CHAPTER IX

　　She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument,but could not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel had gone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey Farm.

　　Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something elsehe wanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There was between them now always a ground for strife.She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in lifewas herself. If she could prove it, both to herself and to him,the rest might go; she could simply trust to the future.

　　So in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meetMrs. Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him,whenever they spoke of Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like her. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to the test. She believed that therewere in him desires for higher things, and desires for lower, and thatthe desire for the higher would conquer. At any rate, he should try. She forgot that her "higher" and "lower" were arbitrary.

　　He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. Mrs. Dawes came for the day. Her heavy, dun-coloured hair wascoiled on top of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt,and somehow, wherever she was, seemed to make things look paltryand insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen seemedtoo small and mean altogether. Miriam's beautiful twilightyparlour looked stiff and stupid. All the Leivers were eclipsedlike candles. They found her rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but indifferent, and rather hard.

　　Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swungoff his bicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be disappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam wentout to meet him, bowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming out crimson under the cool green shadowof their leaves. The girl stood, dark-haired, glad to see him.

　　"Hasn't Clara come?" he asked.

　　"Yes," replied Miriam in her musical tone. "She's reading."

　　He wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had puton a handsome tie, of which he was rather proud, and socks to match.

　　"She came this morning?" he asked.

　　"Yes," replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. "You said you'dbring me that letter from the man at Liberty's. Have you remembered?"

　　"Oh, dash, no!" he said. "But nag at me till you get it."

　　"I don't like to nag at you."

　　"Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?"he continued.

　　"You know I always think she is quite agreeable."

　　He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-dayhad been the newcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They wenttogether towards the house. He took the clips off his trousers,but was too lazy to brush the dust from his shoes, in spite of thesocks and tie.

　　Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of herwhite neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking athim indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight,in a manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance,and yet to fling something to him. He noticed how her breastsswelled inside her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomelyunder the thin muslin at the top of her arm.

　　"You have chosen a fine day," he said.

　　"It happens so," she said.

　　"Yes," he said; "I am glad."

　　She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness.

　　"What have you been doing all morning?" asked Paul of Miriam.

　　"Well, you see," said Miriam, coughing huskily, "Clara onlycame with father--and so--she's not been here very long."

　　Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticedher hands were large, but well kept. And the skin on them seemedalmost coarse, opaque, and white, with fine golden hairs. She didnot mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the table. Her mouth was closedas if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted.

　　"You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening,"he said to her.

　　Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him.

　　"Yes," she said.

　　"Why," asked Miriam, "how do you know?"

　　"I went in for a few minutes before the train came," he answered.

　　Clara turned away again rather disdainfully.

　　"I think she's a lovable little woman," said Paul.

　　"Margaret Bonford!" exclaimed Clara. "She's a great dealcleverer than most men."

　　"Well, I didn't say she wasn't," he said, deprecating. "She's lovable for all that."

　　"And, of course, that is all that matters," said Clara witheringly.

　　He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed.

　　"I suppose it matters more than her cleverness," he said;"which, after all, would never get her to heaven."

　　"It's not heaven she wants to get--it's her fair share on earth,"retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for somedeprivation which Miss Bonford suffered.

　　"Well," he said, "I thought she was warm, and awfully nice--onlytoo frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace---"

　　"'Darning her husband's stockings,'" said Clara scathingly.

　　"I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings," he said. "And I'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blackingher boots if she wanted me to."

　　But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talkedto Miriam for a little while. The other woman held aloof.

　　"Well," he said, "I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is heon the land?"

　　"I believe," said Miriam, "he's gone for a load of coal. He should be back directly."

　　"Then," he said, "I'll go and meet him."

　　Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and left them.

　　On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walkinglazily beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred foreheadas she dragged the clanking load of coal. The young farmer's facelighted up as he saw his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark,warm eyes. His clothes were old and rather disreputable, and hewalked with considerable pride.

　　"Hello!" he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. "Where are you going?"

　　"Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore.'"

　　Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement.

　　"Who is 'Nevermore'?" he asked.

　　"The lady--Mrs. Dawes--it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed'Nevermore.'"

　　Edgar laughed with glee.

　　"Don't you like her?" he asked.

　　"Not a fat lot," said Paul. "Why, do you?"

　　"No!" The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. "No!"Edgar pursed up his lips. "I can't say she's much in my line." He mused a little. Then: "But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?"he asked.

　　"Well," said Paul, "if she looks at a man she says haughtily'Nevermore,' and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass shesays disdainfully 'Nevermore,' and if she thinks back she says itin disgust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically."

　　Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it,and said, laughing:

　　"You think she's a man-hater?"

　　"SHE thinks she is," replied Paul.

　　"But you don't think so?"

　　"No," replied Paul.

　　"Wasn't she nice with you, then?"

　　"Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?" asked the young man.

　　Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if shelooked out of the window. She didn't look.

　　On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that camefrom the pelts of Jimmy and Flower.

　　"Do you know a new song to teach me?" said Edgar.

　　He continued to work all the time. The back of his neckwas sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brushwere thick. Paul watched him sometimes.

　　"'Mary Morrison'?" suggested the younger.

　　Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learnall the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could singwhilst he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice,but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a clear tenor. At times they both brokeoff to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused his horse.

　　Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amusethem--even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he couldbe so thoroughly absorbed in a triviality.

　　It was tea-time when they had finished.

　　"What song was that?" asked Miriam.

　　Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing.

　　"We have such jolly times," Miriam said to Clara.

　　Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were present she grew distant.

　　"Do you like singing?" Miriam asked her.

　　"If it is good," she said.

　　Paul, of course, coloured.

　　"You mean if it is high-class and trained?" he said.

　　"I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,"she said.

　　"You might as well insist on having people's voices trainedbefore you allowed them to talk," he replied. "Really, people singfor their own pleasure, as a rule."

　　"And it may be for other people's discomfort."

　　"Then the other people should have flaps to their ears,"he replied.

　　The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply,and ate in silence.

　　After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leiverssaid to Clara:

　　"And you find life happier now?"

　　"Infinitely."

　　"And you are satisfied?"

　　"So long as I can be free and independent."

　　"And you don't MISS anything in your life?"asked Mrs. Leivers gently.

　　"I've put all that behind me."

　　Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up.

　　"You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've putbehind you," he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistledas he went down the brick track.

　　Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go withClara and her for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were going beside the brook, on the Willey Water side,looking through the brake at the edge of the wood, where pink campionsglowed under a few sunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunksand the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay horse throughthe gullies. The big red beast seemed to dance romanticallythrough that dimness of green hazel drift, away therewhere the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past,among the fading bluebells that might have bloomedfor Deidre or Iseult.

　　The three stood charmed.

　　"What a treat to be a knight," he said, "and to havea pavilion here."

　　"And to have us shut up safely?" replied Clara.

　　"Yes," he answered, "singing with your maids at your broidery. I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I wouldhave 'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant."

　　"I have no doubt," said Clara, "that you would much ratherfight for a woman than let her fight for herself."

　　"I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dogbefore a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow."

　　"And YOU are the looking-glass?" she asked, with a curlof the lip.

　　"Or the shadow," he replied.

　　"I am afraid," she said, "that you are too clever."

　　"Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD," he retorted, laughing. "Be good, sweet maid, and just let ME be clever."

　　But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her,he saw that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentlewith Miriam, whom he had neglected till then.

　　At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty,tenant of Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the halter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if hewere tired. The three stood to let him pass over the stepping-stonesof the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal shouldwalk on such springy toes, with an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them.

　　"Tell your father, Miss Leivers," he said, in a peculiarpiping voice, "that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fencethree days an' runnin'."

　　"Which?" asked Miriam, tremulous.

　　The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks,and looking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards fromunder its lowered head and falling mane.

　　"Come along a bit," replied Limb, "an' I'll show you."

　　The man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways,shaking its white fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itselfin the brook.

　　"No hanky-pankyin'," said the man affectionately to the beast.

　　It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely throughthe second brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon,watched it half-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stoppedand pointed to the fence under some willows.

　　"There, you see where they got through," he said. "My man'sdruv 'em back three times."

　　"Yes," answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault.

　　"Are you comin' in?" asked the man.

　　"No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond."

　　"Well, just as you've a mind," he said.

　　The horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home.

　　"He is glad to be back," said Clara, who was interestedin the creature.

　　"Yes--'e's been a tidy step to-day."

　　They went through the gate, and saw approaching them fromthe big farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking womanof about thirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her darkeyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As it saw her, the big bay stallionwhinneyed again. She came up excitedly.

　　"Are you home again, my boy!" she said tenderly to the horse,not to the man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She smuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she hadbeen hiding behind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh of pleasure. She held his head in her armsagainst her breast.

　　"Isn't he splendid!" said Miriam to her.

　　Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul.

　　"Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers," she said. "It's agessince you've been down."

　　Miriam introduced her friends.

　　"Your horse IS a fine fellow!" said Clara.

　　"Isn't he!" Again she kissed him. "As loving as any man!"

　　"More loving than most men, I should think," replied Clara.

　　"He's a nice boy!" cried the woman, again embracing the horse.

　　Clara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck.

　　"He's quite gentle," said Miss Limb. "Don't you think bigfellows are?"

　　"He's a beauty!" replied Clara.

　　She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her.

　　"It's a pity he can't talk," she said.

　　"Oh, but he can--all but," replied the other woman.

　　Then her brother moved on with the horse.

　　"Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr.--I didn't catch it."

　　"Morel," said Miriam. "No, we won't come in, but we shouldlike to go by the mill-pond."

　　"Yes--yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?"

　　"No," said Paul.

　　"Because if you do you might come and fish any time,"said Miss Limb. "We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I should be thankful."

　　"What fish are there in the pond?" he asked.

　　They went through the front garden, over the sluice,and up the steep bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with itstwo wooded islets. Paul walked with Miss Limb.

　　"I shouldn't mind swimming here," he said.

　　"Do," she replied. "Come when you like. My brother will beawfully pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because thereis no one to talk to. Do come and swim."

　　Clara came up.

　　"It's a fine depth," she said, "and so clear."

　　"Yes," said Miss Limb.

　　"Do you swim?" said Paul. "Miss Limb was just saying we couldcome when we liked."

　　"Of course there's the farm-hands," said Miss Limb.

　　They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill,leaving the lonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank.

　　The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky,given over to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then:

　　"She makes me feel uncomfortable," said Paul.

　　"You mean Miss Limb?" asked Miriam. "Yes."

　　"What's a matter with her? Is she going dotty with beingtoo lonely?"

　　"Yes," said Miriam. "It's not the right sort of life for her. I think it's cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and seeher more. But--she upsets me."

　　"She makes me feel sorry for her--yes, and she bothers me,"he said.

　　"I suppose," blurted Clara suddenly, "she wants a man."

　　The other two were silent for a few moments.

　　"But it's the loneliness sends her cracked," said Paul.

　　Clara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walkingwith her hand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked throughthe dead thistles and the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, her handsome body seemed to be blundering upthe hill. A hot wave went over Paul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. He forgot Miriam, who was walkingbeside him talking to him. She glanced at him, finding he did notanswer her. His eyes were fixed ahead on Clara.

　　"Do you still think she is disagreeable?" she asked.

　　He did not notice that the question was sudden. It ranwith his thoughts.

　　"Something's the matter with her," he said.

　　"Yes," answered Miriam.

　　They found at the top of the hill a hidden wild field,two sides of which were backed by the wood, the other sides by highloose hedges of hawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrownbushes were gaps that the cattle might have walked through hadthere been any cattle now. There the turf was smooth as velveteen,padded and holed by the rabbits. The field itself was coarse,and crowded with tall, big cowslips that had never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above the coarsetussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan,fairy shipping.

　　"Ah!" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. He smiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara,a little way off, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayed close together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee, quickly gathering the best blossoms,moving from tuft to tuft restlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers lovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and almost scientific.Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers.He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a rightto them. She had more reverence for them: they held something she had not.

　　The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As he gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her,he said:

　　"Why don't you get some?"

　　"I don't believe in it. They look better growing."

　　"But you'd like some?"

　　"They want to be left."

　　"I don't believe they do."

　　"I don't want the corpses of flowers about me," she said.

　　"That's a stiff, artificial notion," he said. "They don't dieany quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOKnice in a bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpsebecause it looks corpse-like."

　　"Whether it is one or not?" she argued.

　　"It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower."

　　Clara now ignored him.

　　"And even so--what right have you to pull them?" she asked.

　　"Because I like them, and want them--and there's plenty of them."

　　"And that is sufficient?"

　　"Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your roomin Nottingham."

　　"And I should have the pleasure of watching them die."

　　"But then--it does not matter if they do die."

　　Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumpsof tangled flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale,luminous foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling,breathing some scent from the cowslips.

　　"I think," said Miriam, "if you treat them with reverence youdon't do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters."

　　"Yes," he said. "But no, you get 'em because you want 'em,and that's all." He held out his bunch.

　　Miriam was silent. He picked some more.

　　"Look at these!" he continued; "sturdy and lusty like littletrees and like boys with fat legs."

　　Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling,bending forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave hima sharp pang, such a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itselfjust now. Her breasts swung slightly in her blouse. The archingcurve of her back was beautiful and strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering a handful of cowslipsover her hair and neck, saying:

　　 "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, If the Lord won't have you the devil must."

　　The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him,with almost pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on her face, and she shut her eyes.

　　Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.

　　"I thought you wanted a funeral," he said, ill at ease.

　　Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips fromher hair. She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower hadremained tangled in her hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he had sprinkled over her.

　　At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into thefield and stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up to them. He wandered after her. The bluebellspleased him.

　　"Look how they've come out of the wood!" he said.

　　Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.

　　"Yes," she smiled.

　　His blood beat up.

　　"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrifiedthey would be when they got breast to breast with the open space."

　　"Do you think they were?" she asked.

　　"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes--thosebursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light,or those from the open tiptoeing into the forests."

　　"I should think the second," she answered.

　　"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying toforce yourself into the dark, don't you?"

　　"How should I know?" she answered queerly.

　　The conversation ended there.

　　The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley wasfull of shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at CrossleighBank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly, her face in her big, loose bunch of flowers,walking ankle-deep through the scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming into shape, all shadow.

　　"Shall we go?" she asked.

　　And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path they could see the light of home right across,and on the ridge of the hill a thin dark outline with little lights,where the colliery village touched the sky.

　　"It has been nice, hasn't it?" he asked.

　　Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent.

　　"Don't you think so?" he persisted.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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