CHAPTER XI

　　They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens came scampering down the path to her. He locked the door, and they had the little house to themselves.

　　He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he wasunfastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was blindwith it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imagined. He stood unable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half-smilingwith wonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went forward to her,her hands lifted in a little pleading movement, and he lookedat her face, and stopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him,still and resigned and loving; she lay as if she had given herself upto sacrifice: there was her body for him; but the look at the backof her eyes, like a creature awaiting immolation, arrested him,and all his blood fell back.

　　"You are sure you want me?" he asked, as if a cold shadowhad come over him.

　　"Yes, quite sure."

　　She was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that shewas doing something for him. He could hardly bear it. She layto be sacrificed for him because she loved him so much. And he hadto sacrifice her. For a second, he wished he were sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes again to her, and his blood beat back again.

　　And afterwards he loved her--loved her to the last fibreof his being. He loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was something he could not bear for her sake. He stayedwith her till quite late at night. As he rode home he felt thathe was finally initiated. He was a youth no longer. But whyhad he the dull pain in his soul? Why did the thought of death,the after-life, seem so sweet and consoling?

　　He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passionbefore it was gone. He had always, almost wilfully, to put her outof count, and act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not do it often, and there remained afterwards alwaysthe sense of failure and of death. If he were really with her,he had to put aside himself and his desire. If he would have her,he had to put her aside.

　　"When I come to you," he asked her, his eyes dark with painand shame, "you don't really want me, do you?"

　　"Ah, yes!" she replied quickly.

　　He looked at her.

　　"Nay," he said.

　　She began to tremble.

　　"You see," she said, taking his face and shutting it outagainst her shoulder--"you see--as we are--how can I get used to you? It would come all right if we were married."

　　He lifted her head, and looked at her.

　　"You mean, now, it is always too much shock?"

　　"Yes--and---"

　　"You are always clenched against me."

　　She was trembling with agitation.

　　"You see," she said, "I'm not used to the thought---"

　　"You are lately," he said.

　　"But all my life. Mother said to me: 'There is one thingin marriage that is always dreadful, but you have to bear it.' And I believed it."

　　"And still believe it," he said.

　　"No!" she cried hastily. "I believe, as you do, that loving,even in THAT way, is the high-water mark of living."

　　"That doesn't alter the fact that you never want it."

　　"No," she said, taking his head in her arms and rocking in despair. "Don't say so! You don't understand." She rocked with pain. "Don't I want your children?"

　　"But not me."

　　"How can you say so? But we must be married to have children---"

　　"Shall we be married, then? I want you to have my children."

　　He kissed her hand reverently. She pondered sadly, watching him.

　　"We are too young," she said at length.

　　"Twenty-four and twenty-three---"

　　"Not yet," she pleaded, as she rocked herself in distress.

　　"When you will," he said.

　　She bowed her head gravely. The tone of hopelessness inwhich he said these things grieved her deeply. It had always beena failure between them. Tacitly, she acquiesced in what he felt.

　　And after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly oneSunday night, just as they were going to bed:

　　"I shan't go so much to Miriam's, mother."

　　She was surprised, but she would not ask him anything.

　　"You please yourself," she said.

　　So he went to bed. But there was a new quietness abouthim which she had wondered at. She almost guessed. She wouldleave him alone, however. Precipitation might spoil things. She watched him in his loneliness, wondering where he would end. He was sick, and much too quiet for him. There was a perpetual littleknitting of his brows, such as she had seen when he was a small baby,and which had been gone for many years. Now it was the same again. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go on alone, make hisown way.

　　He continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved herutterly. But it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. At first it was only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could notgo on. He wanted to run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he ceasedto ask her to have him. Instead of drawing them together, it putthem apart. And then he realised, consciously, that it was no good. It was useless trying: it would never be a success between them.

　　For some months he had seen very little of Clara. They hadoccasionally walked out for half an hour at dinner-time. But he alwaysreserved himself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his brow cleared,and he was gay again. She treated him indulgently, as if he werea child. He thought he did not mind. But deep below the surfaceit piqued him.

　　Sometimes Miriam said:

　　"What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately."

　　"I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday," he replied.

　　"And what did she talk about?"

　　"I don't know. I suppose I did all the jawing--I usually do. I think I was telling her about the strike, and how the womentook it."

　　"Yes."

　　So he gave the account of himself.

　　But insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he feltfor Clara drew him away from Miriam, for whom he felt responsible,and to whom he felt he belonged. He thought he was being quitefaithful to her. It was not easy to estimate exactly the strengthand warmth of one's feelings for a woman till they have run awaywith one.

　　He began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessop,at the art school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstratorat the university; Newton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar andMiriam's younger brothers. Pleading work, he sketched and studiedwith Jessop. He called in the university for Swain, and the two went"down town" together. Having come home in the train with Newton,he called and had a game of billiards with him in the Moonand Stars. If he gave to Miriam the excuse of his men friends,he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved. He always told her where he had been.

　　During the summer Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cottonstuff with loose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleevesfell back, and her beautiful strong arms shone out.

　　"Half a minute," he cried. "Hold your arm still."

　　He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawingscontained some of the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always went scrupulously through his books and papers,saw the drawings.

　　"I think Clara has such beautiful arms," he said.

　　"Yes! When did you draw them?"

　　"On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I've got a cornerwhere I can work. Often I can do every single thing they needin the department, before dinner. Then I work for myselfin the afternoon, and just see to things at night."

　　"Yes," she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book.

　　Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forwardand pored over his things. He hated her way of patiently castinghim up, as if he were an endless psychological account. When hewas with her, he hated her for having got him, and yet not got him,and he tortured her. She took all and gave nothing, he said. At least,she gave no living warmth. She was never alive, and giving off life. Looking for her was like looking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience, not his mate. He hated her violently,and was more cruel to her. They dragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara.

　　At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at homeone evening. There was between him and his mother a peculiar conditionof people frankly finding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel wasstrong on her feet again. He was not going to stick to Miriam. Very well; then she would stand aloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, this bursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. This evening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense. He worked feverishly and mechanically,so that he could escape from himself. It grew late. Through theopen door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost asif it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got up and went out of doors.

　　The beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half-moon,dusky gold, was sinking behind the black sycamore at the end ofthe garden, making the sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a dimwhite fence of lilies went across the garden, and the air all roundseemed to stir with scent, as if it were alive. He went acrossthe bed of pinks, whose keen perfume came sharply across the rocking,heavy scent of the lilies, and stood alongside the white barrierof flowers. They flagged all loose, as if they were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field to watchthe moon sink under.

　　A corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moonslid quite quickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind himthe great flowers leaned as if they were calling. And then,like a shock, he caught another perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round, he found the purple iris, touched their fleshy throatsand their dark, grasping hands. At any rate, he had found something. They stood stiff in the darkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon the crest of the hill. It was gone;all was dark. The corncrake called still.

　　Breaking off a pink, he suddenly went indoors.

　　"Come, my boy," said his mother. "I'm sure it's time you wentto bed."

　　He stood with the pink against his lips.

　　"I shall break off with Miriam, mother," he answered calmly.

　　She looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring backat her, unswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took offher glasses. He was white. The male was up in him, dominant. She did not want to see him too clearly.

　　"But I thought---" she began.

　　"Well," he answered, "I don't love her. I don't want to marryher--so I shall have done."

　　"But," exclaimed his mother, amazed, "I thought lately youhad made up your mind to have her, and so I said nothing."

　　"I had--I wanted to--but now I don't want. It's no good. I shall break off on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I?"

　　"You know best. You know I said so long ago."

　　"I can't help that now. I shall break off on Sunday."

　　"Well," said his mother, "I think it will be best. But latelyI decided you had made up your mind to have her, so I said nothing,and should have said nothing. But I say as I have always said,I DON'T think she is suited to you."

　　"On Sunday I break off," he said, smelling the pink. He put the flower in his mouth. Unthinking, he bared his teeth,closed them on the blossom slowly, and had a mouthful of petals. These he spat into the fire, kissed his mother, and went to bed.

　　On Sunday he went up to the farm in the early afternoon. He had written Miriam that they would walk over the fields to Hucknall. His mother was very tender with him. He said nothing. But shesaw the effort it was costing. The peculiar set look on his facestilled her.

　　"Never mind, my son," she said. "You will be so much betterwhen it is all over. "

　　Paul glanced swiftly at his mother in surprise and resentment. He did not want sympathy.

　　Miriam met him at the lane-end. She was wearing a new dressof figured muslin that had short sleeves. Those short sleeves,and Miriam's brown-skinned arms beneath them--such pitiful, resignedarms--gave him so much pain that they helped to make him cruel. She had made herself look so beautiful and fresh for him. She seemedto blossom for him alone. Every time he looked at her--a mature youngwoman now, and beautiful in her new dress--it hurt so much that hisheart seemed almost to be bursting with the restraint he put on it. But he had decided, and it was irrevocable.

　　On the hills they sat down, and he lay with his head in her lap,whilst she fingered his hair. She knew that "he was not there,"as she put it. Often, when she had him with her, she looked for him,and could not find him. But this afternoon she was not prepared.

　　It was nearly five o'clock when he told her. They were sittingon the bank of a stream, where the lip of turf hung over a hollowbank of yellow earth, and he was hacking away with a stick, as hedid when he was perturbed and cruel.

　　"I have been thinking," he said, "we ought to break off."

　　"Why?" she cried in surprise.

　　"Because it's no good going on."

　　"Why is it no good?"

　　"It isn't. I don't want to marry. I don't want ever to marry. And if we're not going to marry, it's no good going on."

　　"But why do you say this now?"

　　"Because I've made up my mind."

　　"And what about these last months, and the things you toldme then?"

　　"I can't help it! I don't want to go on."

　　"You don't want any more of me?"

　　"I want us to break off--you be free of me, I free of you."

　　"And what about these last months?"

　　"I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thoughtwas true."

　　"Then why are you different now?"

　　"I'm not--I'm the same--only I know it's no good going on."

　　"You haven't told me why it's no good."

　　"Because I don't want to go on--and I don't want to marry."

　　"How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn't?"

　　"I know; but I want us to break off."

　　There was silence for a moment or two, while he dug viciously atthe earth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasonable child. He was like an infant which, when it has drunk its fill, throws awayand smashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she could get holdof him and WRING some consistency out of him. But she was helpless. Then she cried:

　　"I have said you were only fourteen--you are only FOUR!"

　　He still dug at the earth viciously. He heard.

　　"You are a child of four," she repeated in her anger.

　　He did not answer, but said in his heart: "All right;if I'm a child of four, what do you want me for? I don't wantanother mother." But he said nothing to her, and there was silence.

　　"And have you told your people?" she asked.

　　"I have told my mother."

　　There was another long interval of silence.

　　"Then what do you WANT?" she asked.

　　"Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other allthese years; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you,and you will go your way without me. You will have an independentlife of your own then."

　　There was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness,she could not help registering. She knew she felt in a sort ofbondage to him, which she hated because she could not control it. She hated her love for him from the moment it grew too strongfor her. And, deep down, she had hated him because she lovedhim and he dominated her. She had resisted his domination. She had fought to keep herself free of him in the last issue. And she was free of him, even more than he of her.

　　"And," he continued, "we shall always be more or lesseach other's work. You have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us start and live by ourselves."

　　"What do you want to do?" she asked.

　　"Nothing--only to be free," he answered.

　　She, however, knew in her heart that Clara's influence wasover him to liberate him. But she said nothing.

　　"And what have I to tell my mother?" she asked.

　　"I told my mother," he answered, "that I was breaking off--cleanand altogether."

　　"I shall not tell them at home," she said.

　　Frowning, "You please yourself," he said.

　　He knew he had landed her in a nasty hole, and was leavingher in the lurch. It angered him.

　　"Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken off,"he said. "It's true enough."

　　She bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She had known it would come to this; she had seen it all along. It chimed with her bitter expectation.

　　"Always--it has always been so!" she cried. "It has beenone long battle between us--you fighting away from me."

　　It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heart stood still. Was this how she saw it?

　　"But we've had SOME perfect hours, SOME perfect times,when we were together!" he pleaded.

　　"Never!" she cried; "never! It has always been you fightingme off."

　　"Not always--not at first!" he pleaded.

　　"Always, from the very beginning--always the same!"

　　She had finished, but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wanted to say: "It has been good, but it is at an end." And she--she whose love he had believed in when he had despisedhimself--denied that their love had ever been love. "He hadalways fought away from her?" Then it had been monstrous. There had never been anything really between them; all the timehe had been imagining something where there was nothing. And shehad known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She had known all the time. All the time this was at the bottomof her!

　　He sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appearedin a cynical aspect to him. She had really played with him,not he with her. She had hidden all her condemnation from him,had flattered him, and despised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel.

　　"You ought to marry a man who worships you," he said; "then youcould do as you liked with him. Plenty of men will worship you,if you get on the private side of their natures. You ought to marryone such. They would never fight you off."

　　"Thank you!" she said. "But don't advise me to marry someoneelse any more. You've done it before."

　　"Very well," he said; "I will say no more."

　　He sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow, instead ofgiving one. Their eight years of friendship and love, THE eightyears of his life, were nullified.

　　"When did you think of this?" she asked.

　　"I thought definitely on Thursday night."

　　"I knew it was coming," she said.

　　That pleased him bitterly. "Oh, very well! If she knew thenit doesn't come as a surprise to her," he thought.

　　"And have you said anything to Clara?" she asked.

　　"No; but I shall tell her now."

　　There was a silence.

　　"Do you remember the things you said this time last year,in my grandmother's house--nay last month even?"

　　"Yes," he said; "I do! And I meant them! I can't helpthat it's failed."

　　"It has failed because you want something else."

　　"It would have failed whether or not. YOU never believedin me."

　　She laughed strangely.

　　He sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she haddeceived him. She had despised him when he thought she worshipped him. She had let him say wrong things, and had not contradicted him. She had let him fight alone. But it stuck in his throat that she haddespised him whilst he thought she worshipped him. She should havetold him when she found fault with him. She had not played fair. He hated her. All these years she had treated him as if he werea hero, and thought of him secretly as an infant, a foolish child. Then why had she left the foolish child to his folly? His heart washard against her.

　　She sat full of bitterness. She had known--oh, well shehad known! All the time he was away from her she had summedhim up, seen his littleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soul against him. She was not overthrown,not prostrated, not even much hurt. She had known. Only why,as he sat there, had he still this strange dominance over her? His very movements fascinated her as if she were hypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean. Why this bondagefor her? Why was it the movement of his arm stirred her as nothingelse in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why, even now,if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey? She would obey him in his trifling commands. But once he was obeyed,then she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would. She was sure of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he wasnot a man! He was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachment of his soul would not keep him. Very well,he would have to go. But he would come back when he had tired of hisnew sensation.

　　He hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She rose. He sat flinging lumps of earth in the stream.

　　"We will go and have tea here?" he asked.

　　"Yes," she answered.

　　They chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea. He held forth on the love of ornament--the cottage parlour moved himthereto--and its connection with aesthetics. She was cold and quiet. As they walked home, she asked:

　　"And we shall not see each other?"

　　"No--or rarely," he answered.

　　"Nor write?" she asked, almost sarcastically.

　　"As you will," he answered. "We're not strangers--nevershould be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You please yourself."

　　"I see!" she answered cuttingly.

　　But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made a great cleavage in his life. He had had a great shockwhen she had told him their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mattered. If it never had been much, there was no needto make a fuss that it was ended.

　　He left her at the lane-end. As she went home, solitary,in her new frock, having her people to face at the other end,he stood still with shame and pain in the highroad, thinking ofthe suffering he caused her.

　　In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he wentinto the Willow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who hadbeen out for the day, drinking a modest glass of port. They hadsome chocolates on the table. Paul sat near with his whisky. He noticed the girls whispering and nudging. Presently one,a bonny dark hussy, leaned to him and said:

　　"Have a chocolate?"

　　The others laughed loudly at her impudence.

　　"All right," said Paul. "Give me a hard one--nut. I don'tlike creams."

　　"Here you are, then," said the girl; "here's an almond for you."

　　She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. She popped it in, and blushed.

　　"You ARE nice!" he said.

　　"Well," she answered, "we thought you looked overcast,and they dared me offer you a chocolate."

　　"I don't mind if I have another--another sort," he said.

　　And presently they were all laughing together.

　　It was nine o'clock when he got home, falling dark. He enteredthe house in silence. His mother, who had been waiting,rose anxiously.

　　"I told her," he said.

　　"I'm glad," replied the mother, with great relief.

　　He hung up his cap wearily.

　　"I said we'd have done altogether," he said.

　　"That's right, my son," said the mother. "It's hard for her now,but best in the long run. I know. You weren't suited for her."

　　He laughed shakily as he sat down.

　　"I've had such a lark with some girls in a pub," he said.

　　His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He toldher about the girls in the Willow Tree. Mrs. Morel looked at him. It seemed unreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much horrorand misery.

　　"Now have some supper," she said very gently.

　　Afterwards he said wistfully:

　　"She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first,and so she's not disappointed."

　　"I'm afraid," said his mother, "she doesn't give up hopesof you yet."

　　"No," he said, "perhaps not."

　　"You'll find it's better to have done," she said.

　　"I don't know," he said desperately.

　　"Well, leave her alone," replied his mother. So he left her,and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and she for veryfew people. She remained alone with herself, waiting.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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