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Sons and Lovers

At this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed. He was twenty-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 cruelly smashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. He was by nature critical and rather dispassionate. But Miriam suffered exquisite pain, as, with an intellect like a knife, the man she loved examined her religion in which she lived and moved and had her being. But he did not spare her. He was cruel. And when they went alone he was even more fierce, as if he would kill her soul. He bled her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness. "She exults—she exults as she carries him off from me," Mrs. Morel cried in her heart when Paul had gone. "She's not like an ordinary woman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She wants 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 suck him 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 great rate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood for some minutes, and did not move. There was a great hollow of darkness fronting him, and on the black upslopes patches of tiny lights, and in the lowest trough of the night, a flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful. Why was he torn so, almost bewildered, and unable to move? Why did his mother sit at home and suffer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And why did he hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thought of his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then he hated her—and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feel as if he were uncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing, as if he had not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night and the space breaking into him? 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 the marks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had to make her talk to 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 to like 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 knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother watched him growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He could do nothing. It was as if something were drawing his soul out towards Willey Farm. Then he put on his hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. And as soon as he was on the way he sighed with relief. And when he was with her he was cruel again. One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriam sitting beside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, so brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stole along on the water. The clear spaces in the sky were of clean, cold blue. Paul lay on his back in the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. She seemed to want him, and he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted now to give her passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that she wanted the soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and energy she drew into herself through some channel which united them. She did not want to meet him, so that there were two of them, man and woman together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an intensity like madness, which fascinated him, as drug-taking might. He was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she were fingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life, as she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the end it frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search, and his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was, almost inhuman, as if in a trance. "Don't talk any more," she pleaded softly, laying her hand on his forehead. He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body was somewhere discarded. "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 your unconscious 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 got up and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague way he 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. As the stars came out the clouds closed. They had glimpses of their own constellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a moment, his dog ran low, struggling with difficulty through the spume of cloud. Orion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. They had gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling, until they seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This evening Paul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed just an ordinary constellation to him. He had fought against his glamour and fascination. Miriam was watching her lover's mood carefully. But he said nothing that gave him away, till the moment came to part, when he stood frowning gloomily at the gathered clouds, behind which the great constellation must be striding still. There was to be a little party at his house the next day, at which she was 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 for you than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's only friendship." Miriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him an effort. She left him, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blew in her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down; and she despised him for being blown about by any wind of authority. And in her heart of hearts, unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to get away 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 with Mr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages were to be raised to thirty shillings at the year-end, if things went well. Still on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French lesson. Paul did not go so frequently to Willey Farm, and she grieved at the thought of her education's coming to end; moreover, they both loved to be together, in spite of discords. So they read Balzac, and did compositions, 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 Inn at 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's house. Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still a tomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design. Morel was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless the week's earnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner, prepared to get washed. It was decorum for the women to absent themselves while the men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spy into such a masculine privacy as the butties' reckoning, nor were they to know the exact amount of the week's earnings. So, whilst her father was spluttering in 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 mother frowned to hear him. Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy water dripping 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 would have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before the hot baking-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," said the 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's that much draught i' yon scullery, as it blows through your ribs like through 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 juts out 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 the body of a man of twenty-eight, except that there were, perhaps, too many blue scars, like tattoo-marks, where the coal-dust remained under the skin, and that his chest was too hairy. But he put his hand on his side ruefully. 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 fine smoothness of his sides, and the incongruity struck him. It seemed strange 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 a child. "He had," exclaimed Mrs. Morel, "if he didn't hurtle himself up as if he was trying to get in the smallest space he could." "Me!" exclaimed Morel—"me a good figure! I wor niver much more n'r a skeleton." "Man!" cried his wife, "don't be such a pulamiter!" "'Strewth!" he said. "Tha's niver knowed me but what I looked as if I wor goin' off in a rapid decline." She sat and laughed. "You've had a constitution like iron," she said; "and never a man had a better start, if it was body that counted. You should have seen him as a young man," she cried suddenly to Paul, drawing herself up to imitate her 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 he had made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away from it. "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. It was very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The children did 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 went upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. When he was dried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair on end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood warming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled them 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 all this on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiar friends had been present. Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red earthenware panchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As she was doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little man, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hair was cropped short, his head was bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but healthy and taut. "Evenin', missis," he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seated himself with a sigh. "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 himself rather. "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', I think." "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 and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. "Barker's little, but he's ten times the man you are," she said to her husband. Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven children. 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 was pointed 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 the hearth. 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 was too 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 that flannel 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 were both 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 upside down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns and loose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks—the written papers giving amount of coal—put the money in order. Then Barker glanced at the checks. Mrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. Morel, as master 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 cavilled for 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 rent had been deducted, Morel and Barker took four-and-six each. And because Morel's coals had come, and the leading was stopped, Barker and Wesson took four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morel gave each of them a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns; each half a crown till there were no more half-crowns; each a shilling till there were no more 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 before his wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She looked hastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing on the table, she saw her money lying. Paul had been working all the time. But now he felt his mother 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 the cheque?" "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 I know him. He thinks because YOU'RE earning he needn't keep the house any longer. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I'll show 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 to manage?" "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. When she was fretted he could not bear it. But now he began to insist on her recognizing 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 became unsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past seven came a low 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 bundle of brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on the floor. It proved to be a curtain or portiere, beautifully stencilled with a design on 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 went on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched voluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she looked 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 with a 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 rather have the money." "Yes," said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam sympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER. He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to Miriam 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 became embarrassed. "By Jove, the bread!" he cried. He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood rubbing 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 laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him the most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his imaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands when she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and for him. While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the room. 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 the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a scent 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 how self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with mud. "Glory! You're a positive muck-heap," exclaimed Beatrice. "Who cleans your boots?" "I clean them myself." "Then you wanted a job," said Beatrice. "It would ha' taken a lot of men to ha' brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge, doesn't it, '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 see it. "'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 laughs at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends, and lady 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 went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter. Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul's friends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the lurch—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 pass the exam?" "I don't know," said Beatrice coldly. "Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me ridiculous. 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 and boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while she wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and seized two handfuls of his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook. "Beat!" he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. "I hate 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 making place for her between him and Miriam. "Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!" she cried; and, with her hair-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 the thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed daintily. "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 winking at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, and his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she could not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him; she might as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his full red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on his forehead. "Sweet boy!" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a little kiss on the cheek. "I s'll kiss thee back, Beat," he said. "Tha wunna!" she giggled, jumping up and going away. "Isn't he shameless, 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 the oven, she peered over his shoulder. "This is what comes of the oblivion of love, my boy." Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hot side; 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 she grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing her 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 Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postle would fix up a tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed the brazen thing's ears who made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred's." She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in spite of herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully. The garden gate was heard to bang. "Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it up in a damp towel." Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapings into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was an 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, very sad. "I suppose he's left you to settle it between you," he said. He nodded sympathetically 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 comic face. 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 was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy. "Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I don't think it will rain." When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and surveyed 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 to heart. However, it's no good bothering." He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks of 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 as he 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 week she 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. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as if her soul's history were going to be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was 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 un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme, et puis, jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chanson vif et resonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presque tous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des grives. Il est si clair—'" Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above her 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 curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shuddering. He saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted piteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and they 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 must drive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back again 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 oven hurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel in the 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 rich and 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 write poetry." 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. His voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. 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—nor Verlaine. "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 throat bitterly: "Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses." The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt 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 much then as at night." Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had received, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble to lock the door. He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated in 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 her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down on the 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 a piece 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 his mother. 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. She would not answer. "I found her as white as a sheet sitting here," said Annie, with a suggestion of tears in her voice. "Well, WHY?" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilating passionately. "It was enough to upset anybody," said Mrs. Morel, "hugging those parcels—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 off with 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 bluish round 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 off with 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't have 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 a plait, 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 and waited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly. "You'd better go to bed before your father comes in," said the mother harshly. "And if you're going to have anything to eat, you'd better get it." "I don't want anything." It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her. "If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the scene," said Mrs. Morel. "But you're never too tired to go if SHE will come 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 up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go to 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 fascinating that you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see. "I do like her," he said, "but—" "LIKE her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seems to me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor anyone now for you." "What nonsense, mother—you know I don't love her—I—I tell you I DON'T love her—she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her to." "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're not 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's decorative 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 to me 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 of his. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrong thing. "Yes, I know it well—I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you—the rest is 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 her despair. "No, mother—I really DON'T love her. I talk to her, but I want to come home to you." He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to go to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round his neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whimpering voice, so unlike her own that he writhed in agony: "I can't bear it. I could let another woman—but not her. She'd leave me no 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 ordinary girls." "Well, I don't love her, mother," he murmured, bowing his head and hiding 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 the morning." As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. "There's your 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 had come 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 his hat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps to the pantry. He returned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morel had bought for her son. "Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than twenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork-pie to stuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer." "Wha-at—wha-at!" snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. "Wha-at—not for me?" He looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in a vicious 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. "Show me!" 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 man stood, smiling with his lips. "Ussha!" hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just past his son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really touch the young man, but swerved an inch away. "Right!" said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, where in 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 and dark 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, although she could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. He laid her down on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky, which at last she could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he kneeled in front 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 his knees 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. His last 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 for breakfast, 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 mother best. It was the bitter peace of resignation. The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a great humiliation to him. Everybody tried to forget the scene. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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