. 

"And what have you been doing lately?"

"I--oh, not much! I made a sketch of Bestwood from the garden, that isnearly right at last. It's the hundredth try. "

So they went on. Then she said:

"You've not been out, then, lately?"

"Yes; I went up Clifton Grove on Monday afternoon with Clara. "

"It was not very nice weather, " said Miriam, "was it?"

"But I wanted to go out, and it was all right. The Trent IS full. "

"And did you go to Barton?" she asked. 

"No; we had tea in Clifton. "

"DID you! That would be nice. "

"It was! The jolliest old woman! She gave us several pompom dahlias, aspretty as you like. "

Miriam bowed her head and brooded. He was quite unconscious ofconcealing anything from her. 

"What made her give them you?" she asked. 

He laughed. 

"Because she liked us--because we were jolly, I should think. "

Miriam put her finger in her mouth. 

"Were you late home?" she asked. 

At last he resented her tone. 

"I caught the seven-thirty. "

"Ha!"

They walked on in silence, and he was angry. 

"And how IS Clara?" asked Miriam. 

"Quite all right, I think. "

"That's good!" she said, with a tinge of irony. "By the way, what of herhusband? One never hears anything of him. "

"He's got some other woman, and is also quite all right, " he replied. "At least, so I think. "

"I see--you don't know for certain. Don't you think a position like thatis hard on a woman?"

"Rottenly hard!"

"It's so unjust!" said Miriam. "The man does as he likes--"

"Then let the woman also, " he said. 

"How can she? And if she does, look at her position!"

"What of it?"

"Why, it's impossible! You don't understand what a woman forfeits--"

"No, I don't. But if a woman's got nothing but her fair fame to feed on, why, it's thin tack, and a donkey would die of it!"

So she understood his moral attitude, at least, and she knew he wouldact accordingly. 

She never asked him anything direct, but she got to know enough. 

Another day, when he saw Miriam, the conversation turned to marriage, then to Clara's marriage with Dawes. 

"You see, " he said, "she never knew the fearful importance of marriage. She thought it was all in the day's march--it would have to come--andDawes--well, a good many women would have given their souls to gethim; so why not him? Then she developed into the femme incomprise, andtreated him badly, I'll bet my boots. "

"And she left him because he didn't understand her?"

"I suppose so. I suppose she had to. It isn't altogether a questionof understanding; it's a question of living. With him, she was onlyhalf-alive; the rest was dormant, deadened. And the dormant woman wasthe femme incomprise, and she HAD to be awakened. "

"And what about him. "

"I don't know. I rather think he loves her as much as he can, but he's afool. "

"It was something like your mother and father, " said Miriam. 

"Yes; but my mother, I believe, got real joy and satisfaction out ofmy father at first. I believe she had a passion for him; that's why shestayed with him. After all, they were bound to each other. "

"Yes, " said Miriam. 

"That's what one MUST HAVE, I think, " he continued--"the real, realflame of feeling through another person--once, only once, if it onlylasts three months. See, my mother looks as if she'd HAD everything thatwas necessary for her living and developing. There's not a tiny bit offeeling of sterility about her. "

"No, " said Miriam. 

"And with my father, at first, I'm sure she had the real thing. Sheknows; she has been there. You can feel it about her, and about him, andabout hundreds of people you meet every day; and, once it has happenedto you, you can go on with anything and ripen. "

"What happened, exactly?" asked Miriam. 

"It's so hard to say, but the something big and intense that changesyou when you really come together with somebody else. It almost seems tofertilise your soul and make it that you can go on and mature. "

"And you think your mother had it with your father?"

"Yes; and at the bottom she feels grateful to him for giving it her, even now, though they are miles apart. "

"And you think Clara never had it?"

"I'm sure. "

Miriam pondered this. She saw what he was seeking--a sort of baptism offire in passion, it seemed to her. She realised that he would never besatisfied till he had it. Perhaps it was essential to him, as to somemen, to sow wild oats; and afterwards, when he was satisfied, he wouldnot rage with restlessness any more, but could settle down and give herhis life into her hands. Well, then, if he must go, let him go and havehis fill--something big and intense, he called it. At any rate, when hehad got it, he would not want it--that he said himself; he would wantthe other thing that she could give him. He would want to be owned, sothat he could work. It seemed to her a bitter thing that he must go, butshe could let him go into an inn for a glass of whisky, so she could lethim go to Clara, so long as it was something that would satisfy a needin him, and leave him free for herself to possess. 

"Have you told your mother about Clara?" she asked. 

She knew this would be a test of the seriousness of his feeling for theother woman: she knew he was going to Clara for something vital, not asa man goes for pleasure to a prostitute, if he told his mother. 

"Yes, " he said, "and she is coming to tea on Sunday. "

"To your house?"

"Yes; I want mater to see her. "

"Ah!"

There was a silence. Things had gone quicker than she thought. She felta sudden bitterness that he could leave her so soon and so entirely. And was Clara to be accepted by his people, who had been so hostile toherself?

"I may call in as I go to chapel, " she said. "It is a long time since Isaw Clara. "

"Very well, " he said, astonished, and unconsciously angry. 

On the Sunday afternoon he went to Keston to meet Clara at the station. As he stood on the platform he was trying to examine in himself if hehad a premonition. 

"Do I FEEL as if she'd come?" he said to himself, and he tried to findout. His heart felt queer and contracted. That seemed like foreboding. Then he HAD a foreboding she would not come! Then she would not come, and instead of taking her over the fields home, as he had imagined, he would have to go alone. The train was late; the afternoon wouldbe wasted, and the evening. He hated her for not coming. Why had shepromised, then, if she could not keep her promise? Perhaps she hadmissed her train--he himself was always missing trains--but that was noreason why she should miss this particular one. He was angry with her;he was furious. 

Suddenly he saw the train crawling, sneaking round the corner. Here, then, was the train, but of course she had not come. The green enginehissed along the platform, the row of brown carriages drew up, severaldoors opened. No; she had not come! No! Yes; ah, there she was! She hada big black hat on! He was at her side in a moment. 

"I thought you weren't coming, " he said. 

She was laughing rather breathlessly as she put out her hand to him;their eyes met. He took her quickly along the platform, talking at agreat rate to hide his feeling. She looked beautiful. In her hat werelarge silk roses, coloured like tarnished gold. Her costume of darkcloth fitted so beautifully over her breast and shoulders. His pridewent up as he walked with her. He felt the station people, who knew him, eyed her with awe and admiration. 

"I was sure you weren't coming, " he laughed shakily. 

She laughed in answer, almost with a little cry. 

"And I wondered, when I was in the train, WHATEVER I should do if youweren't there!" she said. 

He caught her hand impulsively, and they went along the narrow twitchel. They took the road into Nuttall and over the Reckoning House Farm. Itwas a blue, mild day. Everywhere the brown leaves lay scattered; manyscarlet hips stood upon the hedge beside the wood. He gathered a few forher to wear. 

"Though, really, " he said, as he fitted them into the breast of hercoat, "you ought to object to my getting them, because of the birds. But they don't care much for rose-hips in this part, where they canget plenty of stuff. You often find the berries going rotten in thespringtime. "

So he chattered, scarcely aware of what he said, only knowing he wasputting berries in the bosom of her coat, while she stood patiently forhim. And she watched his quick hands, so full of life, and it seemed toher she had never SEEN anything before. Till now, everything had beenindistinct. 

They came near to the colliery. It stood quite still and black among thecorn-fields, its immense heap of slag seen rising almost from the oats. 

"What a pity there is a coal-pit here where it is so pretty!" saidClara. 

"Do you think so?" he answered. "You see, I am so used to it I shouldmiss it. No; and I like the pits here and there. I like the rows oftrucks, and the headstocks, and the steam in the daytime, and the lightsat night. When I was a boy, I always thought a pillar of cloud by dayand a pillar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, and itslights, and the burning bank, --and I thought the Lord was always at thepit-top. "

As they drew near home she walked in silence, and seemed to hang back. He pressed her fingers in his own. She flushed, but gave no response. 

"Don't you want to come home?" he asked. 

"Yes, I want to come, " she replied. 

It did not occur to him that her position in his home would be rather apeculiar and difficult one. To him it seemed just as if one of his menfriends were going to be introduced to his mother, only nicer. 

The Morels lived in a house in an ugly street that ran down a steephill. The street itself was hideous. The house was rather superiorto most. It was old, grimy, with a big bay window, and it wassemi-detached; but it looked gloomy. Then Paul opened the door to thegarden, and all was different. The sunny afternoon was there, likeanother land. By the path grew tansy and little trees. In front of thewindow was a plot of sunny grass, with old lilacs round it. And awaywent the garden, with heaps of dishevelled chrysanthemums in thesunshine, down to the sycamore-tree, and the field, and beyond onelooked over a few red-roofed cottages to the hills with all the glow ofthe autumn afternoon. 

Mrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her black silk blouse. Her grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her brow and her hightemples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering, followed Paul intothe kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thought her a lady, even ratherstiff. 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 mother looked sosmall, 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 thought what aman he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale anddetached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heartglowed; then she was sorry for Clara. 

"Perhaps you'll leave your things in the parlour, " said Mrs. Morelnicely to the young woman. 

"Oh, thank you, " she replied. 

"Come on, " said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room, with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marblemantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books anddrawing-boards. "I leave my things lying about, " he said. "It's so mucheasier. "

She loved his artist's paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos ofpeople. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William'syoung lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, thiswas Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were beingtaken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and theytalked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel putaside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrowblack-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of herhead. She looked rather stately and reserved. 

"You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?" said Mrs. Morel. "WhenI was a girl--girl, I say!--when I was a young woman WE lived in MinervaTerrace. "

"Oh, did you!" said Clara. "I have a friend in number 6. "

And the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottinghampeople; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs. Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language veryclear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paulsaw. 

Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found herselfeasily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul's surprisingregard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting, expectingsomeone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this littleinterested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as shefelt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs. Morel's way. There was something so hard and certain in his mother, as if she neverhad a misgiving in her life. 

Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoonsleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he plodded in 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 manner of bowingand shaking hands. 

"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Morel. "I am very glad to see you--I am, Iassure you. But don't disturb yourself. No, no make yourself quitecomfortable, and be very welcome. "

Clara was astonished at this flood of hospitality from the old collier. He was so courteous, so gallant! She thought him most delightful. 

"And may you have come far?" he asked. 

"Only from Nottingham, " she said. 

"From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful day for your journey. "

Then he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face, and fromforce of habit came on to the hearth with the towel to dry 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 and attendingto the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in hertalk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark bluewillow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a littlebowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed thecircle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of theself-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone;there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, whereeveryone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was afear deep at the bottom of her. 

Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara wasconscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming blownquickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and thitherof a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him. By theway she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see she waspossessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman was sorryfor her. 

Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two womento talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glancedthrough the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums. She felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet heseemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as hetied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wantedto 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 on such goodterms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow himdown the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if arope were taken off her ankle. 

The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood acrossin the other garden, beside a bush of pale Michaelmas daisies, watchingthe last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming, he turned to herwith 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 was the country andthe far-off hills, all golden dim. 

At that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door. She sawClara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come to rest together. Something in their perfect isolation together made her know that it wasaccomplished between them, that they were, as she put it, married. Shewalked very slowly down the cinder-track of the long garden. 

Clara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breaking itto get the seeds. Above her bowed head the pink flowers stared, as ifdefending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive. 

"Count your money, " laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seeds one by onefrom 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 them into gold?"

"I'm afraid not, " she laughed. 

They looked into each other's eyes, laughing. At that moment they becameaware of Miriam. There was a click, and everything had 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 calledin 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 seewhich are YOUR favourites, Clara. "

He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsled bushes offlowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path down to the field. The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge. 

"Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. Theyaren't so fine here, are they?"

"No, " said Miriam. 

"But they're hardier. You're so sheltered; things grow big and 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 the tower, proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he hadbrought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her evenyet. 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, andshe returned to her book. He winced from his mother's irony, frownedirritably, 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's very 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 Miriam to 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 youcared 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 had given 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 scornedhim. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could haveClara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give herthe same hymn-book he had given herself years before. She heard himrunning quickly indoors. 

But he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass, he heardhis 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 you hate her, now!"

His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about thegirl. What right had they to say that? Something in the speech itselfstung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heartrebelled furiously at Clara's taking the liberty of speaking so aboutMiriam. After all, the girl was the better woman of the two, he thought, if it came to goodness. He went indoors. His mother looked excited. Shewas beating with her hand rhythmically on the sofa-arm, as women do whoare wearing out. He could never bear to see the movement. There was asilence; then he began to talk. 

In chapel Miriam saw him find the place in the hymn-book for Clara, inexactly the same way as he used for herself. And during the sermon hecould see the girl across the chapel, her hat throwing a dark shadowover her face. What did she think, seeing Clara with him? He did notstop to consider. He felt himself cruel towards Miriam. 

After chapel he went over Pentrich with Clara. It was a dark autumnnight. They had said good-bye to Miriam, and his heart had smitten himas he left the girl alone. "But it serves her right, " he said insidehimself, and it almost gave him pleasure to go off under her eyes withthis other handsome woman. 

There was a scent of damp leaves in the darkness. Clara's hand lay warmand inert in his own as they walked. He was full of conflict. The battlethat raged inside him made him feel desperate. 

Up Pentrich Hill Clara leaned against him as he went. He slid his armround her waist. Feeling the strong motion of her body under his arm asshe walked, the tightness in his chest because of Miriam relaxed, andthe 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 talk between us, " hesaid 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 long as we live, " hesaid. "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. 

She did not answer, but drew farther from him. 

"Why do you want to walk alone?" he asked. 

Still there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head. 

"Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!" he exclaimed. 

She would not answer him anything. 

"I tell you it's only words that go between us, " he persisted, trying totake her again. 

She resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring herway. 

"Damn it!" he said. "What do you want now?"

"You'd better run after Miriam, " mocked Clara. 

The blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She droopedsulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her inhis arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss ofrage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard andrelentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall ofhis chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, andkissed her. 

He heard people coming down the hill. 

"Stand up! stand up!" he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. Ifhe had let go, she would have sunk to the ground. 

She sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence. 

"We will go over the fields, " he said; and then she woke up. 

But she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in silencewith him over the first dark field. It was the way to Nottingham and tothe station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. They came out ona bare hilltop where stood the dark figure of the ruined windmill. Therehe halted. They stood together high up in the darkness, looking atthe lights scattered on the night before them, handfuls of glitteringpoints, villages lying high and low on the dark, here and there. 

"Like treading among the stars, " he said, with a quaky laugh. 

Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved aside hermouth to ask, dogged and low:

"What time is it?"

"It doesn't matter, " he pleaded thickly. 

"Yes it does--yes! I must go!"

"It's early yet, " he said. 

"What time is it?" she insisted. 

All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights. 

"I don't know. "

She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the jointsfuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he stoodpanting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face of thewatch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till hecould take her in his arms again. 

"I can't see, " she said. 

"Then don't bother. "

"Yes; I'm going!" she said, turning away. 

"Wait! I'll look!" But he could not see. "I'll strike a match. "

He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw theglowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face litup, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All wasblack before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Wherewas he?

"What is it?" she asked, afraid. 

"You can't do it, " his voice answered out of the darkness. 

There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in hisvoice. It frightened her. 

"What time is it?" she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless. 

"Two minutes to nine, " he replied, telling the truth with a struggle. 

"And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?"

"No. At any rate--"

She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wantedto escape. 

"But can't I do it?" she pleaded. 

"If you hurry, " he said brusquely. "But you could easily walk it, Clara;it's only seven miles to the tram. I'll come with you. "

"No; I want to catch the train. "

"But why?"

"I do--I want to catch the train. "

Suddenly his voice altered. 

"Very well, " he said, dry and hard. "Come along, then. "

And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting tocry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, darkfields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row oflights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly:

"There she is!" he cried, breaking into a run. 

There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, likea luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattlingceased. 

"She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it. "

Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. Thewhistle blew. He was gone. Gone!--and she was in a carriage full ofpeople. She felt the cruelty of it. 

He turned round and plunged home. Before he knew where he was he wasin the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark anddangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him. 

"Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!" she said. 

He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His motherwondered if he were drunk. 

"She caught the train then?" she said. 

"Yes. "

"I hope HER feet weren't so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her Idon't know!"

He was silent and motionless for some time. 

"Did you like her?" he asked grudgingly at last. 

"Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you know you will. "

He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing. 

"Have you been running?" she asked. 

"We had to run for the train. "

"You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk. "

It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went tobed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rageand pain. There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips tillthey bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost tofeel. 

"This is how she serves me, is it?" he said in his heart, over and over, pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over thescene, and again he hated her. 

The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara was very gentle, almost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a touch of contempt. She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round. 

One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royal inNottingham, giving "La Dame aux Camelias". Paul wanted to see this oldand famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told hismother to leave the key in the window for him. 

"Shall I book seats?" he asked of Clara. 

"Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seen you in it. "

"But, good Lord, Clara! Think of ME in evening suit at the theatre!" heremonstrated. 

"Would you rather not?" she asked. 

"I will if you WANT me to; but I s'll feel a fool. "

She laughed at him. 

"Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?"

The request made his blood flush up. 

"I suppose I s'll have to. "

"What are you taking a suitcase for?" his mother asked. 

He blushed furiously. 

"Clara asked me, " he said. 

"And what seats are you going in?"

"Circle--three-and-six each!"

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed his mother sarcastically. 

"It's only once in the bluest of blue moons, " he said. 

He dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met Clara in acafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old longcoat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrap over her head, whichhe hated. The three went to the theatre together. 

Clara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was in asort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and part of herbreast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thingof green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, he thought. He couldsee her figure inside the frock, as if that were wrapped closely roundher. The firmness and the softness of her upright body could almost befelt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists. 

And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm, watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching thebreasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tightdress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to thistorture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head andstared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if sheyielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She couldnot help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself. A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, madeit necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and croucheddown on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist. Her beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lightswent down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand andarm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the timehis blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed hisconsciousness momentarily. 

The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere;he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara'swhite heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to behimself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identifiedwith that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara, her bosom coming down on him, her arm that he held gripped between hishands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless, her towering in her force above him. 

Only the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expressibly. Hewanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark again. In a maze, he wandered out for a drink. Then the lights were out, and the strange, insane reality of Clara and the drama took hold of him again. 

The play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire to kiss the tinyblue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel it. Hiswhole face seemed suspended till he had put his lips there. It must bedone. And the other people! At last he bent quickly forward and touchedit with his lips. His moustache brushed the sensitive flesh. Clarashivered, drew away her arm. 

When all was over, the lights up, the people clapping, he came tohimself and looked at his watch. His train was gone. 

"I s'll have to walk home!" he said. 

Clara looked at him. 

"It is too late?" she asked. 

He nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat. 

"I love you! You look beautiful in that dress, " he murmured over hershoulder, among the throng of bustling people. 

She remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He saw thecabs waiting, the people passing. It seemed he met a pair of browneyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and Clara turned away, mechanically taking the direction to the station. 

The train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home. 

"It doesn't matter, " he said. "I shall enjoy it. "

"Won't you, " she said, flushing, "come home for the night? I can sleepwith mother. "

He looked at her. Their eyes met. 

"What will your mother say?" he asked. 

"She won't mind. "

"You're sure?"

"Quite!"

"SHALL I come?"

"If you will. "

"Very well. "

And they turned away. At the first stopping-place they took the car. Thewind blew fresh in their faces. The town was dark; the tram tipped inits haste. He sat with her hand fast in his. 

"Will your mother be gone to bed?" he asked. 

"She may be. I hope not. "

They hurried along the silent, dark little street, the only people outof doors. Clara quickly entered the house. He hesitated. 

He leaped up the step and was in the room. Her mother appeared in theinner doorway, large and hostile. 

"Who have you got there?" she asked. 

"It's Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we might put him upfor the night, and save him a ten-mile walk. "

"H'm, " exclaimed Mrs. Radford. "That's your lookout! If you've invitedhim, he's very welcome as far as I'm concerned. YOU keep the house!"

"If you don't like me, I'll go away again, " he said. 

"Nay, nay, you needn't! Come along in! I dunno what you'll think of thesupper I'd got her. "

It was a little dish of chip potatoes and a piece of bacon. The tablewas roughly laid for one. 

"You can have some more bacon, " continued Mrs. Radford. "More chips youcan't have. "

"It's a shame to bother you, " he said. 

"Oh, don't you be apologetic! It doesn't DO wi' me! You treated her tothe theatre, didn't you?" There was a sarcasm in the last question. 

"Well?" laughed Paul uncomfortably. 

"Well, and what's an inch of bacon! Take your coat off. "

The big, straight-standing woman was trying to estimate the situation. She moved about the cupboard. Clara took his coat. The room was verywarm and cosy in the lamplight. 

"My sirs!" exclaimed Mrs. Radford; "but you two's a pair of brightbeauties, I must say! What's all that get-up for?"

"I believe we don't know, " he said, feeling a victim. 

"There isn't room in THIS house for two such bobby-dazzlers, if you flyyour kites THAT high!" she rallied them. It was a nasty thrust. 

He in his dinner jacket, and Clara in her green dress and bare arms, were confused. They felt they must shelter each other in that littlekitchen. 

"And look at THAT blossom!" continued Mrs. Radford, pointing to Clara. "What does she reckon she did it for?"

Paul looked at Clara. She was rosy; her neck was warm with blushes. There was a moment of silence. 

"You like to see it, don't you?" he asked. 

The mother had them in her power. All the time his heart was beatinghard, and he was tight with anxiety. But he would fight her. 

"Me like to see it!" exclaimed the old woman. "What should I like to seeher make a fool of herself for?"

"I've seen people look bigger fools, " he said. Clara was under hisprotection now. 

"Oh, ay! and when was that?" came the sarcastic rejoinder. 

"When they made frights of themselves, " he answered. 

Mrs. Radford, large and threatening, stood suspended on the hearthrug, holding her fork. 

"They're fools either road, " she answered at length, turning to theDutch oven. 

"No, " he said, fighting stoutly. "Folk ought to look as well as theycan. "

"And do you call THAT looking nice!" cried the mother, pointing ascornful fork at Clara. "That--that looks as if it wasn't properlydressed!"

"I believe you're jealous that you can't swank as well, " he saidlaughing. 

"Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I'd wanted to!"came the scornful answer. 

"And why didn't you want to?" he asked pertinently. "Or DID you wearit?"

There was a long pause. Mrs. Radford readjusted the bacon in the Dutchoven. His heart beat fast, for fear he had offended her. 

"Me!" she exclaimed at last. "No, I didn't! And when I was in service, I knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bare shoulders what sortSHE was, going to her sixpenny hop!"

"Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?" he said. 

Clara sat with bowed head. His eyes were dark and glittering. Mrs. Radford took the Dutch oven from the fire, and stood near him, puttingbits of bacon on his plate. 

"THERE'S a nice crozzly bit!" she said. 

"Don't give me the best!" he said. 

"SHE'S got what SHE wants, " was the answer. 

There was a sort of scornful forbearance in the woman's tone that madePaul know she was mollified. 

"But DO have some!" he said to Clara. 

She looked up at him with her grey eyes, humiliated and lonely. 

"No thanks!" she said. 

"Why won't you?" he answered carelessly. 

The blood was beating up like fire in his veins. Mrs. Radford sat downagain, large and impressive and aloof. He left Clara altogether toattend to the mother. 

"They say Sarah Bernhardt's fifty, " he said. 

"Fifty! She's turned sixty!" came the scornful answer. 

"Well, " he said, "you'd never think it! She made me want to howl evennow. "

"I should like to see myself howling at THAT bad old baggage!" saidMrs. Radford. "It's time she began to think herself a grandmother, not ashrieking catamaran--"

He laughed. 

"A catamaran is a boat the Malays use, " he said. 

"And it's a word as I use, " she retorted. 

"My mother does sometimes, and it's no good my telling her, " he said. 

"I s'd think she boxes your ears, " said Mrs. Radford, good-humouredly. 

"She'd like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool tostand on. "

"That's the worst of my mother, " said Clara. "She never wants a stoolfor anything. "

"But she often can't touch THAT lady with a long prop, " retorted Mrs. Radford to Paul. 

"I s'd think she doesn't want touching with a prop, " he laughed. "Ishouldn't. "

"It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head withone, " said the mother, laughing suddenly. 

"Why are you so vindictive towards me?" he said. "I've not stolenanything from you. "

"No; I'll watch that, " laughed the older woman. 

Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her chair. Paullit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit, which she spread on the fender to air. 

"Why, I'd forgot all about THEM!" said Mrs. Radford. "Where have theysprung from?"

"Out of my drawer. "

"H'm! You bought 'em for Baxter, an' he wouldn't wear 'em, wouldhe?"--laughing. "Said he reckoned to do wi'out trousers i' bed. " Sheturned confidentially to Paul, saying: "He couldn't BEAR 'em, thempyjama things. "

The young man sat making rings of smoke. 

"Well, it's everyone to his taste, " he laughed. 

Then followed a little discussion of the merits of pyjamas. 

"My mother loves me in them, " he said. "She says I'm a pierrot. "

"I can imagine they'd suit you, " said Mrs. Radford. 

After a while he glanced at the little clock that was ticking on themantelpiece. It was half-past twelve. 

"It is funny, " he said, "but it takes hours to settle down to sleepafter the theatre. "

"It's about time you did, " said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table. 

"Are YOU tired?" he asked of Clara. 

"Not the least bit, " she answered, avoiding his eyes. 

"Shall we have a game at cribbage?" he said. 

"I've forgotten it. "

"Well, I'll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?" he asked. 

"You'll please yourselves, " she said; "but it's pretty late. "

"A game or so will make us sleepy, " he answered. 

Clara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-ring whilst heshuffled them. Mrs. Radford was washing up in the scullery. As it grewlater Paul felt the situation getting more and more tense. 

"Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two's eight--!"

The clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radford had doneall the little jobs preparatory to going to bed, had locked the doorand filled the kettle. Still Paul went on dealing and counting. He wasobsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He believed he could see where thedivision was just beginning for her breasts. He could not leave her. Shewatched his hands, and felt her joints melt as they moved quickly. Shewas so near; it was almost as if he touched her, and yet not quite. Hismettle was roused. He hated Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly droppingasleep, but determined and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her, then at Clara. She met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard assteel. Her own answered him in shame. He knew SHE, at any rate, was ofhis mind. He played on. 

At last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiffly, and said:

"Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?"

Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiently to murderher. 

"Half a minute, " he said. 

The elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery, returningwith his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then she sat downagain. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, he dropped hiscards. 

"We'll stop, then, " he said, but his voice was still a challenge. 

Clara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It seemed likean agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing, to clear her throat. 

"Well, I'm glad you've finished, " said Mrs. Radford. "Here, take yourthings"--she thrust the warm suit in his hand--"and this is your candle. Your room's over this; there's only two, so you can't go far wrong. Well, good-night. I hope you'll rest well. "

"I'm sure I shall; I always do, " he said. 

"Yes; and so you ought at your age, " she replied. 

He bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting stairs of white, scrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He went doggedly. Thetwo doors faced each other. He went in his room, pushed the door to, without fastening the latch. 

It was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara's hair-pins wereon the dressing-table--her hair-brush. Her clothes and some skirts hungunder a cloth in a corner. There was actually a pair of stockings overa chair. He explored the room. Two books of his own were there on theshelf. He undressed, folded his suit, and sat on the bed, listening. Then he blew out the candle, lay down, and in two minutes was almostasleep. Then click!--he was wide awake and writhing in torment. Itwas as if, when he had nearly got to sleep, something had bitten himsuddenly and sent him mad. He sat up and looked at the room in thedarkness, his feet doubled under him, perfectly motionless, listening. He heard a cat somewhere away outside; then the heavy, poised tread ofthe mother; then Clara's distinct voice:

"Will you unfasten my dress?"

There was silence for some time. At last the mother said:

"Now then! aren't you coming up?"

"No, not yet, " replied the daughter calmly. 

"Oh, very well then! If it's not late enough, stop a bit longer. Onlyyou needn't come waking me up when I've got to sleep. "

"I shan't be long, " said Clara. 

Immediately afterwards Paul heard the mother slowly mounting the stairs. The candlelight flashed through the cracks in his door. Her dressbrushed the door, and his heart jumped. Then it was dark, and heheard the clatter of her latch. She was very leisurely indeed in herpreparations for sleep. After a long time it was quite still. He satstrung up on the bed, shivering slightly. His door was an inch open. As Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He waited. All was deadsilence. The clock struck two. Then he heard a slight scrape of thefender downstairs. Now he could not help himself. His shivering wasuncontrollable. He felt he must go or die. 

He stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then he wentstraight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first staircracked like a shot. He listened. The old woman stirred in her bed. Thestaircase was dark. There was a slit of light under the stair-footdoor, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. Then he went on, mechanically. Every step creaked, and his back was creeping, lest theold woman's door should open behind him up above. He fumbled with thedoor at the bottom. The latch opened with a loud clack. He went throughinto the kitchen, and shut the door noisily behind him. The old womandaren't come now. 

Then he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of whiteunderclothing on the hearthrug, her back towards him, warming herself. She did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, and her roundedbeautiful back was towards him, and her face was hidden. She was warmingher body at the fire for consolation. The glow was rosy on one side, theshadow was dark and warm on the other. Her arms hung slack. 

He shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hard to keepcontrol. Then he went forward to her. He put one hand on her shoulder, the fingers of the other hand under her chin to raise her face. Aconvulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his touch. She kepther head bent. 

"Sorry!" he murmured, realising that his hands were very cold. 

Then she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that is afraid ofdeath. 

"My hands are so cold, " he murmured. 

"I like it, " she whispered, closing her eyes. 

The breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms clasped his knees. The cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and made her shiver. As the warmth went into him, his shuddering became less. 

At length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and she buriedher head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowly with aninfinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him, trying to hideherself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at last she lookedat him, mute, imploring, looking to see if she must be ashamed. 

His eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if her beautyand his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked at her with alittle pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before her. She kissed himfervently on the eyes, first one, then the other, and she folded herselfto him. She gave herself. He held her fast. It was a moment intensealmost to agony. 

She stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It healedher hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It made her feel erectand proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside her. She had beencheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride again. It was herrestoration and her recognition. 

Then he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed to each other, and he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off, the minutespassed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together, mouth to mouth, like a statue in one block. 

But again his fingers went seeking over her, restless, wandering, dissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her head onhis shoulder. 

"Come you to my room, " he murmured. 

She looked at him and shook her head, her mouth pouting disconsolately, her eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly. 

"Yes!" he said. 

Again she shook her head. 

"Why not?" he asked. 

She looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again she shook herhead. His eyes hardened, and he gave way. 

When, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she had refused tocome to him openly, so that her mother would know. At any rate, thenthings would have been definite. And she could have stayed with him thenight, without having to go, as she was, to her mother's bed. It wasstrange, and he could not understand it. And then almost immediately hefell asleep. 

He awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes, he saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking down on him. She held acup of tea in her hand. 

"Do you think you're going to sleep till Doomsday?" she said. 

He laughed at once. 

"It ought only to be about five o'clock, " he said. 

"Well, " she answered, "it's half-past seven, whether or not. Here, I'vebrought you a cup of tea. "

He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, and rousedhimself. 

"What's it so late for!" he grumbled. 

He resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neck in theflannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl's. He rubbed hishair crossly. 

"It's no good your scratching your head, " she said. "It won't make it noearlier. Here, an' how long d'you think I'm going to stand waiting wi'this here cup?"

"Oh, dash the cup!" he said. 

"You should go to bed earlier, " said the woman. 

He looked up at her, laughing with impudence. 

"I went to bed before YOU did, " he said. 

"Yes, my Guyney, you did!" she exclaimed. 

"Fancy, " he said, stirring his tea, "having tea brought to bed to me! Mymother'll think I'm ruined for life. "

"Don't she never do it?" asked Mrs. Radford. 

"She'd as leave think of flying. "

"Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That's why they've turned out such baduns, " said the elderly woman. 

"You'd only Clara, " he said. "And Mr. Radford's in heaven. So I supposethere's only you left to be the bad un. "

"I'm not bad; I'm only soft, " she said, as she went out of the bedroom. "I'm only a fool, I am!"

Clara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of air ofproprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radford wasevidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting. 

"What's the good, " exclaimed the mother, "of your whittling and worryingand twistin' and too-in' at that painting of yours? What GOOD does it doyou, I should like to know? You'd better be enjoyin' yourself. "

"Oh, but, " exclaimed Paul, "I made over thirty guineas last year. "

"Did you! Well, that's a consideration, but it's nothing to the time youput in. "

"And I've got four pounds owing. A man said he'd give me five pounds ifI'd paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went andput the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy, so I had toknock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn't like the dog. I made apicture of it. What shall I do when he pays me the four pounds?"

"Nay! you know your own uses for your money, " said Mrs. Radford. 

"But I'm going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the seaside fora day or two?"

"Who?"

"You and Clara and me. "

"What, on your money!" she exclaimed, half-wrathful. 

"Why not?"

"YOU wouldn't be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!" she said. 

"So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?"

"Nay; you may settle that atween you. "

"And you're willing?" he asked, amazed and rejoicing. 

"You'll do as you like, " said Mrs. Radford, "whether I'm willing ornot. "

CHAPTER XIII

BAXTER DAWES

SOON after Paul had been to the theatre with Clara, he was drinkingin the Punch Bowl with some friends of his when Dawes came in. Clara'shusband was growing stout; his eyelids were getting slack over his browneyes; he was losing his healthy firmness of flesh. He was very evidentlyon the downward track. Having quarrelled with his sister, he had goneinto cheap lodgings. His mistress had left him for a man who would marryher. He had been in prison one night for fighting when he was drunk, andthere was a shady betting episode in which he was concerned. 

Paul and he were confirmed enemies, and yet there was between them thatpeculiar feeling of intimacy, as if they were secretly near to eachother, which sometimes exists between two people, although they neverspeak to one another. Paul often thought of Baxter Dawes, often wantedto get at him and be friends with him. He knew that Dawes often thoughtabout him, and that the man was drawn to him by some bond or other. Andyet the two never looked at each other save in hostility. 

Since he was a superior employee at Jordan's, it was the thing for Paulto offer Dawes a drink. 

"What'll you have?" he asked of him. 

"Nowt wi' a bleeder like you!" replied the man. 

Paul turned away with a slight disdainful movement of the shoulders, very irritating. 

"The aristocracy, " he continued, "is really a military institution. TakeGermany, now. She's got thousands of aristocrats whose only means ofexistence is the army. They're deadly poor, and life's deadly slow. Sothey hope for a war. They look for war as a chance of getting on. Tillthere's a war they are idle good-for-nothings. When there's a war, theyare leaders and commanders. There you are, then--they WANT war!"

He was not a favourite debater in the public-house, being too quick andoverbearing. He irritated the older men by his assertive manner, andhis cocksureness. They listened in silence, and were not sorry when hefinished. 

Dawes interrupted the young man's flow of eloquence by asking, in a loudsneer:

"Did you learn all that at th' theatre th' other night?"

Paul looked at him; their eyes met. Then he knew Dawes had seen himcoming out of the theatre with Clara. 

"Why, what about th' theatre?" asked one of Paul's associates, glad toget a dig at the young fellow, and sniffing something tasty. 

"Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!" sneered Dawes, jerking his head contemptuously at Paul. 

"That's comin' it strong, " said the mutual friend. "Tart an' all?"

"Tart, begod!" said Dawes. 

"Go on; let's have it!" cried the mutual friend. 

"You've got it, " said Dawes, "an' I reckon Morelly had it an' all. "

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" said the mutual friend. "An' was it a propertart?"

"Tart, God blimey--yes!"

"How do you know?"

"Oh, " said Dawes, "I reckon he spent th' night--"

There was a good deal of laughter at Paul's expense. 

"But who WAS she? D'you know her?" asked the mutual friend. 

"I should SHAY SHO, " said Dawes. 

This brought another burst of laughter. 

"Then spit it out, " said the mutual friend. 

Dawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer. 

"It's a wonder he hasn't let on himself, " he said. "He'll be braggin' ofit in a bit. "

"Come on, Paul, " said the friend; "it's no good. You might just as wellown up. "

"Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?"

"Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad, " said thefriend. 

"She WAS all right, " said Dawes. 

Paul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his fingers, sneering. 

"Strike me--! One o' that sort?" said the mutual friend. "Paul, boy, I'msurprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?"

"Just a bit, like!"

He winked at the other men. 

"Oh well, " said Paul, "I'll be going!"

The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. 

"Nay, " he said, "you don't get off as easy as that, my lad. We've got tohave a full account of this business. "

"Then get it from Dawes!" he said. 

"You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man, " remonstrated the friend. 

Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beerin his face. 

"Oh, Mr. Morel!" cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the"chucker-out". 

Dawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a brawnyfellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over hishaunches intervened. 

"Now, then!" he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes. 

"Come out!" cried Dawes. 

Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of thebar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at thatminute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man's forehead, he thought he looked pathetic. He did not move. 

"Come out, you--, " said Dawes. 

"That's enough, Dawes, " cried the barmaid. 

"Come on, " said the "chucker-out", with kindly insistence, "you'd betterbe getting on. "

And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he workedhim to the door. 

"THAT'S the little sod as started it!" cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointingto Paul Morel. 

"Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes!" said the barmaid. "You know it was youall the time. "

Still the "chucker-out" kept thrusting his chest forward at him, stillhe kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the stepsoutside; then he turned round. 

"All right, " he said, nodding straight at his rival. 

Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled withviolent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there was silencein the bar. 

"Serve, him, jolly well right!" said the barmaid. 

"But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes, " said themutual friend. 

"I tell you I was glad he did, " said the barmaid. "Will you haveanother, Mr. Morel?"

She held up Paul's glass questioningly. He nodded. 

"He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes, " said one. 

"Pooh! is he?" said the barmaid. "He's a loud-mouthed one, he is, andthey're never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken chap, if you want adevil!"

"Well, Paul, my lad, " said the friend, "you'll have to take care ofyourself now for a while. "

"You won't have to give him a chance over you, that's all, " said thebarmaid. 

"Can you box?" asked a friend. 

"Not a bit, " he answered, still very white. 

"I might give you a turn or two, " said the friend. 

"Thanks, I haven't time. "

And presently he took his departure. 

"Go along with him, Mr. Jenkinson, " whispered the barmaid, tipping Mr. Jenkinson the wink. 

The man nodded, took his hat, said: "Good-night all!" very heartily, andfollowed Paul, calling:

"Half a minute, old man. You an' me's going the same road, I believe. "

"Mr. Morel doesn't like it, " said the barmaid. "You'll see, we shan'thave him in much more. I'm sorry; he's good company. And Baxter Daweswants locking up, that's what he wants. "

Paul would have died rather than his mother should get to know of thisaffair. He suffered tortures of humiliation and self-consciousness. There was now a good deal of his life of which necessarily he could notspeak to his mother. He had a life apart from her--his sexual life. Therest she still kept. But he felt he had to conceal something from her, and it irked him. There was a certain silence between them, and hefelt he had, in that silence, to defend himself against her; he feltcondemned by her. Then sometimes he hated her, and pulled at herbondage. His life wanted to free itself of her. It was like a circlewhere life turned back on itself, and got no farther. She bore him, loved him, kept him, and his love turned back into her, so that he couldnot be free to go forward with his own life, really love another woman. At this period, unknowingly, he resisted his mother's influence. He didnot tell her things; there was a distance between them. 

Clara was happy, almost sure of him. She felt she had at last got himfor herself; and then again came the uncertainty. He told her jestinglyof the affair with her husband. Her colour came up, her grey eyesflashed. 

"That's him to a 'T', " she cried--"like a navvy! He's not fit for mixingwith decent folk. "

"Yet you married him, " he said. 

It made her furious that he reminded her. 

"I did!" she cried. "But how was I to know?"

"I think he might have been rather nice, " he said. 

"You think I made him what he is!" she exclaimed. 

"Oh no! he made himself. But there's something about him--"

Clara looked at her lover closely. There was something in him she hated, a sort of detached criticism of herself, a coldness which made herwoman's soul harden against him. 

"And what are you going to do?" she asked. 

"How?"

"About Baxter. "

"There's nothing to do, is there?" he replied. 

"You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?" she said. 

"No; I haven't the least sense of the 'fist'. It's funny. With most menthere's the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It's not so with me. Ishould want a knife or a pistol or something to fight with. "

"Then you'd better carry something, " she said. 

"Nay, " he laughed; "I'm not daggeroso. "

"But he'll do something to you. You don't know him. "

"All right, " he said, "we'll see. "

"And you'll let him?"

"Perhaps, if I can't help it. "

"And if he kills you?" she said. 

"I should be sorry, for his sake and mine. "

Clara was silent for a moment. 

"You DO make me angry!" she exclaimed. 

"That's nothing afresh, " he laughed. 

"But why are you so silly? You don't know him. "

"And don't want. "

"Yes, but you're not going to let a man do as he likes with you?"

"What must I do?" he replied, laughing. 

"I should carry a revolver, " she said. "I'm sure he's dangerous. "

"I might blow my fingers off, " he said. 

"No; but won't you?" she pleaded. 

"No. "

"Not anything?"

"No. "

"And you'll leave him to--?"

"Yes. "

"You are a fool!"

"Fact!"

She set her teeth with anger. 

"I could SHAKE you!" she cried, trembling with passion. 

"Why?"

"Let a man like HIM do as he likes with you. "

"You can go back to him if he triumphs, " he said. 

"Do you want me to hate you?" she asked. 

"Well, I only tell you, " he said. 

"And YOU say you LOVE me!" she exclaimed, low and indignant. 

"Ought I to slay him to please you?" he said. "But if I did, see what ahold he'd have over me. "

"Do you think I'm a fool!" she exclaimed. 

"Not at all. But you don't understand me, my dear. "

There was a pause between them. 

"But you ought NOT to expose yourself, " she pleaded. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

 "'The man in righteousness arrayed, The pure and blameless liver, Needs not the keen Toledo blade, Nor venom-freighted quiver, '"

he quoted. 

She looked at him searchingly. 

"I wish I could understand you, " she said. 

"There's simply nothing to understand, " he laughed. 

She bowed her head, brooding. 

He did not see Dawes for several days; then one morning as he ranupstairs from the Spiral room he almost collided with the burlymetal-worker. 

"What the--!" cried the smith. 

"Sorry!" said Paul, and passed on. 

"SORRY!" sneered Dawes. 

Paul whistled lightly, "Put Me among the Girls". 

"I'll stop your whistle, my jockey!" he said. 

The other took no notice. 

"You're goin' to answer for that job of the other night. "

Paul went to his desk in his corner, and turned over the leaves of theledger. 

"Go and tell Fanny I want order 097, quick!" he said to his boy. 

Dawes stood in the doorway, tall and threatening, looking at the top ofthe young man's head. 

"Six and five's eleven and seven's one-and-six, " Paul added aloud. 

"An' you hear, do you!" said Dawes. 

"FIVE AND NINEPENCE!" He wrote a figure. "What's that?" he said. 

"I'm going to show you what it is, " said the smith. 

The other went on adding the figures aloud. 

"Yer crawlin' little--, yer daresn't face me proper!"

Paul quickly snatched the heavy ruler. Dawes started. The young manruled some lines in his ledger. The elder man was infuriated. 

"But wait till I light on you, no matter where it is, I'll settle yourhash for a bit, yer little swine!"

"All right, " said Paul. 

At that the smith started heavily from the doorway. Just then a whistlepiped shrilly. Paul went to the speaking-tube. 

"Yes!" he said, and he listened. "Er--yes!" He listened, then helaughed. "I'll come down directly. I've got a visitor just now. "

Dawes knew from his tone that he had been speaking to Clara. He steppedforward. 

"Yer little devil!" he said. "I'll visitor you, inside of two minutes!Think I'm goin' to have YOU whipperty-snappin' round?"

The other clerks in the warehouse looked up. Paul's office-boy appeared, holding some white article. 

"Fanny says you could have had it last night if you'd let her know, " hesaid. 

"All right, " answered Paul, looking at the stocking. "Get it off. " Dawesstood frustrated, helpless with rage. Morel turned round. 

"Excuse me a minute, " he said to Dawes, and he would have rundownstairs. 

"By God, I'll stop your gallop!" shouted the smith, seizing him by thearm. He turned quickly. 

"Hey! Hey!" cried the office-boy, alarmed. 

Thomas Jordan started out of his little glass office, and came runningdown the room. 

"What's a-matter, what's a-matter?" he said, in his old man's sharpvoice. 

"I'm just goin' ter settle this little--, that's all, " said Dawesdesperately. 

"What do you mean?" snapped Thomas Jordan. 

"What I say, " said Dawes, but he hung fire. 

Morel was leaning against the counter, ashamed, half-grinning. 

"What's it all about?" snapped Thomas Jordan. 

"Couldn't say, " said Paul, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. 

"Couldn't yer, couldn't yer!" cried Dawes, thrusting forward hishandsome, furious face, and squaring his fist. 

"Have you finished?" cried the old man, strutting. "Get off about yourbusiness, and don't come here tipsy in the morning. "

Dawes turned his big frame slowly upon him. 

"Tipsy!" he said. "Who's tipsy? I'm no more tipsy than YOU are!"

"We've heard that song before, " snapped the old man. "Now you get off, and don't be long about it. Comin' HERE with your rowdying. "

The smith looked down contemptuously on his employer. His hands, large, and grimy, and yet well shaped for his labour, worked restlessly. Paulremembered they were the hands of Clara's husband, and a flash of hatewent through him. 

"Get out before you're turned out!" snapped Thomas Jordan. 

"Why, who'll turn me out?" said Dawes, beginning to sneer. 

Mr. Jordan started, marched up to the smith, waving him off, thrustinghis stout little figure at the man, saying:

"Get off my premises--get off!"

He seized and twitched Dawes's arm. 

"Come off!" said the smith, and with a jerk of the elbow he sent thelittle manufacturer staggering backwards. 

Before anyone could help him, Thomas Jordan had collided with the flimsyspring-door. It had given way, and let him crash down the half-dozensteps into Fanny's room. There was a second of amazement; then men andgirls were running. Dawes stood a moment looking bitterly on the scene, then he took his departure. 

Thomas Jordan was shaken and braised, not otherwise hurt. He was, however, beside himself with rage. He dismissed Dawes from hisemployment, and summoned him for assault. 

At the trial Paul Morel had to give evidence. Asked how the troublebegan, he said:

"Dawes took occasion to insult Mrs. Dawes and me because I accompaniedher to the theatre one evening; then I threw some beer at him, and hewanted his revenge. "

"_Cherchez la femme!_" smiled the magistrate. 

The case was dismissed after the magistrate had told Dawes he thoughthim a skunk. 

"You gave the case away, " snapped Mr. Jordan to Paul. 

"I don't think I did, " replied the latter. "Besides, you didn't reallywant a conviction, did you?"

"What do you think I took the case up for?"

"Well, " said Paul, "I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing. " Clara was alsovery angry. 

"Why need MY name have been dragged in?" she said. 

"Better speak it openly than leave it to be whispered. "

"There was no need for anything at all, " she declared. 

"We are none the poorer, " he said indifferently. 

"YOU may not be, " she said. 

"And you?" he asked. 

"I need never have been mentioned. "

"I'm sorry, " he said; but he did not sound sorry. 

He told himself easily: "She will come round. " And she did. 

He told his mother about the fall of Mr. Jordan and the trial of Dawes. Mrs. Morel watched him closely. 

"And what do you think of it all?" she asked him. 

"I think he's a fool, " he said. 

But he was very uncomfortable, nevertheless. 

"Have you ever considered where it will end?" his mother said. 

"No, " he answered; "things work out of themselves. "

"They do, in a way one doesn't like, as a rule, " said his mother. 

"And then one has to put up with them, " he said. 

"You'll find you're not as good at 'putting up' as you imagine, " shesaid. 

He went on working rapidly at his design. 

"Do you ever ask HER opinion?" she said at length. 

"What of?"

"Of you, and the whole thing. "

"I don't care what her opinion of me is. She's fearfully in love withme, but it's not very deep. "

"But quite as deep as your feeling for her. "

He looked up at his mother curiously. 

"Yes, " he said. "You know, mother, I think there must be something thematter with me, that I CAN'T love. When she's there, as a rule, I DOlove her. Sometimes, when I see her just as THE WOMAN, I love her, mother; but then, when she talks and criticises, I often don't listen toher. "

"Yet she's as much sense as Miriam. "

"Perhaps; and I love her better than Miriam. But WHY don't they holdme?"

The last question was almost a lamentation. His mother turned away herface, sat looking across the room, very quiet, grave, with something ofrenunciation. 

"But you wouldn't want to marry Clara?" she said. 

"No; at first perhaps I would. But why--why don't I want to marry her oranybody? I feel sometimes as if I wronged my women, mother. "

"How wronged them, my son?"

"I don't know. "

He went on painting rather despairingly; he had touched the quick of thetrouble. 

"And as for wanting to marry, " said his mother, "there's plenty of timeyet. "

"But no, mother. I even love Clara, and I did Miriam; but to GIVE myselfto them in marriage I couldn't. I couldn't belong to them. They seem towant ME, and I can't ever give it them. "

"You haven't met the right woman. "

"And I never shall meet the right woman while you live, " he said. 

She was very quiet. Now she began to feel again tired, as if she weredone. 

"We'll see, my son, " she answered. 

The feeling that things were going in a circle made him mad. 

Clara was, indeed, passionately in love with him, and he with her, asfar as passion went. In the daytime he forgot her a good deal. She wasworking in the same building, but he was not aware of it. He was busy, and her existence was of no matter to him. But all the time she was inher Spiral room she had a sense that he was upstairs, a physical senseof his person in the same building. Every second she expected him tocome through the door, and when he came it was a shock to her. But hewas often short and offhand with her. He gave her his directions in anofficial manner, keeping her at bay. With what wits she had left shelistened to him. She dared not misunderstand or fail to remember, butit was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactlyhow his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touchit. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice giving orders aboutthe work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivialcoating of business which covered him with hardness, get at the managain; but she was afraid, and before she could feel one touch of hiswarmth he was gone, and she ached again. 

He knew that she was dreary every evening she did not see him, so hegave her a good deal of his time. The days were often a misery to her, but the evenings and the nights were usually a bliss to them both. Thenthey were silent. For hours they sat together, or walked together in thedark, and talked only a few, almost meaningless words. But he had herhand in his, and her bosom left its warmth in his chest, making him feelwhole. 

One evening they were walking down by the canal, and something wastroubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the time he whistledsoftly and persistently to himself. She listened, feeling she couldlearn more from his whistling than from his speech. It was a saddissatisfied tune--a tune that made her feel he would not stay with her. She walked on in silence. When they came to the swing bridge he sat downon the great pole, looking at the stars in the water. He was a long wayfrom her. She had been thinking. 

"Will you always stay at Jordan's?" she asked. 

"No, " he answered without reflecting. "No; I s'll leave Nottingham andgo abroad--soon. "

"Go abroad! What for?"

"I dunno! I feel restless. "

"But what shall you do?"

"I shall have to get some steady designing work, and some sort of salefor my pictures first, " he said. "I am gradually making my way. I know Iam. "

"And when do you think you'll go?"

"I don't know. I shall hardly go for long, while there's my mother. "

"You couldn't leave her?"

"Not for long. "

She looked at the stars in the black water. They lay very white andstaring. It was an agony to know he would leave her, but it was almostan agony to have him near her. 

"And if you made a nice lot of money, what would you do?" she asked. 

"Go somewhere in a pretty house near London with my mother. "

"I see. "

There was a long pause. 

"I could still come and see you, " he said. "I don't know. Don't ask mewhat I should do; I don't know. "

There was a silence. The stars shuddered and broke upon the water. Therecame a breath of wind. He went suddenly to her, and put his hand on hershoulder. 

"Don't ask me anything about the future, " he said miserably. "I don'tknow anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter what it is?"

And she took him in her arms. After all, she was a married woman, andshe had no right even to what he gave her. He needed her badly. She hadhim in her arms, and he was miserable. With her warmth she foldedhim over, consoled him, loved him. She would let the moment stand foritself. 

After a moment he lifted his head as if he wanted to speak. 

"Clara, " he said, struggling. 

She caught him passionately to her, pressed his head down on her breastwith her hand. She could not bear the suffering in his voice. She wasafraid in her soul. He might have anything of her--anything; but she didnot want to KNOW. She felt she could not bear it. She wanted him to besoothed upon her--soothed. She stood clasping him and caressing him, andhe was something unknown to her--something almost uncanny. She wanted tosoothe him into forgetfulness. 

And soon the struggle went down in his soul, and he forgot. But thenClara was not there for him, only a woman, warm, something he lovedand almost worshipped, there in the dark. But it was not Clara, and shesubmitted to him. The naked hunger and inevitability of his loving her, something strong and blind and ruthless in its primitiveness, made thehour almost terrible to her. She knew how stark and alone he was, andshe felt it was great that he came to her; and she took him simplybecause his need was bigger either than her or him, and her soul wasstill within her. She did this for him in his need, even if he left her, for she loved him. 

All the while the peewits were screaming in the field. When he came to, he wondered what was near his eyes, curving and strong with life in thedark, and what voice it was speaking. Then he realised it was the grass, and the peewit was calling. The warmth was Clara's breathing heaving. He lifted his head, and looked into her eyes. They were dark and shiningand strange, life wild at the source staring into his life, stranger tohim, yet meeting him; and he put his face down on her throat, afraid. What was she? A strong, strange, wild life, that breathed with hisin the darkness through this hour. It was all so much bigger thanthemselves that he was hushed. They had met, and included in theirmeeting the thrust of the manifold grass stems, the cry of the peewit, the wheel of the stars. 

When they stood up they saw other lovers stealing down the oppositehedge. It seemed natural they were there; the night contained them. 

And after such an evening they both were very still, having knownthe immensity of passion. They felt small, half-afraid, childish andwondering, like Adam and Eve when they lost their innocence and realisedthe magnificence of the power which drove them out of Paradise andacross the great night and the great day of humanity. It was for each ofthem an initiation and a satisfaction. To know their own nothingness, to know the tremendous living flood which carried them always, gave themrest within themselves. If so great a magnificent power could overwhelmthem, identify them altogether with itself, so that they knew they wereonly grains in the tremendous heave that lifted every grass blade itslittle height, and every tree, and living thing, then why fret aboutthemselves? They could let themselves be carried by life, and they felta sort of peace each in the other. There was a verification which theyhad had together. Nothing could nullify it, nothing could take it away;it was almost their belief in life. 

But Clara was not satisfied. Something great was there, she knew;something great enveloped her. But it did not keep her. In the morningit was not the same. They had KNOWN, but she could not keep the moment. She wanted it again; she wanted something permanent. She had notrealised fully. She thought it was he whom she wanted. He was not safeto her. This that had been between them might never be again; he mightleave her. She had not got him; she was not satisfied. She had beenthere, but she had not gripped the--the something--she knew notwhat--which she was mad to have. 

In the morning he had considerable peace, and was happy in himself. Itseemed almost as if he had known the baptism of fire in passion, and itleft him at rest. But it was not Clara. It was something that happenedbecause of her, but it was not her. They were scarcely any nearer eachother. It was as if they had been blind agents of a great force. 

When she saw him that day at the factory her heart melted like a drop offire. It was his body, his brows. The drop of fire grew more intensein her breast; she must hold him. But he, very quiet, very subdued thismorning, went on giving his instruction. She followed him into thedark, ugly basement, and lifted her arms to him. He kissed her, and theintensity of passion began to burn him again. Somebody was at the door. He ran upstairs; she returned to her room, moving as if in a trance. 

After that the fire slowly went down. He felt more and more that hisexperience had been impersonal, and not Clara. He loved her. There wasa big tenderness, as after a strong emotion they had known together; butit was not she who could keep his soul steady. He had wanted her to besomething she could not be. 

And she was mad with desire of him. She could not see him withouttouching him. In the factory, as he talked to her about Spiral hose, she ran her hand secretly along his side. She followed him out into thebasement for a quick kiss; her eyes, always mute and yearning, full ofunrestrained passion, she kept fixed on his. He was afraid of her, lestshe should too flagrantly give herself away before the other girls. Sheinvariably waited for him at dinnertime for him to embrace her beforeshe went. He felt as if she were helpless, almost a burden to him, andit irritated him. 

"But what do you always want to be kissing and embracing for?" he said. "Surely there's a time for everything. "

She looked up at him, and the hate came into her eyes. 

"DO I always want to be kissing you?" she said. 

"Always, even if I come to ask you about the work. I don't want anythingto do with love when I'm at work. Work's work--"

"And what is love?" she asked. "Has it to have special hours?"

"Yes; out of work hours. "

"And you'll regulate it according to Mr. Jordan's closing time?"

"Yes; and according to the freedom from business of any sort. "

"It is only to exist in spare time?"

"That's all, and not always then--not the kissing sort of love. "

"And that's all you think of it?"

"It's quite enough. "

"I'm glad you think so. "

And she was cold to him for some time--she hated him; and while she wascold and contemptuous, he was uneasy till she had forgiven him again. But when they started afresh they were not any nearer. He kept herbecause he never satisfied her. 

In the spring they went together to the seaside. They had rooms ata little cottage near Theddlethorpe, and lived as man and wife. Mrs. Radford sometimes went with them. 

It was known in Nottingham that Paul Morel and Mrs. Dawes were goingtogether, but as nothing was very obvious, and Clara always a solitaryperson, and he seemed so simple and innocent, it did not make muchdifference. 

He loved the Lincolnshire coast, and she loved the sea. In the earlymorning they often went out together to bathe. The grey of the dawn, the far, desolate reaches of the fenland smitten with winter, thesea-meadows rank with herbage, were stark enough to rejoice his soul. As they stepped on to the highroad from their plank bridge, and lookedround at the endless monotony of levels, the land a little darker thanthe sky, the sea sounding small beyond the sandhills, his heart filledstrong with the sweeping relentlessness of life. She loved him then. Hewas solitary and strong, and his eyes had a beautiful light. 

They shuddered with cold; then he raced her down the road to the greenturf bridge. She could run well. Her colour soon came, her throat wasbare, her eyes shone. He loved her for being so luxuriously heavy, andyet so quick. Himself was light; she went with a beautiful rush. Theygrew warm, and walked hand in hand. 

A flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way down the west, sankinto insignificance. On the shadowy land things began to take life, plants with great leaves became distinct. They came through a pass inthe big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long waste of foreshore laymoaning under the dawn and the sea; the ocean was a flat dark strip witha white edge. Over the gloomy sea the sky grew red. Quickly the firespread among the clouds and scattered them. Crimson burned to orange, orange to dull gold, and in a golden glitter the sun came up, dribblingfierily over the waves in little splashes, as if someone had gone alongand the light had spilled from her pail as she walked. 

The breakers ran down the shore in long, hoarse strokes. Tiny seagulls, like specks of spray, wheeled above the line of surf. Their cryingseemed larger than they. Far away the coast reached out, and melted intothe morning, the tussocky sandhills seemed to sink to a level with thebeach. Mablethorpe was tiny on their right. They had alone the space ofall this level shore, the sea, and the upcoming sun, the faint noise ofthe waters, the sharp crying of the gulls. 

They had a warm hollow in the sandhills where the wind did not come. Hestood looking out to sea. 

"It's very fine, " he said. 

"Now don't get sentimental, " she said. 

It irritated her to see him standing gazing at the sea, like a solitaryand poetic person. He laughed. She quickly undressed. 

"There are some fine waves this morning, " she said triumphantly. 

She was a better swimmer than he; he stood idly watching her. 

"Aren't you coming?" she said. 

"In a minute, " he answered. 

She was white and velvet skinned, with heavy shoulders. A little wind, coming from the sea, blew across her body and ruffled her hair. 

The morning was of a lovely limpid gold colour. Veils of shadow seemedto be drifting away on the north and the south. Clara stood shrinkingslightly from the touch of the wind, twisting her hair. The sea-grassrose behind the white stripped woman. She glanced at the sea, thenlooked at him. He was watching her with dark eyes which she loved andcould not understand. She hugged her breasts between her arms, cringing, laughing:

"Oo, it will be so cold!" she said. 

He bent forward and kissed her, held her suddenly close, and kissed heragain. She stood waiting. He looked into her eyes, then away at the palesands. 

"Go, then!" he said quietly. 

She flung her arms round his neck, drew him against her, kissed himpassionately, and went, saying:

"But you'll come in?"

"In a minute. "

She went plodding heavily over the sand that was soft as velvet. He, on the sandhills, watched the great pale coast envelop her. She grewsmaller, lost proportion, seemed only like a large white bird toilingforward. 

"Not much more than a big white pebble on the beach, not much morethan a clot of foam being blown and rolled over the sand, " he said tohimself. 

She seemed to move very slowly across the vast sounding shore. As hewatched, he lost her. She was dazzled out of sight by the sunshine. Again he saw her, the merest white speck moving against the white, muttering sea-edge. 

"Look how little she is!" he said to himself. "She's lost like a grainof sand in the beach--just a concentrated speck blown along, a tinywhite foam-bubble, almost nothing among the morning. Why does she absorbme?"

The morning was altogether uninterrupted: she was gone in the water. Farand wide the beach, the sandhills with their blue marrain, the shiningwater, glowed together in immense, unbroken solitude. 

"What is she, after all?" he said to himself. "Here's the seacoastmorning, big and permanent and beautiful; there is she, fretting, alwaysunsatisfied, and temporary as a bubble of foam. What does she meanto me, after all? She represents something, like a bubble of foamrepresents the sea. But what is she? It's not her I care for. "

Then, startled by his own unconscious thoughts, that seemed to speak sodistinctly that all the morning could hear, he undressed and ran quicklydown the sands. She was watching for him. Her arm flashed up to him, sheheaved on a wave, subsided, her shoulders in a pool of liquid silver. He jumped through the breakers, and in a moment her hand was on hisshoulder. 

He was a poor swimmer, and could not stay long in the water. She playedround him in triumph, sporting with her superiority, which he begrudgedher. The sunshine stood deep and fine on the water. They laughed in thesea for a minute or two, then raced each other back to the sandhills. 

When they were drying themselves, panting heavily, he watched herlaughing, breathless face, her bright shoulders, her breasts that swayedand made him frightened as she rubbed them, and he thought again:

"But she is magnificent, and even bigger than the morning and the sea. Is she--? Is she--"

She, seeing his dark eyes fixed on her, broke off from her drying with alaugh. 

"What are you looking at?" she said. 

"You, " he answered, laughing. 

Her eyes met his, and in a moment he was kissing her white"goose-fleshed" shoulder, and thinking:

"What is she? What is she?"

She loved him in the morning. There was something detached, hard, andelemental about his kisses then, as if he were only conscious of his ownwill, not in the least of her and her wanting him. 

Later in the day he went out sketching. 

"You, " he said to her, "go with your mother to Sutton. I am so dull. "

She stood and looked at him. He knew she wanted to come with him, but hepreferred to be alone. She made him feel imprisoned when she was there, as if he could not get a free deep breath, as if there were something ontop of him. She felt his desire to be free of her. 

In the evening he came back to her. They walked down the shore in thedarkness, then sat for a while in the shelter of the sandhills. 

"It seems, " she said, as they stared over the darkness of the sea, whereno light was to be seen--"it seemed as if you only loved me at night--asif you didn't love me in the daytime. "

He ran the cold sand through his fingers, feeling guilty under theaccusation. 

"The night is free to you, " he replied. "In the daytime I want to be bymyself. "

"But why?" she said. "Why, even now, when we are on this short holiday?"

"I don't know. Love-making stifles me in the daytime. "

"But it needn't be always love-making, " she said. 

"It always is, " he answered, "when you and I are together. "

She sat feeling very bitter. 

"Do you ever want to marry me?" he asked curiously. 

"Do you me?" she replied. 

"Yes, yes; I should like us to have children, " he answered slowly. 

She sat with her head bent, fingering the sand. 

"But you don't really want a divorce from Baxter, do you?" he said. 

It was some minutes before she replied. 

"No, " she said, very deliberately; "I don't think I do. "

"Why?"

"I don't know. "

"Do you feel as if you belonged to him?"

"No; I don't think so. "

"What, then?"

"I think he belongs to me, " she replied. 

He was silent for some minutes, listening to the wind blowing over thehoarse, dark sea. 

"And you never really intended to belong to ME?" he said. 

"Yes, I do belong to you, " she answered. 

"No, " he said; "because you don't want to be divorced. "

It was a knot they could not untie, so they left it, took what theycould get, and what they could not attain they ignored. 

"I consider you treated Baxter rottenly, " he said another time. 

He half-expected Clara to answer him, as his mother would: "You consideryour own affairs, and don't know so much about other people's. " But shetook him seriously, almost to his own surprise. 

"Why?" she said. 

"I suppose you thought he was a lily of the valley, and so you put himin an appropriate pot, and tended him according. You made up your mindhe was a lily of the valley and it was no good his being a cow-parsnip. You wouldn't have it. "

"I certainly never imagined him a lily of the valley. "

"You imagined him something he wasn't. That's just what a woman is. Shethinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's going to see he getsit; and no matter if he's starving, he may sit and whistle for what heneeds, while she's got him, and is giving him what's good for him. "

"And what are you doing?" she asked. 

"I'm thinking what tune I shall whistle, " he laughed. 

And instead of boxing his ears, she considered him in earnest. 

"You think I want to give you what's good for you?" she asked. 

"I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom, not of prison. Miriam made me feel tied up like a donkey to a stake. I must feed on herpatch, and nowhere else. It's sickening!"

"And would YOU let a WOMAN do as she likes?"

"Yes; I'll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn't--well, I don'thold her. "

"If you were as wonderful as you say--, " replied Clara. 

"I should be the marvel I am, " he laughed. 

There was a silence in which they hated each other, though they laughed. 

"Love's a dog in a manger, " he said. 

"And which of us is the dog?" she asked. 

"Oh well, you, of course. "

So there went on a battle between them. She knew she never fully hadhim. Some part, big and vital in him, she had no hold over; nor did sheever try to get it, or even to realise what it was. And he knew in someway that she held herself still as Mrs. Dawes. She did not love Dawes, never had loved him; but she believed he loved her, at least depended onher. She felt a certain surety about him that she never felt with PaulMorel. Her passion for the young man had filled her soul, given hera certain satisfaction, eased her of her self-mistrust, her doubt. Whatever else she was, she was inwardly assured. It was almost as ifshe had gained HERSELF, and stood now distinct and complete. She hadreceived her confirmation; but she never believed that her life belongedto Paul Morel, nor his to her. They would separate in the end, and therest of her life would be an ache after him. But at any rate, she knewnow, she was sure of herself. And the same could almost be said of him. Together they had received the baptism of life, each through the other;but now their missions were separate. Where he wanted to go she couldnot come with him. They would have to part sooner or later. Even if theymarried, and were faithful to each other, still he would have to leaveher, go on alone, and she would only have to attend to him when he camehome. But it was not possible. Each wanted a mate to go side by sidewith. 

Clara had gone to live with her mother upon Mapperley Plains. Oneevening, as Paul and she were walking along Woodborough Road, they metDawes. Morel knew something about the bearing of the man approaching, but he was absorbed in his thinking at the moment, so that only hisartist's eye watched the form of the stranger. Then he suddenly turnedto Clara with a laugh, and put his hand on her shoulder, saying, laughing:

"But we walk side by side, and yet I'm in London arguing with animaginary Orpen; and where are you?"

At that instant Dawes passed, almost touching Morel. The young manglanced, saw the dark brown eyes burning, full of hate and yet tired. 

"Who was that?" he asked of Clara. 

"It was Baxter, " she replied. 

Paul took his hand from her shoulder and glanced round; then he sawagain distinctly the man's form as it approached him. Dawes still walkederect, with his fine shoulders flung back, and his face lifted; butthere was a furtive look in his eyes that gave one the impression he wastrying to get unnoticed past every person he met, glancing suspiciouslyto see what they thought of him. And his hands seemed to be wanting tohide. He wore old clothes, the trousers were torn at the knee, and thehandkerchief tied round his throat was dirty; but his cap was stilldefiantly over one eye. As she saw him, Clara felt guilty. There wasa tiredness and despair on his face that made her hate him, because ithurt her. 

"He looks shady, " said Paul. 

But the note of pity in his voice reproached her, and made her feelhard. 

"His true commonness comes out, " she answered. 

"Do you hate him?" he asked. 

"You talk, " she said, "about the cruelty of women; I wish you knew thecruelty of men in their brute force. They simply don't know that thewoman exists. "

"Don't I?" he said. 

"No, " she answered. 

"Don't I know you exist?"

"About ME you know nothing, " she said bitterly--"about ME!"

"No more than Baxter knew?" he asked. 

"Perhaps not as much. "

He felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry. There she walked unknown tohim, though they had been through such experience together. 

"But you know ME pretty well, " he said. 

She did not answer. 

"Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?" he asked. 

"He wouldn't let me, " she said. 

"And I have let you know me?"

"It's what men WON'T let you do. They won't let you get really near tothem, " she said. 

"And haven't I let you?"

"Yes, " she answered slowly; "but you've never come near to me. You can'tcome out of yourself, you can't. Baxter could do that better than you. "

He walked on pondering. He was angry with her for preferring Baxter tohim. 

"You begin to value Baxter now you've not got him, " he said. 

"No; I can only see where he was different from you. "

But he felt she had a grudge against him. 

One evening, as they were coming home over the fields, she startled himby asking:

"Do you think it's worth it--the--the sex part?"

"The act of loving, itself?"

"Yes; is it worth anything to you?"

"But how can you separate it?" he said. "It's the culmination ofeverything. All our intimacy culminates then. "

"Not for me, " she said. 

He was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all, she wasdissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought they fulfilled eachother. But he believed her too implicitly. 

"I feel, " she continued slowly, "as if I hadn't got you, as if all ofyou weren't there, and as if it weren't ME you were taking--"

"Who, then?"

"Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that I daren't thinkof it. But is it ME you want, or is it IT?"

He again felt guilty. Did he leave Clara out of count, and take simplywomen? But he thought that was splitting a hair. 

"When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I DID feel as if I had all ofhim, " she said. 

"And it was better?" he asked. 

"Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don't say you haven't given me more thanhe ever gave me. "

"Or could give you. "

"Yes, perhaps; but you've never given me yourself. "

He knitted his brows angrily. 

"If I start to make love to you, " he said, "I just go like a leaf downthe wind. "

"And leave me out of count, " she said. 

"And then is it nothing to you?" he asked, almost rigid with chagrin. 

"It's something; and sometimes you have carried me away--right away--Iknow--and--I reverence you for it--but--"

"Don't 'but' me, " he said, kissing her quickly, as a fire ran throughhim. 

She submitted, and was silent. 

It was true as he said. As a rule, when he started love-making, theemotion was strong enough to carry with it everything--reason, soul, blood--in a great sweep, like the Trent carries bodily its back-swirlsand intertwinings, noiselessly. Gradually the little criticisms, thelittle sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything borne alongin one flood. He became, not a man with a mind, but a great instinct. His hands were like creatures, living; his limbs, his body, wereall life and consciousness, subject to no will of his, but living inthemselves. Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous, wintry stars werestrong also with life. He and they struck with the same pulse of fire, and the same joy of strength which held the bracken-frond stiff nearhis eyes held his own body firm. It was as if he, and the stars, and thedark herbage, and Clara were licked up in an immense tongue of flame, which tore onwards and upwards. Everything rushed along in living besidehim; everything was still, perfect in itself, along with him. Thiswonderful stillness in each thing in itself, while it was being bornealong in a very ecstasy of living, seemed the highest point of bliss. 

And Clara knew this held him to her, so she trusted altogether to thepassion. It, however, failed her very often. They did not often reachagain the height of that once when the peewits had called. Gradually, some mechanical effort spoilt their loving, or, when they had splendidmoments, they had them separately, and not so satisfactorily. So oftenhe seemed merely to be running on alone; often they realised it had beena failure, not what they had wanted. He left her, knowing THAT eveninghad only made a little split between them. Their loving grew moremechanical, without the marvellous glamour. Gradually they began tointroduce novelties, to get back some of the feeling of satisfaction. They would be very near, almost dangerously near to the river, so thatthe black water ran not far from his face, and it gave a little thrill;or they loved sometimes in a little hollow below the fence of the pathwhere people were passing occasionally, on the edge of the town, andthey heard footsteps coming, almost felt the vibration of the tread, and they heard what the passersby said--strange little things thatwere never intended to be heard. And afterwards each of them was ratherashamed, and these things caused a distance between the two of them. Hebegan to despise her a little, as if she had merited it!

One night he left her to go to Daybrook Station over the fields. Itwas very dark, with an attempt at snow, although the spring was so faradvanced. Morel had not much time; he plunged forward. The town ceasesalmost abruptly on the edge of a steep hollow; there the houses withtheir yellow lights stand up against the darkness. He went over thestile, and dropped quickly into the hollow of the fields. Under theorchard one warm window shone in Swineshead Farm. Paul glanced round. Behind, the houses stood on the brim of the dip, black against thesky, like wild beasts glaring curiously with yellow eyes down into thedarkness. It was the town that seemed savage and uncouth, glaring on theclouds at the back of him. Some creature stirred under the willows ofthe farm pond. It was too dark to distinguish anything. 

He was close up to the next stile before he saw a dark shape leaningagainst it. The man moved aside. 

"Good-evening!" he said. 

"Good-evening!" Morel answered, not noticing. 

"Paul Morel?" said the man. 

Then he knew it was Dawes. The man stopped his way. 

"I've got yer, have I?" he said awkwardly. 

"I shall miss my train, " said Paul. 

He could see nothing of Dawes's face. The man's teeth seemed to chatteras he talked. 

"You're going to get it from me now, " said Dawes. 

Morel attempted to move forward; the other man stepped in front of him. 

"Are yer goin' to take that top-coat off, " he said, "or are you goin' tolie down to it?"

Paul was afraid the man was mad. 

"But, " he said, "I don't know how to fight. "

"All right, then, " answered Dawes, and before the younger man knew wherehe was, he was staggering backwards from a blow across the face. 

The whole night went black. He tore off his overcoat and coat, dodginga blow, and flung the garments over Dawes. The latter swore savagely. Morel, in his shirt-sleeves, was now alert and furious. He felt hiswhole body unsheath itself like a claw. He could not fight, so he woulduse his wits. The other man became more distinct to him; he could seeparticularly the shirt-breast. Dawes stumbled over Paul's coats, thencame rushing forward. The young man's mouth was bleeding. It was theother man's mouth he was dying to get at, and the desire was anguishin its strength. He stepped quickly through the stile, and as Dawes wascoming through after him, like a flash he got a blow in over the other'smouth. He shivered with pleasure. Dawes advanced slowly, spitting. Paulwas afraid; he moved round to get to the stile again. Suddenly, fromout of nowhere, came a great blow against his ear, that sent him fallinghelpless backwards. He heard Dawes's heavy panting, like a wild beast's, then came a kick on the knee, giving him such agony that he got up and, quite blind, leapt clean under his enemy's guard. He felt blows andkicks, but they did not hurt. He hung on to the bigger man like a wildcat, till at last Dawes fell with a crash, losing his presence of mind. Paul went down with him. Pure instinct brought his hands to the man'sneck, and before Dawes, in frenzy and agony, could wrench him free, he had got his fists twisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug in thethroat of the other man. He was a pure instinct, without reason orfeeling. His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against thestruggling body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He wasquite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to kill thisother man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He laypressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itself to its onepure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactly at the rightmoment, with exactly the right amount of strength, the struggles ofthe other, silent, intent, unchanging, gradually pressing its knucklesdeeper, feeling the struggles of the other body become wilder andmore frenzied. Tighter and tighter grew his body, like a screw that isgradually increasing in pressure, till something breaks. 

Then suddenly he relaxed, full of wonder and misgiving. Dawes had beenyielding. Morel felt his body flame with pain, as he realised what hewas doing; he was all bewildered. Dawes's struggles suddenly renewedthemselves in a furious spasm. Paul's hands were wrenched, torn out ofthe scarf in which they were knotted, and he was flung away, helpless. He heard the horrid sound of the other's gasping, but he lay stunned;then, still dazed, he felt the blows of the other's feet, and lostconsciousness. 

Dawes, grunting with pain like a beast, was kicking the prostrate bodyof his rival. Suddenly the whistle of the train shrieked two fieldsaway. He turned round and glared suspiciously. What was coming? He sawthe lights of the train draw across his vision. It seemed to him peoplewere approaching. He made off across the field into Nottingham, anddimly in his consciousness as he went, he felt on his foot the placewhere his boot had knocked against one of the lad's bones. The knockseemed to re-echo inside him; he hurried to get away from it. 

Morel gradually came to himself. He knew where he was and what hadhappened, but he did not want to move. He lay still, with tiny bits ofsnow tickling his face. It was pleasant to lie quite, quite still. Thetime passed. It was the bits of snow that kept rousing him when he didnot want to be roused. At last his will clicked into action. 

"I mustn't lie here, " he said; "it's silly. "

But still he did not move. 

"I said I was going to get up, " he repeated. "Why don't I?"

And still it was some time before he had sufficiently pulled himselftogether to stir; then gradually he got up. Pain made him sick anddazed, but his brain was clear. Reeling, he groped for his coats and gotthem on, buttoning his overcoat up to his ears. It was some time beforehe found his cap. He did not know whether his face was still bleeding. Walking blindly, every step making him sick with pain, he went back tothe pond and washed his face and hands. The icy water hurt, but helpedto bring him back to himself. He crawled back up the hill to the tram. He wanted to get to his mother--he must get to his mother--that was hisblind intention. He covered his face as much as he could, and struggledsickly along. Continually the ground seemed to fall away from him ashe walked, and he felt himself dropping with a sickening feeling intospace; so, like a nightmare, he got through with the journey home. 

Everybody was in bed. He looked at himself. His face was discolouredand smeared with blood, almost like a dead man's face. He washed it, andwent to bed. The night went by in delirium. In the morning he found hismother looking at him. Her blue eyes--they were all he wanted to see. She was there; he was in her hands. 

"It's not much, mother, " he said. "It was Baxter Dawes. "

"Tell me where it hurts you, " she said quietly. 

"I don't know--my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother. "

He could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant, cameupstairs with some tea. 

"Your mother's nearly frightened me out of my wits--fainted away, " shesaid. 

He felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he told her aboutit. 

"And now I should have done with them all, " she said quietly. 

"I will, mother. "

She covered him up. 

"And don't think about it, " she said--"only try to go to sleep. Thedoctor won't be here till eleven. "

He had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bronchitis setin. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She would sit andlook at him, then away into space. There was something between them thatneither dared mention. Clara came to see him. Afterwards he said to hismother:

"She makes me tired, mother. "

"Yes; I wish she wouldn't come, " Mrs. Morel replied. 

Another day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a stranger to him. 

"You know, I don't care about them, mother, " he said. 

"I'm afraid you don't, my son, " she replied sadly. 

It was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon hewas able to go to work again, but now there was a constant sickness andgnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, as it were, nobody there. He could not work. He and his mother seemed almost toavoid each other. There was some secret between them which they couldnot bear. He was not aware of it. He only knew that his life seemedunbalanced, as if it were going to smash into pieces. 

Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised that heseemed unaware of her. Even when he came to her he seemed unaware ofher; always he was somewhere else. She felt she was clutching for him, and he was somewhere else. It tortured her, and so she tortured him. Fora month at a time she kept him at arm's length. He almost hated her, andwas driven to her in spite of himself. He went mostly into the companyof men, was always at the George or the White Horse. His mother was ill, distant, quiet, shadowy. He was terrified of something; he dared notlook at her. Her eyes seemed to grow darker, her face more waxen; stillshe dragged about at her work. 

At Whitsuntide he said he would go to Blackpool for four days with hisfriend Newton. The latter was a big, jolly fellow, with a touch of thebounder about him. Paul said his mother must go to Sheffield to stay aweek with Annie, who lived there. Perhaps the change would do her good. Mrs. Morel was attending a woman's doctor in Nottingham. He said herheart and her digestion were wrong. She consented to go to Sheffield, though she did not want to; but now she would do everything her sonwished of her. Paul said he would come for her on the fifth day, andstay also in Sheffield till the holiday was up. It was agreed. 

The two young men set off gaily for Blackpool. Mrs. Morel was quitelively as Paul kissed her and left her. Once at the station, he forgoteverything. Four days were clear--not an anxiety, not a thought. The twoyoung men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was like another man. None ofhimself remained--no Clara, no Miriam, no mother that fretted him. Hewrote to them all, and long letters to his mother; but they were jollyletters that made her laugh. He was having a good time, as young fellowswill in a place like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadow forher. 

Paul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with his mother inSheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their train was late. Joking, laughing, with their pipes between their teeth, the young menswung their bags on to the tram-car. Paul had bought his mother a littlecollar of real lace that he wanted to see her wear, so that he couldtease her about it. 

Annie lived in a nice house, and had a little maid. Paul ran gaily upthe steps. He expected his mother laughing in the hall, but it wasAnnie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He stood a second indismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek. 

"Is my mother ill?" he said. 

"Yes; she's not very well. Don't upset her. "

"Is she in bed?"

"Yes. "

And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine hadgone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag and ranupstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat up in bed, wearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked at him almost asif she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashylook about her. 

"Mother!" he said. 

"I thought you were never coming, " she answered gaily. 

But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face in thebedclothes, crying in agony, and saying:

"Mother--mother--mother!"

She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand. 

"Don't cry, " she said. "Don't cry--it's nothing. "

But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried interror and pain. 

"Don't--don't cry, " his mother faltered. 

Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, and thetears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, but he darednot lift his face out of the bedclothes. 

"You ARE late. Where have you been?" his mother asked. 

"The train was late, " he replied, muffled in the sheet. 

"Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?"

"Yes. "

"I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting. "

With a wrench he looked up at her. 

"What is it, mother?" he asked brutally. 

She averted her eyes as she answered:

"Only a bit of a tumour, my boy. You needn't trouble. It's beenthere--the lump has--a long time. "

Up came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard, but his body wascrying. 

"Where?" he said. 

She put her hand on her side. 

"Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away. "

He stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thought perhaps itwas as she said. Yes; he reassured himself it was so. But all the whilehis blood and his body knew definitely what it was. He sat down onthe bed, and took her hand. She had never had but the one ring--herwedding-ring. 

"When were you poorly?" he asked. 

"It was yesterday it began, " she answered submissively. 

"Pains?"

"Yes; but not more than I've often had at home. I believe Dr. Ansell isan alarmist. "

"You ought not to have travelled alone, " he said, to himself more thanto her. 

"As if that had anything to do with it!" she answered quickly. 

They were silent for a while. 

"Now go and have your dinner, " she said. "You MUST be hungry. "

"Have you had yours?"

"Yes; a beautiful sole I had. Annie IS good to me. "

They talked a little while, then he went downstairs. He was very whiteand strained. Newton sat in miserable sympathy. 

After dinner he went into the scullery to help Annie to wash up. Thelittle maid had gone on an errand. 

"Is it really a tumour?" he asked. 

Annie began to cry again. 

"The pain she had yesterday--I never saw anybody suffer like it!" shecried. "Leonard ran like a madman for Dr. Ansell, and when she'd got tobed she said to me: 'Annie, look at this lump on my side. I wonder whatit is?' And there I looked, and I thought I should have dropped. Paul, as true as I'm here, it's a lump as big as my double fist. I said: 'Goodgracious, mother, whenever did that come?' 'Why, child, ' she said, 'it'sbeen there a long time. ' I thought I should have died, our Paul, I did. She's been having these pains for months at home, and nobody lookingafter her. "

The tears came to his eyes, then dried suddenly. 

"But she's been attending the doctor in Nottingham--and she never toldme, " he said. 

"If I'd have been at home, " said Annie, "I should have seen for myself. "

He felt like a man walking in unrealities. In the afternoon he went tosee the doctor. The latter was a shrewd, lovable man. 

"But what is it?" he said. 

The doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers. 

"It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane, " he saidslowly, "and which we MAY be able to make go away. "

"Can't you operate?" asked Paul. 

"Not there, " replied the doctor. 

"Are you sure?"

"QUITE!"

Paul meditated a while. 

"Are you sure it's a tumour?" he asked. "Why did Dr. Jameson inNottingham never find out anything about it? She's been going to him forweeks, and he's treated her for heart and indigestion. "

"Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump, " said the doctor. 

"And do you KNOW it's a tumour?"

"No, I am not sure. "

"What else MIGHT it be? You asked my sister if there was cancer in thefamily. Might it be cancer?"

"I don't know. "

"And what shall you do?"

"I should like an examination, with Dr. Jameson. "

"Then have one. "

"You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn't be less than ten guineasto come here from Nottingham. "

"When would you like him to come?"

"I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over. "

Paul went away, biting his lip. 

His mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her son wentupstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressing-gown that Leonardhad given Annie, and, with a little colour in her face, was quite youngagain. 

"But you look quite pretty in that, " he said. 

"Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself, " she answered. 

But when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped her, half-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He lifted herup and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the couch. She waslight and frail. Her face looked as if she were dead, with blue lipsshut tight. Her eyes opened--her blue, unfailing eyes--and she looked athim pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive her. He held brandy toher lips, but her mouth would not open. All the time she watched himlovingly. She was only sorry for him. The tears ran down his facewithout ceasing, but not a muscle moved. He was intent on gettinga little brandy between her lips. Soon she was able to swallow ateaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. The tears continued to run down hisface. 

"But, " she panted, "it'll go off. Don't cry!"

"I'm not doing, " he said. 

After a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the couch. They looked into each other's eyes. 

"I don't want you to make a trouble of it, " she said. 

"No, mother. You'll have to be quite still, and then you'll get bettersoon. "

But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at eachother understood. Her eyes were so blue--such a wonderful forget-me-notblue! He felt if only they had been of a different colour he could haveborne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping slowly in his breast. Hekneeled there, holding her hand, and neither said anything. Then Anniecame in. 

"Are you all right?" she murmured timidly to her mother. 

"Of course, " said Mrs. Morel. 

Paul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious. 

A day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham, to arrangefor a consultation. Paul had practically no money in the world. But hecould borrow. 

His mother had been used to go to the public consultation on Saturdaymorning, when she could see the doctor for only a nominal sum. Her sonwent on the same day. The waiting-room was full of poor women, who satpatiently on a bench around the wall. Paul thought of his mother, in herlittle black costume, sitting waiting likewise. The doctor was late. Thewomen all looked rather frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendanceif he could see the doctor immediately he came. It was arranged so. Thewomen sitting patiently round the walls of the room eyed the young mancuriously. 

At last the doctor came. He was about forty, good-looking, brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he, who had loved her, hadspecialised on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his mother's. The doctor did not remember. 

"Number forty-six M. , " said the nurse; and the doctor looked up the casein his book. 

"There is a big lump that may be a tumour, " said Paul. "But Dr. Ansellwas going to write you a letter. "

"Ah, yes!" replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. Hewas very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Sheffield thenext day. 

"What is your father?" he asked. 

"He is a coal-miner, " replied Paul. 

"Not very well off, I suppose?"

"This--I see after this, " said Paul. 

"And you?" smiled the doctor. 

"I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory. "

The doctor smiled at him. 

"Er--to go to Sheffield!" he said, putting the tips of his fingerstogether, and smiling with his eyes. "Eight guineas?"

"Thank you!" said Paul, flushing and rising. "And you'll cometo-morrow?"

"To-morrow--Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time there is atrain in the afternoon?"

"There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen. "

"And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have towalk?" The doctor smiled. 

"There is the tram, " said Paul; "the Western Park tram. "

The doctor made a note of it. 

"Thank you!" he said, and shook hands. 

Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the charge ofMinnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him diggingin the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with hisfather. 

"Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?" said the father. 

"Yes, " replied the son. "But I'm going back to-night. "

"Are ter, beguy!" exclaimed the collier. "An' has ter eaten owt?"

"No. "

"That's just like thee, " said Morel. "Come thy ways in. "

The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The two went indoors. Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands, and sleeves rolledup, sat in the arm-chair opposite and looked at him. 

"Well, an' how is she?" asked the miner at length, in a little voice. 

"She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea, " said Paul. 

"That's a blessin'!" exclaimed Morel. "I hope we s'll soon be havin' herwhoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?"

"He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her. "

"Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!"

"Eight guineas. "

"Eight guineas!" the miner spoke breathlessly. "Well, we mun find itfrom somewhere. "

"I can pay that, " said Paul. 

There was silence between them for some time. 

"She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie, " Paul said. 

"Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was, " answered Morel. "ButMinnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!" He sat looking dismal. 

"I s'll have to be going at half-past three, " said Paul. 

"It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dost think she'llbe able to get as far as this?"

"We must see what the doctors say to-morrow, " Paul said. 

Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and Paul thoughthis father looked lost, forlorn, and old. 

"You'll have to go and see her next week, father, " he said. 

"I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time, " said Morel. 

"If she's not, " said Paul, "then you must come. "

"I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money, " said Morel. 

"And I'll write to you what the doctor says, " said Paul. 

"But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out, " said Morel. 

"Well, I'll write plain. "

It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do morethan write his own name. 

The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. Theexamination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard werewaiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced atthem. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself. 

"It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see, " said Dr. Jameson. 

"And if it is, " said Annie, "can you sweal it away?"

"Probably, " said the doctor. 

Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctorcounted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down. 

"Thank you!" he said. "I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must seewhat we can do. "

"There can't be an operation?" said Paul. 

The doctor shook his head. 

"No, " he said; "and even if there could, her heart wouldn't stand it. "

"Is her heart risky?" asked Paul. 

"Yes; you must be careful with her. "

"Very risky?"

"No--er--no, no! Just take care. "

And the doctor was gone. 

Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply, like achild. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms round his neck, clinging. 

"I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs, " she said. 

And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do it another time. Hefelt he could not carry her. 

"He thinks it's only a tumour!" cried Annie to her mother. "And he cansweal it away. "

"I KNEW he could, " protested Mrs. Morel scornfully. 

She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He satin the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ash off hiscoat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It wasso long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. Thelong grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness of the chimney. 

The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very earlyin the morning, and they were alone. 

"You won't fret, my boy!" she said. 

"No, mother. "

"No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself. "

"Yes, " he answered. Then, after a while: "And I shall come nextSaturday, and shall bring my father?"

"I suppose he wants to come, " she replied. "At any rate, if he doesyou'll have to let him. "

He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gently, tenderly, as if she were a lover. 

"Shan't you be late?" she murmured. 

"I'm going, " he said, very low. 

Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hair from hertemples. 

"And you won't be any worse, mother?"

"No, my son. "

"You promise me?"

"Yes; I won't be any worse. "

He kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. In theearly sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way; hedid not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and staring as shethought of him. 

In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They sat in the little woodwhere bluebells were standing. He took her hand. 

"You'll see, " he said to Clara, "she'll never be better. "

"Oh, you don't know!" replied the other. 

"I do, " he said. 

She caught him impulsively to her breast. 

"Try and forget it, dear, " she said; "try and forget it. "

"I will, " he answered. 

Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. It wascomforting, and he held his arms round her. But he did not forget. Heonly talked to Clara of something else. And it was always so. When shefelt it coming, the agony, she cried to him:

"Don't think of it, Paul! Don't think of it, my darling!"

And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed him like achild. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take it up againimmediately he was alone. All the time, as he went about, he criedmechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried, he did not knowwhy. It was his blood weeping. He was just as much alone whether he waswith Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and thispressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read sometimes. Hehad to keep his mind occupied. And Clara was a way of occupying hismind. 

On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was a forlorn figure, looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs. 

"My father's come, " he said, kissing his mother. 

"Has he?" she answered wearily. 

The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom. 

"How dun I find thee, lass?" he said, going forward and kissing her in ahasty, timid fashion. 

"Well, I'm middlin', " she replied. 

"I see tha art, " he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wipedhis eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as if nobody owned him, helooked. 

"Have you gone on all right?" asked the wife, rather wearily, as if itwere an effort to talk to him. 

"Yis, " he answered. "'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, as yer mightexpect. "

"Does she have your dinner ready?" asked Mrs. Morel. 

"Well, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice, " he said. 

"And you MUST shout at her if she's not ready. She WILL leave things tothe last minute. "

She gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her as if she werealmost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkward and humble, andalso as if he had lost his presence of mind, and wanted to run. Thisfeeling that he wanted to run away, that he was on thorns to be gonefrom so trying a situation, and yet must linger because it lookedbetter, made his presence so trying. He put up his eyebrows for misery, and clenched his fists on his knees, feeling so awkward in presence ofbig trouble. 

Mrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed in Sheffield for two months. If anything, at the end she was rather worse. But she wanted to go home. Annie had her children. Mrs. Morel wanted to go home. So they got amotor-car from Nottingham--for she was too ill to go by train--and shewas driven through the sunshine. It was just August; everything wasbright and warm. Under the blue sky they could all see she was dying. Yet she was jollier than she had been for weeks. They all laughed andtalked. 

"Annie, " she exclaimed, "I saw a lizard dart on that rock!"

Her eyes were so quick; she was still so full of life. 

Morel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. Everybody was ontiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heard the sound of the greatmotor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove home down the street. 

"And just look at them all come out to see me!" she said. "But there, I suppose I should have done the same. How do you do, Mrs. Mathews? Howare you, Mrs. Harrison?"

They none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. Andthey all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great event in thestreet. 

Morel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur took heras if she were a child. They had set her a big, deep chair by thehearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she was unwrapped andseated, and had drunk a little brandy, she looked round the room. 

"Don't think I don't like your house, Annie, " she said; "but it's niceto be in my own home again. "

And Morel answered huskily:

"It is, lass, it is. "

And Minnie, the little quaint maid, said:

"An' we glad t' 'ave yer. "

There was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. She lookedout of the window. 

"There are my sunflowers!" she said. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE RELEASE

"By the way, " said Dr. Ansell one evening when Morel was inSheffield, "we've got a man in the fever hospital here who comes fromNottingham--Dawes. He doesn't seem to have many belongings in thisworld. "

"Baxter Dawes!" Paul exclaimed. 

"That's the man--has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think. Been in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?"

"He used to work at the place where I am. "

"Did he? Do you know anything about him? He's just sulking, or he'd be alot better than he is by now. "

"I don't know anything of his home circumstances, except that he'sseparated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell himabout me, will you? Tell him I'll come and see him. "

The next time Morel saw the doctor he said:

"And what about Dawes?"

"I said to him, " answered the other, "'Do you know a man from Nottinghamnamed Morel?' and he looked at me as if he'd jump at my throat. So Isaid: 'I see you know the name; it's Paul Morel. ' Then I told him aboutyour saying you would go and see him. 'What does he want?' he said, asif you were a policeman. "

"And did he say he would see me?" asked Paul. 

"He wouldn't say anything--good, bad or indifferent, " replied thedoctor. 

"Why not?"

"That's what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in, day out. Can't get a word of information out of him. "

"Do you think I might go?" asked Paul. 

"You might. "

There was a feeling of connection between the rival men, more than eversince they had fought. In a way Morel felt guilty towards the other, andmore or less responsible. And being in such a state of soul himself, he felt an almost painful nearness to Dawes, who was suffering anddespairing, too. Besides, they had met in a naked extremity of hate, andit was a bond. At any rate, the elemental man in each had met. 

He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. Ansell's card. Thissister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him down the ward. 

"A visitor to see you, Jim Crow, " she said. 

Dawes turned over suddenly with a startled grunt. 

"Eh?"

"Caw!" she mocked. "He can only say 'Caw!' I have brought you agentleman to see you. Now say 'Thank you, ' and show some manners. "

Dawes looked swiftly with his dark, startled eyes beyond the sister atPaul. His look was full of fear, mistrust, hate, and misery. Morel metthe swift, dark eyes, and hesitated. The two men were afraid of thenaked selves they had been. 

"Dr. Ansell told me you were here, " said Morel, holding out his hand. 

Dawes mechanically shook hands. 

"So I thought I'd come in, " continued Paul. 

There was no answer. Dawes lay staring at the opposite wall. 

"Say 'Caw!"' mocked the nurse. "Say 'Caw!' Jim Crow. "

"He is getting on all right?" said Paul to her. 

"Oh yes! He lies and imagines he's going to die, " said the nurse, "andit frightens every word out of his mouth. "

"And you MUST have somebody to talk to, " laughed Morel. 

"That's it!" laughed the nurse. "Only two old men and a boy who alwayscries. It is hard lines! Here am I dying to hear Jim Crow's voice, andnothing but an odd 'Caw!' will he give!"

"So rough on you!" said Morel. 

"Isn't it?" said the nurse. 

"I suppose I am a godsend, " he laughed. 

"Oh, dropped straight from heaven!" laughed the nurse. 

Presently she left the two men alone. Dawes was thinner, and handsomeagain, but life seemed low in him. As the doctor said, he was lyingsulking, and would not move forward towards convalescence. He seemed togrudge every beat of his heart. 

"Have you had a bad time?" asked Paul. 

Suddenly again Dawes looked at him. 

"What are you doing in Sheffield?" he asked. 

"My mother was taken ill at my sister's in Thurston Street. What are youdoing here?"

There was no answer. 

"How long have you been in?" Morel asked. 

"I couldn't say for sure, " Dawes answered grudgingly. 

He lay staring across at the wall opposite, as if trying to believeMorel was not there. Paul felt his heart go hard and angry. 

"Dr. Ansell told me you were here, " he said coldly. 

The other man did not answer. 

"Typhoid's pretty bad, I know, " Morel persisted. 

Suddenly Dawes said:

"What did you come for?"

"Because Dr. Ansell said you didn't know anybody here. Do you?"

"I know nobody nowhere, " said Dawes. 

"Well, " said Paul, "it's because you don't choose to, then. "

There was another silence. 

"We s'll be taking my mother home as soon as we can, " said Paul. 

"What's a-matter with her?" asked Dawes, with a sick man's interest inillness. 

"She's got a cancer. "

There was another silence. 

"But we want to get her home, " said Paul. "We s'll have to get amotor-car. "

Dawes lay thinking. 

"Why don't you ask Thomas Jordan to lend you his?" said Dawes. 

"It's not big enough, " Morel answered. 

Dawes blinked his dark eyes as he lay thinking. 

"Then ask Jack Pilkington; he'd lend it you. You know him. "

"I think I s'll hire one, " said Paul. 

"You're a fool if you do, " said Dawes. 

The sick man was gaunt and handsome again. Paul was sorry for himbecause his eyes looked so tired. 

"Did you get a job here?" he asked. 

"I was only here a day or two before I was taken bad, " Dawes replied. 

"You want to get in a convalescent home, " said Paul. 

The other's face clouded again. 

"I'm goin' in no convalescent home, " he said. 

"My father's been in the one at Seathorpe, an' he liked it. Dr. Ansellwould get you a recommend. "

Dawes lay thinking. It was evident he dared not face the world again. 

"The seaside would be all right just now, " Morel said. "Sun on thosesandhills, and the waves not far out. "

The other did not answer. 

"By Gad!" Paul concluded, too miserable to bother much; "it's all rightwhen you know you're going to walk again, and swim!"

Dawes glanced at him quickly. The man's dark eyes were afraid to meetany other eyes in the world. But the real misery and helplessness inPaul's tone gave him a feeling of relief. 

"Is she far gone?" he asked. 

"She's going like wax, " Paul answered; "but cheerful--lively!"

He bit his lip. After a minute he rose. 

"Well, I'll be going, " he said. "I'll leave you this half-crown. "

"I don't want it, " Dawes muttered. 

Morel did not answer, but left the coin on the table. 

"Well, " he said, "I'll try and run in when I'm back in Sheffield. Happenyou might like to see my brother-in-law? He works in Pyecrofts. "

"I don't know him, " said Dawes. 

"He's all right. Should I tell him to come? He might bring you somepapers to look at. "

The other man did not answer. Paul went. The strong emotion that Dawesaroused in him, repressed, made him shiver. 

He did not tell his mother, but next day he spoke to Clara about thisinterview. It was in the dinner-hour. The two did not often go outtogether now, but this day he asked her to go with him to the Castlegrounds. There they sat while the scarlet geraniums and the yellowcalceolarias blazed in the sunlight. She was now always ratherprotective, and rather resentful towards him. 

"Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?" he asked. 

She looked at him with startled grey eyes, and her face went pale. 

"No, " she said, frightened. 

"He's getting better. I went to see him yesterday--the doctor told me. "

Clara seemed stricken by the news. 

"Is he very bad?" she asked guiltily. 

"He has been. He's mending now. "

"What did he say to you?"

"Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking. "

There was a distance between the two of them. He gave her moreinformation. 

She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walktogether, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distancefrom him. He was wanting her comfort badly. 

"Won't you be nice with me?" he asked. 

She did not answer. 

"What's the matter?" he said, putting his arm across her shoulder. 

"Don't!" she said, disengaging herself. 

He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding. 

"Is it Baxter that upsets you?" he asked at length. 

"I HAVE been VILE to him!" she said. 

"I've said many a time you haven't treated him well, " he replied. 

And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train ofthought. 

"I've treated him--no, I've treated him badly, " she said. "And now youtreat ME badly. It serves me right. "

"How do I treat you badly?" he said. 

"It serves me right, " she repeated. "I never considered him worthhaving, and now you don't consider ME. But it serves me right. He lovedme a thousand times better than you ever did. "

"He didn't!" protested Paul. 

"He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that's what you don't do. "

"It looked as if he respected you!" he said. 

"He did! And I MADE him horrid--I know I did! You've taught me that. Andhe loved me a thousand times better than ever you do. "

"All right, " said Paul. 

He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which wasalmost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. Hewas not sorry when he left her. 

She went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. Themeeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money. She wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As shelooked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only shewanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now tobe self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel reallylove her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So shekneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distancebetween them was still very great--too great. It frightened the man. Italmost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him acrossan insuperable distance. She was proud now. 

Morel went to see Dawes once or twice. There was a sort of friendshipbetween the two men, who were all the while deadly rivals. But theynever mentioned the woman who was between them. 

Mrs. Morel got gradually worse. At first they used to carry herdownstairs, sometimes even into the garden. She sat propped in herchair, smiling, and so pretty. The gold wedding-ring shone on herwhite hand; her hair was carefully brushed. And she watched the tangledsunflowers dying, the chrysanthemums coming out, and the dahlias. 

Paul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that shewas dying. But they kept up a pretence of cheerfulness. Every morning, when he got up, he went into her room in his pyjamas. 

"Did you sleep, my dear?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she answered. 

"Not very well?"

"Well, yes!"

Then he knew she had lain awake. He saw her hand under the bedclothes, pressing the place on her side where the pain was. 

"Has it been bad?" he asked. 

"No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention. "

And she sniffed in her old scornful way. As she lay she looked like agirl. And all the while her blue eyes watched him. But there were thedark pain-circles beneath that made him ache again. 

"It's a sunny day, " he said. 

"It's a beautiful day. "

"Do you think you'll be carried down?"

"I shall see. "

Then he went away to get her breakfast. All day long he was conscious ofnothing but her. It was a long ache that made him feverish. Then, whenhe got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window. She was not there; she had not got up. 

He ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask:

"Didn't you get up, pigeon?"

"No, " she said, "it was that morphia; it made me tired. "

"I think he gives you too much, " he said. 

"I think he does, " she answered. 

He sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying onher side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear. 

"Doesn't it tickle you?" he said, gently putting it back. 

"It does, " she replied. 

His face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like agirl's--warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror, agony, and love. 

"You want your hair doing in a plait, " he said. "Lie still. "

And going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. Itwas like fine long silk of brown and grey. Her head was snuggled betweenher shoulders. As he lightly brushed and plaited her hair, he bit hislip and felt dazed. It all seemed unreal, he could not understand it. 

At night he often worked in her room, looking up from time to time. Andso often he found her blue eyes fixed on him. And when their eyes met, she smiled. He worked away again mechanically, producing good stuffwithout knowing what he was doing. 

Sometimes he came in, very pale and still, with watchful, sudden eyes, like a man who is drunk almost to death. They were both afraid of theveils that were ripping between them. 

Then she pretended to be better, chattered to him gaily, made a greatfuss over some scraps of news. For they had both come to the conditionwhen they had to make much of the trifles, lest they should give in tothe big thing, and their human independence would go smash. They wereafraid, so they made light of things and were gay. 

Sometimes as she lay he knew she was thinking of the past. Her mouthgradually shut hard in a line. She was holding herself rigid, so thatshe might die without ever uttering the great cry that was tearing fromher. He never forgot that hard, utterly lonely and stubborn clenchingof her mouth, which persisted for weeks. Sometimes, when it was lighter, she talked about her husband. Now she hated him. She did not forgivehim. She could not bear him to be in the room. And a few things, thethings that had been most bitter to her, came up again so strongly thatthey broke from her, and she told her son. 

He felt as if his life were being destroyed, piece by piece, within him. Often the tears came suddenly. He ran to the station, the tear-dropsfalling on the pavement. Often he could not go on with his work. Thepen stopped writing. He sat staring, quite unconscious. And when he cameround again he felt sick, and trembled in his limbs. He never questionedwhat it was. His mind did not try to analyse or understand. He merelysubmitted, and kept his eyes shut; let the thing go over him. 

His mother did the same. She thought of the pain, of the morphia, of thenext day; hardly ever of the death. That was coming, she knew. She hadto submit to it. But she would never entreat it or make friends withit. Blind, with her face shut hard and blind, she was pushed towards thedoor. The days passed, the weeks, the months. 

Sometimes, in the sunny afternoons, she seemed almost happy. 

"I try to think of the nice times--when we went to Mablethorpe, andRobin Hood's Bay, and Shanklin, " she said. "After all, not everybody hasseen those beautiful places. And wasn't it beautiful! I try to think ofthat, not of the other things. "

Then, again, for a whole evening she spoke not a word; neither did he. They were together, rigid, stubborn, silent. He went into his roomat last to go to bed, and leaned against the doorway as if paralysed, unable to go any farther. His consciousness went. A furious storm, heknew not what, seemed to ravage inside him. He stood leaning there, submitting, never questioning. 

In the morning they were both normal again, though her face was greywith the morphia, and her body felt like ash. But they were brightagain, nevertheless. Often, especially if Annie or Arthur were at home, he neglected her. He did not see much of Clara. Usually he was withmen. He was quick and active and lively; but when his friends saw himgo white to the gills, his eyes dark and glittering, they had a certainmistrust of him. Sometimes he went to Clara, but she was almost cold tohim. 

"Take me!" he said simply. 

Occasionally she would. But she was afraid. When he had her then, there was something in it that made her shrink away from him--somethingunnatural. She grew to dread him. He was so quiet, yet so strange. Shewas afraid of the man who was not there with her, whom she could feelbehind this make-belief lover; somebody sinister, that filled her withhorror. She began to have a kind of horror of him. It was almost as ifhe were a criminal. He wanted her--he had her--and it made her feel asif death itself had her in its grip. She lay in horror. There was noman there loving her. She almost hated him. Then came little bouts oftenderness. But she dared not pity him. 

Dawes had come to Colonel Seely's Home near Nottingham. There Paulvisited him sometimes, Clara very occasionally. Between the two menthe friendship developed peculiarly. Dawes, who mended very slowly andseemed very feeble, seemed to leave himself in the hands of Morel. 

In the beginning of November Clara reminded Paul that it was herbirthday. 

"I'd nearly forgotten, " he said. 

"I'd thought quite, " she replied. 

"No. Shall we go to the seaside for the week-end?"

They went. It was cold and rather dismal. She waited for him to be warmand tender with her, instead of which he seemed hardly aware of her. He sat in the railway-carriage, looking out, and was startled when shespoke to him. He was not definitely thinking. Things seemed as if theydid not exist. She went across to him. 

"What is it dear?" she asked. 

"Nothing!" he said. "Don't those windmill sails look monotonous?"

He sat holding her hand. He could not talk nor think. It was a comfort, however, to sit holding her hand. She was dissatisfied and miserable. Hewas not with her; she was nothing. 

And in the evening they sat among the sandhills, looking at the black, heavy sea. 

"She will never give in, " he said quietly. 

Clara's heart sank. 

"No, " she replied. 

"There are different ways of dying. My father's people are frightened, and have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into aslaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother's people are pushedfrom behind, inch by inch. They are stubborn people, and won't die. "

"Yes, " said Clara. 

"And she won't die. She can't. Mr. Renshaw, the parson, was in the otherday. 'Think!' he said to her; 'you will have your mother and father, andyour sisters, and your son, in the Other Land. ' And she said: 'I havedone without them for a long time, and CAN do without them now. It isthe living I want, not the dead. ' She wants to live even now. "

"Oh, how horrible!" said Clara, too frightened to speak. 

"And she looks at me, and she wants to stay with me, " he went onmonotonously. "She's got such a will, it seems as if she would nevergo--never!"

"Don't think of it!" cried Clara. 

"And she was religious--she is religious now--but it is no good. Shesimply won't give in. And do you know, I said to her on Thursday:'Mother, if I had to die, I'd die. I'd WILL to die. ' And she said tome, sharp: 'Do you think I haven't? Do you think you can die when youlike?'"

His voice ceased. He did not cry, only went on speaking monotonously. Clara wanted to run. She looked round. There was the black, re-echoingshore, the dark sky down on her. She got up terrified. She wanted to bewhere there was light, where there were other people. She wanted to beaway from him. He sat with his head dropped, not moving a muscle. 

"And I don't want her to eat, " he said, "and she knows it. When I askher: 'Shall you have anything' she's almost afraid to say 'Yes. ' 'I'llhave a cup of Benger's, ' she says. 'It'll only keep your strength up, 'I said to her. 'Yes'--and she almost cried--'but there's such a gnawingwhen I eat nothing, I can't bear it. ' So I went and made her the food. It's the cancer that gnaws like that at her. I wish she'd die!"

"Come!" said Clara roughly. "I'm going. "

He followed her down the darkness of the sands. He did not come to her. He seemed scarcely aware of her existence. And she was afraid of him, and disliked him. 

In the same acute daze they went back to Nottingham. He was alwaysbusy, always doing something, always going from one to the other of hisfriends. 

On the Monday he went to see Baxter Dawes. Listless and pale, the manrose to greet the other, clinging to his chair as he held out his hand. 

"You shouldn't get up, " said Paul. 

Dawes sat down heavily, eyeing Morel with a sort of suspicion. 

"Don't you waste your time on me, " he said, "if you've owt better todo. "

"I wanted to come, " said Paul. "Here! I brought you some sweets. "

The invalid put them aside. 

"It's not been much of a week-end, " said Morel. 

"How's your mother?" asked the other. 

"Hardly any different. "

"I thought she was perhaps worse, being as you didn't come on Sunday. "

"I was at Skegness, " said Paul. "I wanted a change. "

The other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be waiting, notquite daring to ask, trusting to be told. 

"I went with Clara, " said Paul. 

"I knew as much, " said Dawes quietly. 

"It was an old promise, " said Paul. 

"You have it your own way, " said Dawes. 

This was the first time Clara had been definitely mentioned betweenthem. 

"Nay, " said Morel slowly; "she's tired of me. "

Again Dawes looked at him. 

"Since August she's been getting tired of me, " Morel repeated. 

The two men were very quiet together. Paul suggested a game of draughts. They played in silence. 

"I s'll go abroad when my mother's dead, " said Paul. 

"Abroad!" repeated Dawes. 

"Yes; I don't care what I do. "

They continued the game. Dawes was winning. 

"I s'll have to begin a new start of some sort, " said Paul; "and you aswell, I suppose. "

He took one of Dawes's pieces. 

"I dunno where, " said the other. 

"Things have to happen, " Morel said. "It's no good doing anything--atleast--no, I don't know. Give me some toffee. "

The two men ate sweets, and began another game of draughts. 

"What made that scar on your mouth?" asked Dawes. 

Paul put his hand hastily to his lips, and looked over the garden. 

"I had a bicycle accident, " he said. 

Dawes's hand trembled as he moved the piece. 

"You shouldn't ha' laughed at me, " he said, very low. 

"When?"

"That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me--you withyour hand on her shoulder. "

"I never laughed at you, " said Paul. 

Dawes kept his fingers on the draught-piece. 

"I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed, " saidMorel. 

"It was that as did me, " Dawes said, very low. 

Paul took another sweet. 

"I never laughed, " he said, "except as I'm always laughing. "

They finished the game. 

That night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have somethingto do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the blackclouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles ofhighroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the blacklevels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick-room. If he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to. 

He was not tired when he got near home, or He did not know it. Acrossthe field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window. 

"When she's dead, " he said to himself, "that fire will go out. "

He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mothers door waswide open, because she slept alone still. The red firelight dashed itsglow on the landing. Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway. 

"Paul!" she murmured. 

His heart seemed to break again. He went in and sat by the bed. 

"How late you are!" she murmured. 

"Not very, " he said. 

"Why, what time is it?" The murmur came plaintive and helpless. 

"It's only just gone eleven. "

That was not true; it was nearly one o'clock. 

"Oh!" she said; "I thought it was later. "

And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go. 

"Can't you sleep, my pigeon?" he said. 

"No, I can't, " she wailed. 

"Never mind, Little!" He said crooning. "Never mind, my love. I'll stopwith you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better. "

And he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her browswith his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding herfingers in his free hand. They could hear the sleepers' breathing in theother rooms. 

"Now go to bed, " she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers andhis love. 

"Will you sleep?" he asked. 

"Yes, I think so. "

"You feel better, my Little, don't you?"

"Yes, " she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child. 

Still the days and the weeks went by. He hardly ever went to see Claranow. But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for somehelp, and there was none anywhere. Miriam had written to him tenderly. He went to see her. Her heart was very sore when she saw him, white, gaunt, with his eyes dark and bewildered. Her pity came up, hurting hertill she could not bear it. 

"How is she?" she asked. 

"The same--the same!" he said. "The doctor says she can't last, but Iknow she will. She'll be here at Christmas. "

Miriam shuddered. She drew him to her; she pressed him to her bosom; shekissed him and kissed him. He submitted, but it was torture. She couldnot kiss his agony. That remained alone and apart. She kissed his face, and roused his blood, while his soul was apart writhing with the agonyof death. And she kissed him and fingered his body, till at last, feeling he would go mad, he got away from her. It was not what he wantedjust then--not that. And she thought she had soothed him and done himgood. 

December came, and some snow. He stayed at home all the while now. They could not afford a nurse. Annie came to look after her mother; theparish nurse, whom they loved, came in morning and evening. Paul sharedthe nursing with Annie. Often, in the evenings, when friends were in thekitchen with them, they all laughed together and shook with laughter. Itwas reaction. Paul was so comical, Annie was so quaint. The whole partylaughed till they cried, trying to subdue the sound. And Mrs. Morel, lying alone in the darkness heard them, and among her bitterness was afeeling of relief. 

Then Paul would go upstairs gingerly, guiltily, to see if she had heard. 

"Shall I give you some milk?" he asked. 

"A little, " she replied plaintively. 

And he would put some water with it, so that it should not nourish her. Yet he loved her more than his own life. 

She had morphia every night, and her heart got fitful. Annie sleptbeside her. Paul would go in in the early morning, when his sistergot up. His mother was wasted and almost ashen in the morning with themorphia. Darker and darker grew her eyes, all pupil, with the torture. In the mornings the weariness and ache were too much to bear. Yet shecould not--would not--weep, or even complain much. 

"You slept a bit later this morning, little one, " he would say to her. 

"Did I?" she answered, with fretful weariness. 

"Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock. "

He stood looking out of the window. The whole country was bleak andpallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse. There was a strong strokeand a weak one, like a sound and its echo. That was supposed to betokenthe end. She let him feel her wrist, knowing what he wanted. 

Sometimes they looked in each other's eyes. Then they almost seemed tomake an agreement. It was almost as if he were agreeing to die also. But she did not consent to die; she would not. Her body was wasted to afragment of ash. Her eyes were dark and full of torture. 

"Can't you give her something to put an end to it?" he asked the doctorat last. 

But the doctor shook his head. 

"She can't last many days now, Mr. Morel, " he said. 

Paul went indoors. 

"I can't bear it much longer; we shall all go mad, " said Annie. 

The two sat down to breakfast. 

"Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie, " said Annie. Butthe girl was frightened. 

Paul went through the country, through the woods, over the snow. He sawthe marks of rabbits and birds in the white snow. He wandered milesand miles. A smoky red sunset came on slowly, painfully, lingering. Hethought she would die that day. There was a donkey that came up to himover the snow by the wood's edge, and put its head against him, andwalked with him alongside. He put his arms round the donkey's neck, andstroked his cheeks against his ears. 

His mother, silent, was still alive, with her hard mouth gripped grimly, her eyes of dark torture only living. 

It was nearing Christmas; there was more snow. Annie and he felt as ifthey could go on no more. Still her dark eyes were alive. Morel, silentand frightened, obliterated himself. Sometimes he would go into thesick-room and look at her. Then he backed out, bewildered. 

She kept her hold on life still. The miners had been out on strike, andreturned a fortnight or so before Christmas. Minnie went upstairs withthe feeding-cup. It was two days after the men had been in. 

"Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?" she asked, in the faint, querulous voice that would not give in. Minnie stoodsurprised. 

"Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel, " she answered. 

"But I'll bet they are sore, " said the dying woman, as she moved herhead with a sigh of weariness. "But, at any rate, there'll be somethingto buy in with this week. "

Not a thing did she let slip. 

"Your father's pit things will want well airing, Annie, " she said, whenthe men were going back to work. 

"Don't you bother about that, my dear, " said Annie. 

One night Annie and Paul were alone. Nurse was upstairs. 

"She'll live over Christmas, " said Annie. They were both full of horror. "She won't, " he replied grimly. "I s'll give her morphia. "

"Which?" said Annie. 

"All that came from Sheffield, " said Paul. 

"Ay--do!" said Annie. 

The next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to be asleep. He stepped softly backwards and forwards at his painting. Suddenly hersmall voice wailed:

"Don't walk about, Paul. "

He looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles in her face, were lookingat him. 

"No, my dear, " he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap in hisheart. 

That evening he got all the morphia pills there were, and took themdownstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder. 

"What are you doing?" said Annie. 

"I s'll put 'em in her night milk. "

Then they both laughed together like two conspiring children. On top ofall their horror flicked this little sanity. 

Nurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul went upwith the hot milk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock. 

She was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between her lipsthat he would have died to save from any hurt. She took a sip, then putthe spout of the cup away and looked at him with her dark, wonderingeyes. He looked at her. 

"Oh, it IS bitter, Paul!" she said, making a little grimace. 

"It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you, " he said. "Hethought it would leave you in such a state in the morning. "

"And I hope it won't, " she said, like a child. 

She drank some more of the milk. 

"But it IS horrid!" she said. 

He saw her frail fingers over the cup, her lips making a little move. 

"I know--I tasted it, " he said. "But I'll give you some clean milkafterwards. "

"I think so, " she said, and she went on with the draught. She wasobedient to him like a child. He wondered if she knew. He saw herpoor wasted throat moving as she drank with difficulty. Then he randownstairs for more milk. There were no grains in the bottom of the cup. 

"Has she had it?" whispered Annie. 

"Yes--and she said it was bitter. "

"Oh!" laughed Annie, putting her under lip between her teeth. 

"And I told her it was a new draught. Where's that milk?"

They both went upstairs. 

"I wonder why nurse didn't come to settle me down?" complained themother, like a child, wistfully. 

"She said she was going to a concert, my love, " replied Annie. 

"Did she?"

They were silent a minute. Mrs. Morel gulped the little clean milk. 

"Annie, that draught WAS horrid!" she said plaintively. 

"Was it, my love? Well, never mind. "

The mother sighed again with weariness. Her pulse was very irregular. 

"Let US settle you down, " said Annie. "Perhaps nurse will be so late. "

"Ay, " said the mother--"try. "

They turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl curled upin her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half of the bed, movedher, made the other, straightened her nightgown over her small feet, andcovered her up. 

"There, " said Paul, stroking her softly. "There!--now you'll sleep. "

"Yes, " she said. "I didn't think you could do the bed so nicely, " sheadded, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her hand, herhead snugged between her shoulders. Paul put the long thin plait of greyhair over her shoulder and kissed her. 

"You'll sleep, my love, " he said. 

"Yes, " she answered trustfully. "Good-night. "

They put out the light, and it was still. 

Morel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came to look at herat about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual after her draught. Her mouth had come a bit open. 

"Shall we sit up?" said Paul. 

"I s'll lie with her as I always do, " said Annie. "She might wake up. "

"All right. And call me if you see any difference. "

"Yes. "

They lingered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big and blackand snowy outside, their two selves alone in the world. At last he wentinto the next room and went to bed. 

He slept almost immediately, but kept waking every now and again. Thenhe went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie's whispered, "Paul, Paul!" He saw his sister in her white nightdress, with her long plait ofhair down her back, standing in the darkness. 

"Yes?" he whispered, sitting up. 

"Come and look at her. "

He slipped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick chamber. His mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up as she had goneto sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she breathed with great, hoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were long intervals between. 

"She's going!" he whispered. 

"Yes, " said Annie. 

"How long has she been like it?"

"I only just woke up. "

Annie huddled into the dressing-gown, Paul wrapped himself in a brownblanket. It was three o'clock. He mended the fire. Then the two satwaiting. The great, snoring breath was taken--held awhile--then givenback. There was a space--a long space. Then they started. The great, snoring breath was taken again. He bent close down and looked at her. 

"Isn't it awful!" whispered Annie. 

He nodded. They sat down again helplessly. Again came the great, snoringbreath. Again they hung suspended. Again it was given back, long andharsh. The sound, so irregular, at such wide intervals, sounded throughthe house. Morel, in his room, slept on. Paul and Annie sat crouched, huddled, motionless. The great snoring sound began again--there was apainful pause while the breath was held--back came the rasping breath. Minute after minute passed. Paul looked at her again, bending low overher. 

"She may last like this, " he said. 

They were both silent. He looked out of the window, and could faintlydiscern the snow on the garden. 

"You go to my bed, " he said to Annie. "I'll sit up. "

"No, " she said, "I'll stop with you. "

"I'd rather you didn't, " he said. 

At last Annie crept out of the room, and he was alone. He hugged himselfin his brown blanket, crouched in front of his mother, watching. Shelooked dreadful, with the bottom jaw fallen back. He watched. Sometimeshe thought the great breath would never begin again. He could not bearit--the waiting. Then suddenly, startling him, came the great harshsound. He mended the fire again, noiselessly. She must not be disturbed. The minutes went by. The night was going, breath by breath. Each timethe sound came he felt it wring him, till at last he could not feel somuch. 

His father got up. Paul heard the miner drawing his stockings on, yawning. Then Morel, in shirt and stockings, entered. 

"Hush!" said Paul. 

Morel stood watching. Then he looked at his son, helplessly, and inhorror. 

"Had I better stop a-whoam?" he whispered. 

"No. Go to work. She'll last through to-morrow. "

"I don't think so. "

"Yes. Go to work. "

The miner looked at her again, in fear, and went obediently out of theroom. Paul saw the tape of his garters swinging against his legs. 

After another half-hour Paul went downstairs and drank a cup of tea, then returned. Morel, dressed for the pit, came upstairs again. 

"Am I to go?" he said. 

"Yes. "

And in a few minutes Paul heard his father's heavy steps go thuddingover the deadening snow. Miners called in the streets as theytramped in gangs to work. The terrible, long-drawn breathscontinued--heave--heave--heave; then a long pause--then--ah-h-h-h-h!as it came back. Far away over the snow sounded the hooters of theironworks. One after another they crowed and boomed, some small and faraway, some near, the blowers of the collieries and the other works. Then there was silence. He mended the fire. The great breaths broke thesilence--she looked just the same. He put back the blind and peered out. Still it was dark. Perhaps there was a lighter tinge. Perhaps the snowwas bluer. He drew up the blind and got dressed. Then, shuddering, hedrank brandy from the bottle on the wash-stand. The snow WAS growingblue. He heard a cart clanking down the street. Yes, it was seveno'clock, and it was coming a little bit light. He heard some peoplecalling. The world was waking. A grey, deathly dawn crept over the snow. Yes, he could see the houses. He put out the gas. It seemed very dark. The breathing came still, but he was almost used to it. He could seeher. She was just the same. He wondered if he piled heavy clothes on topof her it would stop. He looked at her. That was not her--not her a bit. If he piled the blanket and heavy coats on her--

Suddenly the door opened, and Annie entered. She looked at himquestioningly. 

"Just the same, " he said calmly. 

They whispered together a minute, then he went downstairs to getbreakfast. It was twenty to eight. Soon Annie came down. 

"Isn't it awful! Doesn't she look awful!" she whispered, dazed withhorror. 

He nodded. 

"If she looks like that!" said Annie. 

"Drink some tea, " he said. 

They went upstairs again. Soon the neighbours came with their frightenedquestion:

"How is she?"

It went on just the same. She lay with her cheek in her hand, her mouthfallen open, and the great, ghastly snores came and went. 

At ten o'clock nurse came. She looked strange and woebegone. 

"Nurse, " cried Paul, "she'll last like this for days?"

"She can't, Mr. Morel, " said nurse. "She can't. "

There was a silence. 

"Isn't it dreadful!" wailed the nurse. "Who would have thought she couldstand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down. "

At last, at about eleven o'clock, he went downstairs and sat in theneighbour's house. Annie was downstairs also. Nurse and Arthur wereupstairs. Paul sat with his head in his hand. Suddenly Annie came flyingacross the yard crying, half mad:

"Paul--Paul--she's gone!"

In a second he was back in his own house and upstairs. She lay curledup and still, with her face on her hand, and nurse was wiping her mouth. They all stood back. He kneeled down, and put his face to hers and hisarms round her:

"My love--my love--oh, my love!" he whispered again and again. "Mylove--oh, my love!"

Then he heard the nurse behind him, crying, saying:

"She's better, Mr. Morel, she's better. "

When he took his face up from his warm, dead mother he went straightdownstairs and began blacking his boots. 

There was a good deal to do, letters to write, and so on. The doctorcame and glanced at her, and sighed. 

"Ay--poor thing!" he said, then turned away. "Well, call at the surgeryabout six for the certificate. "

The father came home from work at about four o'clock. He draggedsilently into the house and sat down. Minnie bustled to give him hisdinner. Tired, he laid his black arms on the table. There were swedeturnips for his dinner, which he liked. Paul wondered if he knew. It wassome time, and nobody had spoken. At last the son said:

"You noticed the blinds were down?"

Morel looked up. 

"No, " he said. "Why--has she gone?"

"Yes. "

"When wor that?"

"About twelve this morning. "

"H'm!"

The miner sat still for a moment, then began his dinner. It was asif nothing had happened. He ate his turnips in silence. Afterwards hewashed and went upstairs to dress. The door of her room was shut. 

"Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him when he came down. 

"No, " he said. 

In a little while he went out. Annie went away, and Paul called on theundertaker, the clergyman, the doctor, the registrar. It was a longbusiness. He got back at nearly eight o'clock. The undertaker was comingsoon to measure for the coffin. The house was empty except for her. Hetook a candle and went upstairs. 

The room was cold, that had been warm for so long. Flowers, bottles, plates, all sick-room litter was taken away; everything was harsh andaustere. She lay raised on the bed, the sweep of the sheet from theraised feet was like a clean curve of snow, so silent. She lay like amaiden asleep. With his candle in his hand, he bent over her. She laylike a girl asleep and dreaming of her love. The mouth was a little openas if wondering from the suffering, but her face was young, her browclear and white as if life had never touched it. He looked again at theeyebrows, at the small, winsome nose a bit on one side. She was youngagain. Only the hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples wasmixed with silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulderswere filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift hereyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately. But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror. Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He strokedthe hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumband wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering toher:

"Mother, mother!"

He was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who hadbeen to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet, businesslike fashion. They did not look at her. He watched jealously. Heand Annie guarded her fiercely. They would not let anybody come to seeher, and the neighbours were offended. 

After a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at afriend's. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from thecouch as he entered, saying in a plaintive way:

"I thought tha wor niver comin', lad. "

"I didn't think you'd sit up, " said Paul. 

His father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without fear--simplynothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start that he had beenafraid to go to bed, alone in the house with his dead. He was sorry. 

"I forgot you'd be alone, father, " he said. 

"Dost want owt to eat?" asked Morel. 

"No. "

"Sithee--I made thee a drop o' hot milk. Get it down thee; it's coldenough for owt. "

Paul drank it. 

After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, andleft his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in tokiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they hadkept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she wouldbe cold. 

"My dear!" he whispered. "My dear!"

And he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange to him. It eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her door softly, not towake her, and went to bed. 

In the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie downstairs andPaul coughing in the room across the landing. He opened her door, andwent into the darkened room. He saw the white uplifted form in thetwilight, but her he dared not see. Bewildered, too frightened topossess any of his faculties, he got out of the room again and left her. He never looked at her again. He had not seen her for months, because hehad not dared to look. And she looked like his young wife again. 

"Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him sharply after breakfast. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"And don't you think she looks nice?"

"Yes. "

He went out of the house soon after. And all the time he seemed to becreeping aside to avoid it. 

Paul went about from place to place, doing the business of the death. Hemet Clara in Nottingham, and they had tea together in a cafe, when theywere quite jolly again. She was infinitely relieved to find he did nottake it tragically. 

Later, when the relatives began to come for the funeral, the affairbecame public, and the children became social beings. They putthemselves aside. They buried her in a furious storm of rain and wind. The wet clay glistened, all the white flowers were soaked. Anniegripped his arm and leaned forward. Down below she saw a dark cornerof William's coffin. The oak box sank steadily. She was gone. Therain poured in the grave. The procession of black, with its umbrellasglistening, turned away. The cemetery was deserted under the drenchingcold rain. 

Paul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with drinks. His father sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Morel's relatives, "superior"people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'dtried to do everything he could for her--everything. He had strivenall his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproachhimself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped hiseyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for, he repeated. All his life he'd done his best for her. 

And that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought of herpersonally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated his fatherfor sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would do it inthe public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel in spite ofhimself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, whiteand cowering. 

"I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother, " he said in a small voice. 

"Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was whenshe was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural, as if nothing had altered. "

But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror. 

The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhapsa little relief, mostly a _nuit blanche_. Paul went restless from placeto place. For some months, since his mother had been worse, he had notmade love to Clara. She was, as it were, dumb to him, rather distant. Dawes saw her very occasionally, but the two could not get an inchacross the great distance between them. The three of them were driftingforward. 

Dawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home at Skegness atChristmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the seaside for a few days. His father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes came to Paul's lodgings. His time in the home was up. The two men, between whom was such a bigreserve, seemed faithful to each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. Heknew Paul and Clara had practically separated. 

Two days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. The eveningbefore he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire. 

"You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?" he said. 

The other man glanced at him. 

"Yes, you told me, " he replied. 

Paul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky. 

"I told the landlady your wife was coming, " he said. 

"Did you?" said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself in theother's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for Morel's glass. 

"Let me fill you up, " he said. 

Paul jumped up. 

"You sit still, " he said. 

But Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink. 

"Say when, " he said. 

"Thanks!" replied the other. "But you've no business to get up. "

"It does me good, lad, " replied Dawes. "I begin to think I'm rightagain, then. "

"You are about right, you know. "

"I am, certainly I am, " said Dawes, nodding to him. 

"And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield. "

Dawes glanced at him again, with dark eyes that agreed with everythingthe other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by him. 

"It's funny, " said Paul, "starting again. I feel in a lot bigger messthan you. "

"In what way, lad?"

"I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort of hole, rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere. "

"I know--I understand it, " Dawes said, nodding. "But you'll find it'llcome all right. "

He spoke caressingly. 

"I suppose so, " said Paul. 

Dawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion. 

"You've not done for yourself like I have, " he said. 

Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man gripping thestem of the pipe and knocking out the ash, as if he had given up. 

"How old are you?" Paul asked. 

"Thirty-nine, " replied Dawes, glancing at him. 

Those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleadingfor reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warmhim, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul. 

"You'll just be in your prime, " said Morel. "You don't look as if muchlife had gone out of you. "

The brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly. 

"It hasn't, " he said. "The go is there. "

Paul looked up and laughed. 

"We've both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly, " he said. 

The eyes of the two men met. They exchanged one look. Having recognisedthe stress of passion each in the other, they both drank their whisky. 

"Yes, begod!" said Dawes, breathless. 

There was a pause. 

"And I don't see, " said Paul, "why you shouldn't go on where you leftoff. "

"What--" said Dawes, suggestively. 

"Yes--fit your old home together again. "

Dawes hid his face and shook his head. 

"Couldn't be done, " he said, and looked up with an ironic smile. 

"Why? Because you don't want?"

"Perhaps. "

They smoked in silence. Dawes showed his teeth as he bit his pipe stem. 

"You mean you don't want her?" asked Paul. 

Dawes stared up at the picture with a caustic expression on his face. 

"I hardly know, " he said. 

The smoke floated softly up. 

"I believe she wants you, " said Paul. 

"Do you?" replied the other, soft, satirical, abstract. 

"Yes. She never really hitched on to me--you were always there in thebackground. That's why she wouldn't get a divorce. "

Dawes continued to stare in a satirical fashion at the picture over themantelpiece. 

"That's how women are with me, " said Paul. "They want me like mad, butthey don't want to belong to me. And she BELONGED to you all the time. Iknew. "

The triumphant male came up in Dawes. He showed his teeth moredistinctly. 

"Perhaps I was a fool, " he said. 

"You were a big fool, " said Morel. 

"But perhaps even THEN you were a bigger fool, " said Dawes. 

There was a touch of triumph and malice in it. 

"Do you think so?" said Paul. 

They were silent for some time. 

"At any rate, I'm clearing out to-morrow, " said Morel. 

"I see, " answered Dawes. 

Then they did not talk any more. The instinct to murder each other hadreturned. They almost avoided each other. 

They shared the same bedroom. When they retired Dawes seemed abstract, thinking of something. He sat on the side of the bed in his shirt, looking at his legs. 

"Aren't you getting cold?" asked Morel. 

"I was lookin' at these legs, " replied the other. 

"What's up with 'em? They look all right, " replied Paul, from his bed. 

"They look all right. But there's some water in 'em yet. "

"And what about it?"

"Come and look. "

Paul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather handsomelegs of the other man that were covered with glistening, dark gold hair. 

"Look here, " said Dawes, pointing to his shin. "Look at the water underhere. "

"Where?" said Paul. 

The man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that filledup slowly. 

"It's nothing, " said Paul. 

"You feel, " said Dawes. 

Paul tried with his fingers. It made little dents. 

"H'm!" he said. 

"Rotten, isn't it?" said Dawes. 

"Why? It's nothing much. "

"You're not much of a man with water in your legs. "

"I can't see as it makes any difference, " said Morel. "I've got a weakchest. "

He returned to his own bed. 

"I suppose the rest of me's all right, " said Dawes, and he put out thelight. 

In the morning it was raining. Morel packed his bag. The sea was greyand shaggy and dismal. He seemed to be cutting himself off from lifemore and more. It gave him a wicked pleasure to do it. 

The two men were at the station. Clara stepped out of the train, andcame along the platform, very erect and coldly composed. She wore a longcoat and a tweed hat. Both men hated her for her composure. Paul shookhands with her at the barrier. Dawes was leaning against the bookstall, watching. His black overcoat was buttoned up to the chin because of therain. He was pale, with almost a touch of nobility in his quietness. Hecame forward, limping slightly. 

"You ought to look better than this, " she said. 

"Oh, I'm all right now. "

The three stood at a loss. She kept the two men hesitating near her. 

"Shall we go to the lodging straight off, " said Paul, "or somewhereelse?"

"We may as well go home, " said Dawes. 

Paul walked on the outside of the pavement, then Dawes, then Clara. Theymade polite conversation. The sitting-room faced the sea, whose tide, grey and shaggy, hissed not far off. 

Morel swung up the big arm-chair. 

"Sit down, Jack, " he said. 

"I don't want that chair, " said Dawes. 

"Sit down!" Morel repeated. 

Clara took off her things and laid them on the couch. She had a slightair of resentment. Lifting her hair with her fingers, she sat down, rather aloof and composed. Paul ran downstairs to speak to the landlady. 

"I should think you're cold, " said Dawes to his wife. "Come nearer tothe fire. "

"Thank you, I'm quite warm, " she answered. 

She looked out of the window at the rain and at the sea. 

"When are you going back?" she asked. 

"Well, the rooms are taken until to-morrow, so he wants me to stop. He'sgoing back to-night. "

"And then you're thinking of going to Sheffield?"

"Yes. "

"Are you fit to start work?"

"I'm going to start. "

"You've really got a place?"

"Yes--begin on Monday. "

"You don't look fit. "

"Why don't I?"

She looked again out of the window instead of answering. 

"And have you got lodgings in Sheffield?"

"Yes. "

Again she looked away out of the window. The panes were blurred withstreaming rain. 

"And can you manage all right?" she asked. 

"I s'd think so. I s'll have to!"

They were silent when Morel returned. 

"I shall go by the four-twenty, " he said as he entered. 

Nobody answered. 

"I wish you'd take your boots off, " he said to Clara. 

"There's a pair of slippers of mine. "

"Thank you, " she said. "They aren't wet. "

He put the slippers near her feet. She left them there. 

Morel sat down. Both the men seemed helpless, and each of them had arather hunted look. But Dawes now carried himself quietly, seemed toyield himself, while Paul seemed to screw himself up. Clara thought shehad never seen him look so small and mean. He was as if trying toget himself into the smallest possible compass. And as he went aboutarranging, and as he sat talking, there seemed something false about himand out of tune. Watching him unknown, she said to herself there wasno stability about him. He was fine in his way, passionate, and able togive her drinks of pure life when he was in one mood. And now he lookedpaltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about him. Herhusband had more manly dignity. At any rate HE did not waft about withany wind. There was something evanescent about Morel, she thought, something shifting and false. He would never make sure ground for anywoman to stand on. She despised him rather for his shrinking together, getting smaller. Her husband at least was manly, and when he was beatengave in. But this other would never own to being beaten. He would shiftround and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet shewatched him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three fates layin his hands. She hated him for it. 

She seemed to understand better now about men, and what they could orwould do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself. Thatthey were not the small egoists she had imagined them made her morecomfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as much as she wantedto learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full as she couldcarry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he was gone. 

They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Nota serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel waswithdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay with herhusband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all, to take whathe wanted and then give her back. She did not remember that she herselfhad had what she wanted, and really, at the bottom of her heart, wishedto be given back. 

Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really supported hislife. He had loved her; they two had, in fact, faced the world together. Now she was gone, and for ever behind him was the gap in life, the tearin the veil, through which his life seemed to drift slowly, as if hewere drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiativeto help him. The lesser things he began to let go from him, for fear ofthis big thing, the lapse towards death, following in the wake of hisbeloved. Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him, but not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not thereal him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; hedared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed. So, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, because his own holdon life was so unsure, because nobody held him, feeling unsubstantial, shadowy, as if he did not count for much in this concrete world, he drewhimself together smaller and smaller. He did not want to die; he wouldnot give in. But he was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, hewould go on alone. 

Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was afraid. Hecould go to the brink of death, he could lie on the edge and look in. Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and like a beggar take whatoffered. There was a certain nobility in it. As Clara saw, he ownedhimself beaten, and he wanted to be taken back whether or not. That shecould do for him. It was three o'clock. 

"I am going by the four-twenty, " said Paul again to Clara. "Are youcoming then or later?"

"I don't know, " she said. 

"I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen, " he said. 

"Then, " she answered, "I'll come later. "

Dawes jerked suddenly, as if he had been held on a strain. He looked outover the sea, but he saw nothing. 

"There are one or two books in the corner, " said Morel. "I've done with'em. "

At about four o'clock he went. 

"I shall see you both later, " he said, as he shook hands. 

"I suppose so, " said Dawes. "An' perhaps--one day--I s'll be able to payyou back the money as--"

"I shall come for it, you'll see, " laughed Paul. "I s'll be on the rocksbefore I'm very much older. "

"Ay--well--" said Dawes. 

"Good-bye, " he said to Clara. 

"Good-bye, " she said, giving him her hand. Then she glanced at him forthe last time, dumb and humble. 

He was gone. Dawes and his wife sat down again. 

"It's a nasty day for travelling, " said the man. 

"Yes, " she answered. 

They talked in a desultory fashion until it grew dark. The landladybrought in the tea. Dawes drew up his chair to the table without beinginvited, like a husband. Then he sat humbly waiting for his cup. Sheserved him as she would, like a wife, not consulting his wish. 

After tea, as it drew near to six o'clock, he went to the window. Allwas dark outside. The sea was roaring. 

"It's raining yet, " he said. 

"Is it?" she answered. 

"You won't go to-night, shall you?" he said, hesitating. 

She did not answer. He waited. 

"I shouldn't go in this rain, " he said. 

"Do you WANT me to stay?" she asked. 

His hand as he held the dark curtain trembled. 

"Yes, " he said. 

He remained with his back to her. She rose and went slowly to him. Helet go the curtain, turned, hesitating, towards her. She stood withher hands behind her back, looking up at him in a heavy, inscrutablefashion. 

"Do you want me, Baxter?" she asked. 

His voice was hoarse as he answered:

"Do you want to come back to me?"

She made a moaning noise, lifted her arms, and put them round hisneck, drawing him to her. He hid his face on her shoulder, holding herclasped. 

"Take me back!" she whispered, ecstatic. "Take me back, take me back!"And she put her fingers through his fine, thin dark hair, as if she wereonly semi-conscious. He tightened his grasp on her. 

"Do you want me again?" he murmured, broken. 

CHAPTER XV

DERELICT

CLARA went with her husband to Sheffield, and Paul scarcely saw heragain. Walter Morel seemed to have let all the trouble go over him, andthere he was, crawling about on the mud of it, just the same. There wasscarcely any bond between father and son, save that each felt he mustnot let the other go in any actual want. As there was no one to keep onthe home, and as they could neither of them bear the emptiness of thehouse, Paul took lodgings in Nottingham, and Morel went to live with afriendly family in Bestwood. 

Everything seemed to have gone smash for the young man. He could notpaint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's death--onethat satisfied him--was the last thing he did. At work there was noClara. When he came home he could not take up his brushes again. Therewas nothing left. 

So he was always in the town at one place or another, drinking, knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked tobarmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark, strained look inhis eyes, as if he were hunting something. 

Everything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemed no reason whypeople should go along the street, and houses pile up in the daylight. There seemed no reason why these things should occupy the space, insteadof leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, andhe answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could notunderstand. 

He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and mechanicallyat the factory. In the latter case there was pure forgetfulness, when helapsed from consciousness. But it had to come to an end. It hurt him so, that things had lost their reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw thetiny drop-pearls among the grey. They would have given him the liveliestemotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to meananything. In a few moments they would cease to occupy that place, andjust the space would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant tram-carsran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder they shouldtrouble to rustle backwards and forwards. "Why trouble to go tiltingdown to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams. It seemed they justas well might NOT be as be. 

The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed to himwhole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself to it. Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blew along down thepavement. He stood still, rigid, with clenched fists, a flame of agonygoing over him. And he saw again the sick-room, his mother, her eyes. Unconsciously he had been with her, in her company. The swift hop ofthe paper reminded him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wantedeverything to stand still, so that he could be with her again. 

The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused, goneinto a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one day from another, oneweek from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was distinctor distinguishable. Often he lost himself for an hour at a time, couldnot remember what he had done. 

One evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire was burning low;everybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal, glanced at the table, and decided he wanted no supper. Then he sat down in the arm-chair. Itwas perfectly still. He did not know anything, yet he saw the dimsmoke wavering up the chimney. Presently two mice came out, cautiously, nibbling the fallen crumbs. He watched them as it were from a longway off. The church clock struck two. Far away he could hear the sharpclinking of the trucks on the railway. No, it was not they that were faraway. They were there in their places. But where was he himself?

The time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scampered cheekily overhis slippers. He had not moved a muscle. He did not want to move. Hewas not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench ofknowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other consciousness, working mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases. 

"What am I doing?"

And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer:

"Destroying myself. "

Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it waswrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:

"Why wrong?"

Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside hischest resisted his own annihilation. 

There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenlythe electric light went out; there was a bruising thud in thepenny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazing in front ofhim. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red in the darkroom. 

Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation beganagain inside him. 

"She's dead. What was it all for--her struggle?"

That was his despair wanting to go after her. 

"You're alive. "

"She's not. "

"She is--in you. "

Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it. 

"You've got to keep alive for her sake, " said his will in him. 

Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse. 

"You've got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go onwith it. "

But he did not want to. He wanted to give up. 

"But you can go on with your painting, " said the will in him. "Or elseyou can beget children. They both carry on her effort. "

"Painting is not living. "

"Then live. "

"Marry whom?" came the sulky question. 

"As best you can. "

"Miriam?"

But he did not trust that. 

He rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got inside his bedroomand closed the door, he stood with clenched fist. 

"Mater, my dear--" he began, with the whole force of his soul. Then hestopped. He would not say it. He would not admit that he wanted to die, to have done. He would not own that life had beaten him, or that deathhad beaten him. Going straight to bed, he slept at once, abandoninghimself to the sleep. 

So the weeks went on. Always alone, his soul oscillated, first on theside of death, then on the side of life, doggedly. The real agonywas that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and WASnothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were mad:sometimes he was mad; things weren't there, things were there. It madehim pant. Sometimes he stood before the bar of the public-house where hecalled for a drink. Everything suddenly stood back away from him. Hesaw the face of the barmaid, the gobbling drinkers, his own glass on theslopped, mahogany board, in the distance. There was something betweenhim and them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them; he didnot want his drink. Turning abruptly, he went out. On the threshold hestood and looked at the lighted street. But he was not of it or in it. Something separated him. Everything went on there below those lamps, shut away from him. He could not get at them. He felt he couldn't touchthe lamp-posts, not if he reached. Where could he go? There was nowhereto go, neither back into the inn, or forward anywhere. He felt stifled. There was nowhere for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt he shouldsmash. 

"I mustn't, " he said; and, turning blindly, he went in and drank. Sometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. He randown the road. For ever restless, he went here, there, everywhere. Hedetermined to work. But when he had made six strokes, he loathed thepencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried off to a club where hecould play cards or billiards, to a place where he could flirt with abarmaid who was no more to him than the brass pump-handle she drew. 

He was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his own eyesin the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away fromhimself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In despair he thought ofMiriam. Perhaps--perhaps--?

Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening, whenthey stood up to sing the second hymn he saw her before him. The lightglistened on her lower lip as she sang. She looked as if she had gotsomething, at any rate: some hope in heaven, if not in earth. Hercomfort and her life seemed in the after-world. A warm, strong feelingfor her came up. She seemed to yearn, as she sang, for the mystery andcomfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over, tospeak to her. 

The throng carried her out just before him. He could nearly touch her. She did not know he was there. He saw the brown, humble nape of her neckunder its black curls. He would leave himself to her. She was better andbigger than he. He would depend on her. 

She went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngs ofpeople outside the church. She always looked so lost and out of placeamong people. He went forward and put his hand on her arm. She startedviolently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear, then went questioningat the sight of him. He shrank slightly from her. 

"I didn't know--" she faltered. 

"Nor I, " he said. 

He looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again. 

"What are you doing in town?" he asked. 

"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's. "

"Ha! For long?"

"No; only till to-morrow. "

"Must you go straight home?"

She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim. 

"No, " she said--"no; it's not necessary. "

He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through the throngof church people. The organ was still sounding in St. Mary's. Darkfigures came through the lighted doors; people were coming down thesteps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church waslike a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he tookthe car for the Bridges. 

"You will just have supper with me, " he said: "then I'll bring youback. "

"Very well, " she replied, low and husky. 

They scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark andfull under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was black night. Helived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of the town, facing across theriver meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the steep scrap of ColwickWood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness spread awayon their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses. 

Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowlof freesias and scarlet anemones on the table. She bent to them. Stilltouching them with her finger-tips, she looked up at him, saying:

"Aren't they beautiful?"

"Yes, " he said. "What will you drink--coffee?"

"I should like it, " she said. 

"Then excuse me a moment. "

He went out to the kitchen. 

Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, severeroom. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked onthe drawing-board to see what he was doing. There were only a fewmeaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading. Evidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she sawwere from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know. Everything he had touched, everything that was in the least personal tohim, she examined with lingering absorption. He had been gone from herfor so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he wasnow. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made herfeel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless. 

She was curiously examining a sketch-book when he returned with thecoffee. 

"There's nothing new in it, " he said, "and nothing very interesting. "

He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned thepages slowly, intent on examining everything. 

"H'm!" he said, as she paused at a sketch. "I'd forgotten that. It's notbad, is it?"

"No, " she said. "I don't quite understand it. "

He took the book from her and went through it. Again he made a curioussound of surprise and pleasure. 

"There's some not bad stuff in there, " he said. 

"Not at all bad, " she answered gravely. 

He felt again her interest in his work. Or was it for himself? Why wasshe always most interested in him as he appeared in his work?

They sat down to supper. 

"By the way, " he said, "didn't I hear something about your earning yourown living?"

"Yes, " she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. "And what of it?"

"I'm merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three months, and I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there. "

"I say--that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to beindependent. "

"Yes. 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I only knew last week. "

"But I heard a month ago, " he said. 

"Yes; but nothing was settled then. "

"I should have thought, " he said, "you'd have told me you were trying. "

She ate her food in the deliberate, constrained way, almost as if sherecoiled a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew so well. 

"I suppose you're glad, " he said. 

"Very glad. "

"Yes--it will be something. "

He was rather disappointed. 

"I think it will be a great deal, " she said, almost haughtily, resentfully. 

He laughed shortly. 

"Why do you think it won't?" she asked. 

"Oh, I don't think it won't be a great deal. Only you'll find earningyour own living isn't everything. "

"No, " she said, swallowing with difficulty; "I don't suppose it is. "

"I suppose work CAN be nearly everything to a man, " he said, "though itisn't to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real andvital part is covered up. "

"But a man can give ALL himself to work?" she asked. 

"Yes, practically. "

"And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?"

"That's it. "

She looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger. 

"Then, " she said, "if it's true, it's a great shame. "

"It is. But I don't know everything, " he answered. 

After supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair facing him, and they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret colour, thatsuited her dark complexion and her large features. Still, the curlswere fine and free, but her face was much older, the brown throat muchthinner. She seemed old to him, older than Clara. Her bloom of youth hadquickly gone. A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come uponher. She meditated a little while, then looked at him. 

"And how are things with you?" she asked. 

"About all right, " he answered. 

She looked at him, waiting. 

"Nay, " she said, very low. 

Her brown, nervous hands were clasped over her knee. They had still thelack of confidence or repose, the almost hysterical look. He winced ashe saw them. Then he laughed mirthlessly. She put her fingers betweenher lips. His slim, black, tortured body lay quite still in the chair. She suddenly took her finger from her mouth and looked at him. 

"And you have broken off with Clara?"

"Yes. "

His body lay like an abandoned thing, strewn in the chair. 

"You know, " she said, "I think we ought to be married. "

He opened his eyes for the first time since many months, and attended toher with respect. 

"Why?" he said. 

"See, " she said, "how you waste yourself! You might be ill, you mightdie, and I never know--be no more then than if I had never known you. "

"And if we married?" he asked. 

"At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a prey toother women--like--like Clara. "

"A prey?" he repeated, smiling. 

She bowed her head in silence. He lay feeling his despair come up again. 

"I'm not sure, " he said slowly, "that marriage would be much good. "

"I only think of you, " she replied. 

"I know you do. But--you love me so much, you want to put me in yourpocket. And I should die there smothered. "

She bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while thebitterness surged up in her heart. 

"And what will you do otherwise?" she asked. 

"I don't know--go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go abroad. "

The despairing doggedness in his tone made her go on her knees on therug before the fire, very near to him. There she crouched as if she werecrushed by something, and could not raise her head. His hands lay quiteinert on the arms of his chair. She was aware of them. She felt thatnow he lay at her mercy. If she could rise, take him, put her arms roundhim, and say, "You are mine, " then he would leave himself to her. But dare she? She could easily sacrifice herself. But dare she assertherself? She was aware of his dark-clothed, slender body, that seemedone stroke of life, sprawled in the chair close to her. But no; shedared not put her arms round it, take it up, and say, "It is mine, thisbody. Leave it to me. " And she wanted to. It called to all her woman'sinstinct. But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he wouldnot let her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body, abandoned. She knew she ought to take it up and claim it, and claimevery right to it. But--could she do it? Her impotence before him, before the strong demand of some unknown thing in him, was herextremity. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes, shuddering, appealing, gone, almost distracted, pleaded to him suddenly. His heart caught with pity. He took her hands, drew her to him, andcomforted her. 

"Will you have me, to marry me?" he said very low. 

Oh, why did not he take her? Her very soul belonged to him. Why would henot take what was his? She had borne so long the cruelty of belonging tohim and not being claimed by him. Now he was straining her again. Itwas too much for her. She drew back her head, held his face between herhands, and looked him in the eyes. No, he was hard. He wanted somethingelse. She pleaded to him with all her love not to make it her choice. She could not cope with it, with him, she knew not with what. But itstrained her till she felt she would break. 

"Do you want it?" she asked, very gravely. 

"Not much, " he replied, with pain. 

She turned her face aside; then, raising herself with dignity, she tookhis head to her bosom, and rocked him softly. She was not to have him, then! So she could comfort him. She put her fingers through his hair. For her, the anguished sweetness of self-sacrifice. For him, the hateand misery of another failure. He could not bear it--that breast whichwas warm and which cradled him without taking the burden of him. So muchhe wanted to rest on her that the feint of rest only tortured him. Hedrew away. 

"And without marriage we can do nothing?" he asked. 

His mouth was lifted from his teeth with pain. She put her little fingerbetween her lips. 

"No, " she said, low and like the toll of a bell. "No, I think not. "

It was the end then between them. She could not take him and relieve himof the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself tohim--sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. Hewanted her to hold him and say, with joy and authority: "Stop all thisrestlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate. " Shehad not the strength. Or was it a mate she wanted? or did she want aChrist in him?

He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knewthat, in staying, stilling the inner, desperate man, he was denying hisown life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own. 

She sat very quiet. He lit a cigarette. The smoke went up from it, wavering. He was thinking of his mother, and had forgotten Miriam. Shesuddenly looked at him. Her bitterness came surging up. Her sacrifice, then, was useless. He lay there aloof, careless about her. Suddenlyshe saw again his lack of religion, his restless instability. He woulddestroy himself like a perverse child. Well, then, he would!

"I think I must go, " she said softly. 

By her tone he knew she was despising him. He rose quietly. 

"I'll come along with you, " he answered. 

She stood before the mirror pinning on her hat. How bitter, howunutterably bitter, it made her that he rejected her sacrifice! Lifeahead looked dead, as if the glow were gone out. She bowed her face overthe flowers--the freesias so sweet and spring-like, the scarlet anemonesflaunting over the table. It was like him to have those flowers. 

He moved about the room with a certain sureness of touch, swift andrelentless and quiet. She knew she could not cope with him. He wouldescape like a weasel out of her hands. Yet without him her life wouldtrail on lifeless. Brooding, she touched the flowers. 

"Have them!" he said; and he took them out of the jar, dripping as theywere, and went quickly into the kitchen. She waited for him, took theflowers, and they went out together, he talking, she feeling dead. 

She was going from him now. In her misery she leaned against him as theysat on the car. He was unresponsive. Where would he go? What wouldbe the end of him? She could not bear it, the vacant feeling where heshould be. He was so foolish, so wasteful, never at peace with himself. And now where would he go? And what did he care that he wasted her? Hehad no religion; it was all for the moment's attraction that he cared, nothing else, nothing deeper. Well, she would wait and see how it turnedout with him. When he had had enough he would give in and come to her. 

He shook hands and left her at the door of her cousin's house. When heturned away he felt the last hold for him had gone. The town, as he satupon the car, stretched away over the bay of railway, a level fume oflights. Beyond the town the country, little smouldering spots formore towns--the sea--the night--on and on! And he had no place in it!Whatever spot he stood on, there he stood alone. From his breast, from his mouth, sprang the endless space, and it was there behind him, everywhere. The people hurrying along the streets offered no obstructionto the void in which he found himself. They were small shadows whosefootsteps and voices could be heard, but in each of them the same night, the same silence. He got off the car. In the country all was deadstill. Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away in theflood-waters, a firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and terror ofthe immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while bythe day, but which returns, and will remain at last eternal, holdingeverything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no Time, onlySpace. Who could say his mother had lived and did not live? She had beenin one place, and was in another; that was all. And his soul could notleave her, wherever she was. Now she was gone abroad into the night, andhe was with her still. They were together. But yet there was his body, his chest, that leaned against the stile, his hands on the wooden bar. They seemed something. Where was he?--one tiny upright speck of flesh, less than an ear of wheat lost in the field. He could not bear it. On every side the immense dark silence seemed pressing him, so tinya spark, into extinction, and yet, almost nothing, he could not beextinct. Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyondstars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning roundfor terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darknessthat outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, andhimself, infinitesimal, at the core a nothingness, and yet not nothing. 

"Mother!" he whispered--"mother!"

She was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. Andshe was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch him, have himalongside with her. 

But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards thecity's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. Hewould not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walkedtowards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly. 

THE END