CHAPTER VII

　　Then sometimes he hated her. Her youngest brother was only five. He was a frail lad, with immense brown eyes in his quaint fragileface--one of Reynolds's "Choir of Angels", with a touch of elf. Often Miriam kneeled to the child and drew him to her.

　　"Eh, my Hubert!" she sang, in a voice heavy and surchargedwith love. "Eh, my Hubert!"

　　And, folding him in her arms, she swayed slightly from sideto side with love, her face half lifted, her eyes half closed,her voice drenched with love.

　　"Don't!" said the child, uneasy--"don't, Miriam!"

　　"Yes; you love me, don't you?" she murmured deep in her throat,almost as if she were in a trance, and swaying also as if she wereswooned in an 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 sufferingbecause of her extreme emotion. "Why can't you be ordinary with him?"

　　She let the child go, and rose, and said nothing. Her intensity,which would leave no emotion on a normal plane, irritated the youthinto a frenzy. And this fearful, naked contact of her on smalloccasions shocked him. He was used to his mother's reserve. And on such occasions he was thankful in his heart and soul that hehad his mother, so sane and wholesome.

　　All the life of Miriam's body was in her eyes, which were usuallydark as a dark church, but could flame with light like a conflagration. Her face scarcely ever altered from its look of brooding. She might have been one of the women who went with Mary when Jesuswas dead. Her body was not flexible and living. She walkedwith a swing, rather heavily, her head bowed forward, pondering. She was not clumsy, and yet none of her movements seemed quiteTHE movement. Often, when wiping the dishes, she would standin bewilderment and chagrin because she had pulled in two halvesa cup or a tumbler. It was as if, in her fear and self-mistrust,she put too much strength into the effort. There was no loosenessor abandon about her. Everything was gripped stiff with intensity,and her effort, overcharged, closed in on itself.

　　She rarely varied from her swinging, forward, intense walk. Occasionally she ran with Paul down the fields. Then her eyesblazed naked in a kind of ecstasy that frightened him. But she wasphysically afraid. If she were getting over a stile, she gripped hishands in a little hard anguish, and began to lose her presence of mind. And he could not persuade her to jump from even a small height. Her eyes dilated, became exposed and palpitating.

　　"No!" she cried, half laughing in terror--"no!"

　　"You shall!" he cried once, and, jerking her forward, he broughther falling from the fence. But her wild "Ah!" of pain, as if shewere losing consciousness, cut him. She landed on her feet safely,and afterwards 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 day cleaning what the boys make just as bad in five minutes. I don't WANT to be at home."

　　"What do you want, then?"

　　"I want to do something. I want a chance like anybody else. Why should 1, because I'm a girl, be kept at home and not allowedto 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 Anniewas almost glad to be a girl. She had not so much responsibility;things were lighter for her. She never wanted to be other than a girl. But Miriam almost fiercely wished she were a man. And yet she hatedmen at the same time.

　　"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 menare to be men," 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 eyeexpanding in a kind of defiance.

　　"Well, you can learn as much as I know," he said. "I'll teach you,if you 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 wasdrawing twilight. Miriam was just sweeping up the kitchen, and waskneeling at the hearth when he entered. Everyone was out but her. She looked round at him, flushed, her dark eyes shining, her finehair falling about her face.

　　"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 bookfrom his pocket.

　　"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,half tremulously, 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, wherethe big milk-cans were standing, tipped up, to air. The men werein the cowsheds. He could hear the little sing-song of the milkspurting into the pails. Presently she came, bringing some biggreenish 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 putdown 'a' instead of '2' or '6'."

　　They worked, he talking, she with her head down on the book. He was quick and hasty. She never answered. Occasionally, when hedemanded of her, "Do you see?" she looked up at him, her eyes widewith the half-laugh that comes of fear. "Don't you?" he cried.

　　He had been too fast. But she said nothing. He questionedher more, then got hot. It made his blood rouse to see her there,as it were, at his mercy, her mouth open, her eyes dilated withlaughter that was afraid, apologetic, ashamed. Then Edgar camealong with two buckets of milk.

　　"Hello!" he said. "What are you doing?"

　　"Algebra," replied Paul.

　　"Algebra!" repeated Edgar curiously. Then he passed on witha laugh. Paul took a bite at his forgotten apple, looked at themiserable cabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls,and he wanted to pull them up. Then he glanced at Miriam. She was poring over the book, seemed absorbed in it, yet tremblinglest she could not get at it. It made him cross. She was ruddyand beautiful. Yet her soul seemed to be intensely supplicating. The algebra-book she closed, shrinking, knowing he was angered;and at the same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurt because she didnot understand.

　　But things came slowly to her. And when she held herselfin a grip, seemed so utterly humble before the lesson, it made hisblood rouse. He stormed at her, got ashamed, continued the lesson,and grew furious again, abusing her. She listened in silence. Occasionally, very rarely, she defended herself. Her liquid darkeyes 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 the lessons went. He was always either in a rage or very gentle.

　　"What do you tremble your SOUL before it for?" he cried. "You don't learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you lookat it with your clear simple wits?"

　　Often, when he went again into the kitchen, Mrs. Leivers wouldlook at him reproachfully, saying:

　　"Paul, don't be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick,but I'm sure she 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, Idon't mind."

　　"Don't mind me; it's my fault."

　　But, in spite of himself, his blood began to boil with her. It was strange 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 turned her face slightly aside.

　　"I didn't---" he began, but got no farther, feeling weak inall his bones. She never reproached him or was angry with him. He was often cruelly ashamed. But still again his anger burstlike a bubble surcharged; and still, when he saw her eager, silent,as it were, blind face, he felt he wanted to throw the pencilin it; and still, when he saw her hand trembling and her mouthparted with suffering, his heart was scalded with pain for her. And because of the intensity to which she roused him, he sought her.

　　Then he often avoided her and went with Edgar. Miriam andher brother were naturally antagonistic. Edgar was a rationalist,who was curious, and had a sort of scientific interest in life. It was a great bitterness to Miriam to see herself deserted by Paulfor Edgar, who seemed so much lower. But the youth was very happywith her elder brother. The two men spent afternoons togetheron the land or in the loft doing carpentry, when it rained. And they talked together, or Paul taught Edgar the songs he himselfhad 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 as these were as yet his own, he argued for her. Miriam attendedand took part, but was all the time waiting until it should be overand a personal communication might begin.

　　"After all," she said within herself, "if the landwere nationalized, Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same." So she waited for the youth to come back to her.

　　He was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home,alone with his mother, at night, working and working. She sewedor read. Then, looking up from his task, he would rest his eyesfor a moment on her face, that was bright with living warmth,and he returned gladly to his work.

　　"I can do my best things when you sit there in yourrocking-chair, mother," he said.

　　"I'm sure!" she exclaimed, sniffing with mock scepticism. But she felt it was so, and her heart quivered with brightness. For many hours she sat still, slightly conscious of him labouring away,whilst she worked or read her book. And he, with all his soul'sintensity directing his pencil, could feel her warmth inside himlike strength. They were both very happy so, and both unconsciousof it. These times, that meant so much, and which were real living,they almost ignored.

　　He was conscious only when stimulated. A sketch finished,he always wanted to take it to Miriam. Then he was stimulatedinto knowledge of the work he had produced unconsciously. In contact with Miriam he gained insight; his vision went deeper. From his mother he drew the life-warmth, the strength to produce;Miriam urged this warmth into intensity 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's provision--returning in the evening. Then the factoryclosed at six instead of eight on Thursday and Friday evenings.

　　One evening in the summer Miriam and he went over the fieldsby Herod's Farm on their way from the library home. So it wasonly three miles to Willey Farm. There was a yellow glow over themowing-grass, and the sorrel-heads burned crimson. Gradually, as theywalked along the high land, the gold in the west sank down to red,the red to crimson, and then the chill blue crept up against the glow.

　　They came out upon the high road to Alfreton, which ranwhite between the darkening fields. There Paul hesitated. It was two miles home for him, one mile forward for Miriam. They both looked up the road that ran in shadow right under theglow of the north-west sky. On the crest of the hill, Selby,with its stark houses and the up-pricked headstocks of the 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 a coolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honeysuckle,and a twilight. The two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully there,among the throng of dark tree-trunks. He looked round, expectant.

　　She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush shehad discovered. She knew it was wonderful. And yet,till he had seen it, she felt it had not come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She was dissatisfied.

　　Dew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mistwas rising, and he hesitated, wondering whether one whitenesswere a strand of fog or only campion-flowers pallid in a cloud.

　　By the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting veryeager and very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not beable to find it; and she wanted it so much. Almost passionatelyshe wanted to be with him when be stood before the flowers. They were going to have a communion together--something thatthrilled her, something holy. He was walking beside her in silence. They were very near to each other. She trembled, and he listened,vaguely anxious.

　　Coming to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front,like mother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on theoutermost branches 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 wide walk between the pines, gazing rather frightened,she could distinguish nothing for some moments; the greying lightrobbed things of their colour. Then she saw her bush.

　　"Ah!" she cried, hastening forward.

　　It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown its briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its longstreamers trailed thick, right down to the grass, splashing thedarkness everywhere with great spilt stars, pure white. In bossesof ivory and in large splashed stars the roses gleamed on thedarkness of foliage and stems and grass. Paul and Miriam stoodclose together, silent, and watched. Point after point the steadyroses shone out to them, seeming to kindle something in their souls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out the roses.

　　Paul looked into Miriam's eyes. She was pale and expectantwith wonder, her lips were parted, and her dark eyes lay open to him. His look seemed to travel down into her. Her soul quivered. It was the communion she wanted. He turned aside, as if pained. He turned to the bush.

　　"They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake themselves,"he said.

　　She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy,others expanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her hand impulsively to the flowers; she went forwardand touched them in worship.

　　"Let us go," he said.

　　There was a cool scent of ivory roses--a white, virgin scent. Something made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walkedin silence.

　　"Till Sunday," he said quietly, and left her; and she walkedhome slowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of the night. He stumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood,in the free open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to runas fast as he could. It was like a delicious delirium in his veins.

　　Always when he went with Miriam, and it grew rather late, he knewhis mother was fretting and getting angry about him--why, he couldnot understand. As he went into the house, flinging down his cap,his mother looked up at the clock. She had been sitting thinking,because a chill to her eyes prevented her reading. She could feelPaul being drawn away by this girl. And she did not care for Miriam. "She is one of those who will want to suck a man's soul out tillhe has none of his own left," she said to herself; "and he is justsuch a gaby as to let himself be absorbed. She will never let himbecome 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 hair was damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowningin his heavy fashion, resentfully.

　　"She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can't get awayfrom her, but must go trailing eight miles at this time of night."

　　He was hurt between the past glamour with Miriam and theknowledge that his mother fretted. He had meant not to say anything,to refuse to answer. But he could not harden his heart to ignorehis 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 it was too far for you to go trailing, late at night,when you've been to Nottingham. Besides"--her voice suddenly flashedinto anger and contempt--"it is disgusting--bitsof 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 thesarcastic rejoinder.

　　Paul snapped at the laces of his boots angrily.

　　"What are you so mad about?" he asked. "Because you don'tlike her."

　　"I don't say I don't like her. But I don't hold with childrenkeeping company, 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 motherlooked tired. She was never so strong after William's death;and her eyes hurt her.

　　"Well," he said, "it's so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleathasked about you. 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 beforequarter-past ten."

　　"Oh, yes, I should!"

　　"Oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeablewith me, wouldn't you?"

　　He kissed her forehead that he knew so well: the deep marksbetween the brows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, and theproud setting of the temples. His hand lingered on her shoulderafter his kiss. Then he went slowly to bed. He had forgotten Miriam;he only saw how his mother'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. Mymother gets 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 getup early."

　　"Very well!" said Miriam, rather quietly, with just a touchof a sneer.

　　He resented that. And he was usually late again.

　　That there was any love growing between him and Miriam neitherof them would have acknowledged. He thought he was too sane forsuch sentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. They both werelate in coming to maturity, and psychical ripeness was much behindeven the physical. Miriam was exceedingly sensitive, as her motherhad always been. The slightest grossness made her recoil almostin anguish. Her brothers were brutal, but never coarse in speech. The men did all the discussing of farm matters outside. But, perhaps,because of the continual business of birth and of begetting which goeson upon every farm, Miriam was the more hypersensitive to the matter,and her blood was chastened almost to disgust of the faintestsuggestion of such intercourse. Paul took his pitch from her,and their intimacy went on in an utterly blanched and chaste fashion. It could never be mentioned that the mare was in foal.

　　When he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a week,but he was happy. His painting went well, and life went well enough. On the Good Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock Stone. There were three lads of his own age, then Annie and Arthur,Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur, apprenticed as an electricianin Nottingham, was home for the holiday. Morel, as usual, was up early,whistling and sawing in the yard. At seven o'clock the family heardhim buy threepennyworth of hot-cross buns; he talked with gustoto the little girl who brought them, calling her "my darling". Heturned away several boys who came with more buns, telling themthey had been "kested" by a little lass. Then Mrs. Morel got up,and the family straggled down. It was an immense luxury to everybody,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. The room was warm. Everything felt free of care and anxiety. There was a sense of plenty in the house.

　　While the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. They were now in another house, an old one, near the ScargillStreet home, which had been left soon after William had died.Directly came an excited cry from the garden:

　　"Paul! Paul! come and look!"

　　It was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went out. There was a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold day,with a sharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields awayBestwood began, with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of whichrose the church tower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel. And beyond went woods and hills, right away to the pale grey heightsof the Pennine Chain.

　　Paul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appearedamong the young 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 ravel of poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature bulbs,and three scyllas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep blue flowers.

　　"Now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "I was looking atthe currant bushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's somethingvery blue; is it a bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories of the 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 weedand blade in this garden. But HAVEN'T they done well? You see,that gooseberry-bush just shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!"

　　He crouched down and turned up the bells of the littleblue flowers.

　　"They're a glorious colour!" he said.

　　"Aren't they!" she cried. "I guess they come from Switzerland,where they say they have such lovely things. Fancy them againstthe snow! But where have they come from? They can't have BLOWN here,can they?"

　　Then he remembered having set here a lot of little trashof bulbs to mature.

　　"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 neverhad a glory of the snow in my garden in my life."

　　She was full of excitement and elation. The garden wasan endless joy to her. Paul was thankful for her sake at lastto be in a house with a long garden that went down to a field. Every morning after breakfast she went out and was happy potteringabout in it. And it was true, she knew every weed and blade.

　　Everybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and theyset off, a merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of themill-race, dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunneland watched it shoot out on the other. They stood on the foot-bridgeover Boathouse Station and looked at the metals gleaming coldly.

　　"You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six!"said Leonard, whose father was a signalman. "Lad, but she doesn'thalf buzz!" and the little party looked up the lines one way,to London, and the other way, to Scotland, and they felt the touchof these two magical places.

　　In Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for thepublic-houses to open. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton Gate the iron foundry blazed. Over everything there weregreat discussions. At Trowell they crossed again from Derbyshireinto Nottinghamshire. They came to the Hemlock Stone at dinner-time.Its field was crowded with folk from Nottingham and Ilkeston.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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