CHAPTER VIII

　　The stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers,silver upon the blackness, as he spun past. Then there was the longclimb home.

　　"See, mother!" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaveson to the table.

　　"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'll come."

　　He was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merelyMiriam she objected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed.

　　Paul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was gladto see them coming. They arrived home at about four o'clock.Everywhere was clean and still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Morel satin her black dress and black apron. She rose to meet the visitors. With Edgar she was cordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging. Yet Paul thought the girl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock.

　　He helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would havegladly proffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. There was about it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The chairs were only wooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrugand cushions were cosy; the pictures were prints in good taste;there was a simplicity in everything, and plenty of books. He was never ashamed in the least of his home, nor was Miriamof hers, because both were what they should be, and warm. And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty,the cloth was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were notsilver nor the knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managed wonderfully while her children were growing up,so that nothing was out of 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 never went to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs. Morel,like a little champion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul at the other end;and at first Miriam sat next to him. Then the chapel was like home. It was a pretty place, with dark pews and slim, elegant pillars,and flowers. And the same people had sat in the same places eversince he was a boy. It was wonderfully sweet and soothing to sitthere for an hour and a half, next to Miriam, and near to his mother,uniting his two loves under the spell of the place of worship. Then he felt warm and happy and religious at once. And afterchapel he walked home with Miriam, whilst Mrs. Morel spent the restof the evening with her old friend, Mrs. Burns. He was keenlyalive on his walks on Sunday nights with Edgar and Miriam. He never went past the pits at night, by the lighted lamp-house,the tall black headstocks and lines of trucks, past the fans spinningslowly like shadows, without the feeling of Miriam returning to him,keen and almost unbearable.

　　She did not very long occupy the Morels' pew. Her father tookone for themselves once more. It was under the little gallery,opposite the Morels'. When Paul and his mother came in the chapelthe Leivers's pew was always empty. He was anxious for fear she wouldnot come: it was so far, 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 under her bat of dark green velvet. Her face, as she sat opposite, was always in shadow. But it gavehim a very keen feeling, as if all his soul stirred 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 morewonderful, 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 was twenty-one, and she was twenty. She was beginningto 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 Miriamsuffered exquisite pain, as, with an intellect like a knife, the manshe loved examined her religion in which she lived and moved and hadher being. But he did not spare her. He was cruel. And when theywent 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 notlike an ordinary woman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She wants to draw him out and absorbhim 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 wildwith torture. He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists,going at a great rate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood forsome minutes, and did not move. There was a great hollow of darknessfronting 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 didhe hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thoughtof his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then hehated her--and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feelas if he were uncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing,as if he had not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night and thespace breaking into him? How he hated her! And then, what a rushof tenderness and humility!

　　Suddenly he plunged on again, running home. His mothersaw 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 himfor 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'vetried 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 intenseand cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then came thehours when he knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother watchedhim growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He coulddo nothing. It was as if something were drawing his soul out towardsWilley 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 wayhe 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 Miriamsitting beside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, so brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stolealong 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 giveher passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that she wantedthe soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and energyshe 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 werefingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life,as she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the endit 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 handon his forehead.

　　He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body wassomewhere 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 Iwant it."

　　He went on, in his dead fashion:

　　"If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel offfor 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 toblame himself. This, however, did not prevent his hating her.

　　One evening about this time he had walked along the home roadwith her. They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood,unable to part. As the stars came out the clouds closed. They hadglimpses of their own constellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a moment, his dog ran low, struggling withdifficulty 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 justan ordinary constellation to him. He had fought against his glamourand 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 whichthe 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 caremore 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 aneffort. 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 blownabout 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 Paulremained with Mr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages wereto 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 atthe thought of her education's coming to end; moreover, they bothloved 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 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'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 theweek's earnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner,prepared to get washed. It was decorum for the women to absentthemselves while the men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spyinto such a masculine privacy as the butties' reckoning, nor were theyto know the exact amount of the week's earnings. So, whilst herfather was spluttering in the scullery, Annie went out to spendan 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 thyjaw rattle," he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Pauland the mother frowned to hear him.

　　Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapywater 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 hewould have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels beforethe 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 throughyour 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 thatthere were, perhaps, too many blue scars, like tattoo-marks, where thecoal-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 be 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 theincongruity 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 himselfup as if he was trying to get in the smallest space he could."

　　"Me!" exclaimed Morel--"me a good figure! I wor niver muchmore 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 lookedas if I wor goin' off in a rapid decline."

　　She sat and laughed.

　　"You've had a constitution like iron," she said; "and nevera man had a better start, if it was body that counted. You shouldhave 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 shehad 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 iton 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 anythingso 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 hispit-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 cowdas 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 Annieand her familiar friends had been present.

　　Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the redearthenware panchion of dough that stood in a corner she tookanother handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and droppedit 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 gothrough a stone wall. His black hair was cropped short, his headwas bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but healthy and taut.

　　"Evenin', missis," he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seatedhimself 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 prettymiddlin', 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'sgroceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. "Barker's little, but he's ten times the man you are," she saidto 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 comeon 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 youhave 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 bagupside down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver,sovereigns and loose money. He counted quickly, referred to thechecks--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 backto the hot fire. The two butties had cooler seats. None of themcounted the money.

　　"What did we say Simpson's was?" asked Morel; and the buttiescavilled for a minute over the dayman's earnings. Then the amountwas 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 shillingtill there were no more shillings. If there was anything at the endthat wouldn't split, Morel took it and stood drinks.

　　Then the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the housebefore his wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She looked hastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing onthe table, she saw her money lying. Paul had been working allthe 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 muchwas the cheque?"

　　"Ten pounds eleven," said Paul irritably. He dreaded whatwas coming.

　　"And he gives me a scrattlin' twenty-five, an'his club this week! But I know him. He thinks becauseYOU'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 thinkI'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 putup 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 beganto insist on her recognizing him.

　　"The two loaves at the top," she said, "will be donein twenty minutes. Don't forget them."

　　"All right," he answered; and she went to market.

　　He remained alone working. But his usual intense concentrationbecame unsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-pastseven 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 thatwas his, searching him out. He went into the parlour and returnedwith 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 darkgreen stems, all so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay ather feet. She went on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched voluptuously before his work, and his heartbeat 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 uphis 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 thinkshe'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 returnedhe threw to Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-coverwith 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 herpainted 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 hiswork to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went intothis 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 loavesstood 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 bootshad 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 lovelaughs 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 didnot see it.

　　"'Among other things,' I believe," she said humbly.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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