möbel boss wohnzimmer

chapter vii part 1lad-and-girl love paul had been many times up to willey farmduring the autumn. he was friends with the two youngest boys.edgar the eldest, would not condescend at first. and miriam also refused to be approached.she was afraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers.the girl was romantic in her soul. everywhere was a walter scott heroine beingloved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps. she herself was something of a princessturned into a swine-girl in her own

imagination. and she was afraid lest this boy, who,nevertheless, looked something like a walter scott hero, who could paint andspeak french, and knew what algebra meant, and who went by train to nottingham every day, might consider her simply as theswine-girl, unable to perceive the princess beneath; so she held aloof.her great companion was her mother. they were both brown-eyed, and inclined tobe mystical, such women as treasure religion inside them, breathe it in theirnostrils, and see the whole of life in a mist thereof.

so to miriam, christ and god made one greatfigure, which she loved tremblingly and passionately when a tremendous sunsetburned out the western sky, and ediths, and lucys, and rowenas, brian de bois guilberts, rob roys, and guy mannerings,rustled the sunny leaves in the morning, or sat in her bedroom aloft, alone, when itsnowed. that was life to her. for the rest, she drudged in the house,which work she would not have minded had not her clean red floor been mucked upimmediately by the trampling farm-boots of her brothers.

she madly wanted her little brother of fourto let her swathe him and stifle him in her love; she went to church reverently, withbowed head, and quivered in anguish from the vulgarity of the other choir-girls and from the common-sounding voice of thecurate; she fought with her brothers, whom she considered brutal louts; and she heldnot her father in too high esteem because he did not carry any mystical ideals cherished in his heart, but only wanted tohave as easy a time as he could, and his meals when he was ready for them.she hated her position as swine-girl. she wanted to be considered.

she wanted to learn, thinking that if shecould read, as paul said he could read, "colomba", or the "voyage autour de machambre", the world would have a different face for her and a deepened respect. she could not be princess by wealth orstanding. so she was mad to have learning whereon topride herself. for she was different from other folk, andmust not be scooped up among the common fry.learning was the only distinction to which she thought to aspire. her beauty--that of a shy, wild,quiveringly sensitive thing--seemed nothing

to her.even her soul, so strong for rhapsody, was not enough. she must have something to reinforce herpride, because she felt different from other people.paul she eyed rather wistfully. on the whole, she scorned the male sex. but here was a new specimen, quick, light,graceful, who could be gentle and who could be sad, and who was clever, and who knew alot, and who had a death in the family. the boy's poor morsel of learning exaltedhim almost sky-high in her esteem. yet she tried hard to scorn him, because hewould not see in her the princess but only

the swine-girl. and he scarcely observed her.then he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak.then she would be stronger than he. then she could love him. if she could be mistress of him in hisweakness, take care of him, if he could depend on her, if she could, as it were,have him in her arms, how she would love him! as soon as the skies brightened and plum-blossom was out, paul drove off in the milkman's heavy float up to willey farm.

mr. leivers shouted in a kindly fashion atthe boy, then clicked to the horse as they climbed the hill slowly, in the freshnessof the morning. white clouds went on their way, crowding tothe back of the hills that were rousing in the springtime. the water of nethermere lay below, veryblue against the seared meadows and the thorn-trees.it was four and a half miles' drive. tiny buds on the hedges, vivid as copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes called, and blackbirds shriekedand scolded. it was a new, glamorous world.

miriam, peeping through the kitchen window,saw the horse walk through the big white gate into the farmyard that was backed bythe oak-wood, still bare. then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbeddown. he put up his hands for the whip and therug that the good-looking, ruddy farmer handed down to him. miriam appeared in the doorway.she was nearly sixteen, very beautiful, with her warm colouring, her gravity, hereyes dilating suddenly like an ecstasy. "i say," said paul, turning shyly aside,"your daffodils are nearly out. isn't it early?but don't they look cold?"

"cold!" said miriam, in her musical,caressing voice. "the green on their buds--" and he falteredinto silence timidly. "let me take the rug," said miriam over-gently. "i can carry it," he answered, ratherinjured. but he yielded it to her. then mrs. leivers appeared."i'm sure you're tired and cold," she said. "let me take your coat.it is heavy. you mustn't walk far in it." she helped him off with his coat.he was quite unused to such attention.

she was almost smothered under its weight. "why, mother," laughed the farmer as hepassed through the kitchen, swinging the great milk-churns, "you've got almost morethan you can manage there." she beat up the sofa cushions for theyouth. the kitchen was very small and irregular.the farm had been originally a labourer's cottage. and the furniture was old and battered. but paul loved it--loved the sack-bag thatformed the hearthrug, and the funny little corner under the stairs, and the smallwindow deep in the corner, through which,

bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the back garden and the lovelyround hills beyond. "won't you lie down?" said mrs. leivers."oh no; i'm not tired," he said. "isn't it lovely coming out, don't youthink? i saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot ofcelandines. i'm glad it's sunny." "can i give you anything to eat or todrink?" "no, thank you.""how's your mother?" "i think she's tired now.

i think she's had too much to do.perhaps in a little while she'll go to skegness with me.then she'll be able to rest. i s'll be glad if she can." "yes," replied mrs. leivers."it's a wonder she isn't ill herself." miriam was moving about preparing dinner.paul watched everything that happened. his face was pale and thin, but his eyeswere quick and bright with life as ever. he watched the strange, almost rhapsodicway in which the girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or looking inthe saucepan. the atmosphere was different from that ofhis own home, where everything seemed so

ordinary. when mr. leivers called loudly outside tothe horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushes in the garden, the girlstarted, looked round with dark eyes, as if something had come breaking in on herworld. there was a sense of silence inside thehouse and out. miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, amaiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical. and her discoloured, old blue frock and herbroken boots seemed only like the romantic rags of king cophetua's beggar-maid.she suddenly became aware of his keen blue

eyes upon her, taking her all in. instantly her broken boots and her frayedold frock hurt her. she resented his seeing everything.even he knew that her stocking was not pulled up. she went into the scullery, blushingdeeply. and afterwards her hands trembled slightlyat her work. she nearly dropped all she handled. when her inside dream was shaken, her bodyquivered with trepidation. she resented that he saw so much.

mrs. leivers sat for some time talking tothe boy, although she was needed at her work.she was too polite to leave him. presently she excused herself and rose. after a while she looked into the tinsaucepan. "oh dear, miriam," she cried, "thesepotatoes have boiled dry!" miriam started as if she had been stung. "have they, mother?" she cried."i shouldn't care, miriam," said the mother, "if i hadn't trusted them to you."she peered into the pan. the girl stiffened as if from a blow.

her dark eyes dilated; she remainedstanding in the same spot. "well," she answered, gripped tight inself-conscious shame, "i'm sure i looked at them five minutes since." "yes," said the mother, "i know it's easilydone." "they're not much burned," said paul."it doesn't matter, does it?" mrs. leivers looked at the youth with herbrown, hurt eyes. "it wouldn't matter but for the boys," shesaid to him. "only miriam knows what a trouble they makeif the potatoes are 'caught'." "then," thought paul to himself, "youshouldn't let them make a trouble."

after a while edgar came in. he wore leggings, and his boots werecovered with earth. he was rather small, rather formal, for afarmer. he glanced at paul, nodded to himdistantly, and said: "dinner ready?""nearly, edgar," replied the mother apologetically. "i'm ready for mine," said the young man,taking up the newspaper and reading. presently the rest of the family troopedin. dinner was served.

the meal went rather brutally.the over-gentleness and apologetic tone of the mother brought out all the brutality ofmanners in the sons. edgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouthquickly like a rabbit, looked indignantly at his mother, and said:"these potatoes are burnt, mother." "yes, edgar. i forgot them for a minute.perhaps you'll have bread if you can't eat them."edgar looked in anger across at miriam. "what was miriam doing that she couldn'tattend to them?" he said. miriam looked up.her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and

winced, but she said nothing. she swallowed her anger and her shame,bowing her dark head. "i'm sure she was trying hard," said themother. "she hasn't got sense even to boil thepotatoes," said edgar. "what is she kept at home for?""on'y for eating everything that's left in th' pantry," said maurice. "they don't forget that potato-pie againstour miriam," laughed the father. she was utterly humiliated. the mother sat in silence, suffering, likesome saint out of place at the brutal

board.it puzzled paul. he wondered vaguely why all this intensefeeling went running because of a few burnt potatoes. the mother exalted everything--even a bitof housework--to the plane of a religious trust. the sons resented this; they feltthemselves cut away underneath, and they answered with brutality and also with asneering superciliousness. paul was just opening out from childhoodinto manhood. this atmosphere, where everything took areligious value, came with a subtle

fascination to him. there was something in the air.his own mother was logical. here there was something different,something he loved, something that at times he hated. miriam quarrelled with her brothersfiercely. later in the afternoon, when they had goneaway again, her mother said: "you disappointed me at dinner-time,miriam." the girl dropped her head."they are such brutes!" she suddenly cried, looking up with flashing eyes.

"but hadn't you promised not to answerthem?" said the mother. "and i believed in you.i can't stand it when you wrangle." "but they're so hateful!" cried miriam,"and--and low." "yes, dear.but how often have i asked you not to answer edgar back? can't you let him say what he likes?""but why should he say what he likes?" "aren't you strong enough to bear it,miriam, if even for my sake? are you so weak that you must wrangle withthem?" mrs. leivers stuck unflinchingly to thisdoctrine of "the other cheek".

she could not instil it at all into theboys. with the girls she succeeded better, andmiriam was the child of her heart. the boys loathed the other cheek when itwas presented to them. miriam was often sufficiently lofty to turnit. then they spat on her and hated her. but she walked in her proud humility,living within herself. there was always this feeling of jangle anddiscord in the leivers family. although the boys resented so bitterly thiseternal appeal to their deeper feelings of resignation and proud humility, yet it hadits effect on them.

they could not establish between themselvesand an outsider just the ordinary human feeling and unexaggerated friendship; theywere always restless for the something deeper. ordinary folk seemed shallow to them,trivial and inconsiderable. and so they were unaccustomed, painfullyuncouth in the simplest social intercourse, suffering, and yet insolent in theirsuperiority. then beneath was the yearning for the soul-intimacy to which they could not attain because they were too dumb, and everyapproach to close connection was blocked by their clumsy contempt of other people.

they wanted genuine intimacy, but theycould not get even normally near to anyone, because they scorned to take the firststeps, they scorned the triviality which forms common human intercourse. paul fell under mrs. leivers's spell.everything had a religious and intensified meaning when he was with her.his soul, hurt, highly developed, sought her as if for nourishment. together they seemed to sift the vital factfrom an experience. miriam was her mother's daughter.in the sunshine of the afternoon mother and daughter went down the fields with him.

they looked for nests.there was a jenny wren's in the hedge by the orchard."i do want you to see this," said mrs. leivers. he crouched down and carefully put hisfinger through the thorns into the round door of the nest. "it's almost as if you were feeling insidethe live body of the bird," he said, "it's so warm.they say a bird makes its nest round like a cup with pressing its breast on it. then how did it make the ceiling round, iwonder?"

the nest seemed to start into life for thetwo women. after that, miriam came to see it everyday. it seemed so close to her. again, going down the hedgeside with thegirl, he noticed the celandines, scalloped splashes of gold, on the side of the ditch."i like them," he said, "when their petals go flat back with the sunshine. they seemed to be pressing themselves atthe sun." and then the celandines ever after drew herwith a little spell. anthropomorphic as she was, she stimulatedhim into appreciating things thus, and then

they lived for her. she seemed to need things kindling in herimagination or in her soul before she felt she had them. and she was cut off from ordinary life byher religious intensity which made the world for her either a nunnery garden or aparadise, where sin and knowledge were not, or else an ugly, cruel thing. so it was in this atmosphere of subtleintimacy, this meeting in their common feeling for something in nature, that theirlove started. personally, he was a long time before herealized her.

for ten months he had to stay at home afterhis illness. for a while he went to skegness with hismother, and was perfectly happy. but even from the seaside he wrote longletters to mrs. leivers about the shore and the sea. and he brought back his beloved sketches ofthe flat lincoln coast, anxious for them to see.almost they would interest the leivers more than they interested his mother. it was not his art mrs. morel cared about;it was himself and his achievement. but mrs. leivers and her children werealmost his disciples.

they kindled him and made him glow to hiswork, whereas his mother's influence was to make him quietly determined, patient,dogged, unwearied. he soon was friends with the boys, whoserudeness was only superficial. they had all, when they could trustthemselves, a strange gentleness and lovableness. "will you come with me on to the fallow?"asked edgar, rather hesitatingly. paul went joyfully, and spent the afternoonhelping to hoe or to single turnips with his friend. he used to lie with the three brothers inthe hay piled up in the barn and tell them

about nottingham and about jordan's. in return, they taught him to milk, and lethim do little jobs--chopping hay or pulping turnips--just as much as he liked.at midsummer he worked all through hay- harvest with them, and then he loved them. the family was so cut off from the worldactually. they seemed, somehow, like "les derniersfils d'une race epuisee". though the lads were strong and healthy,yet they had all that over-sensitiveness and hanging-back which made them so lonely,yet also such close, delicate friends once their intimacy was won.

paul loved them dearly, and they him.miriam came later. but he had come into her life before shemade any mark on his. one dull afternoon, when the men were onthe land and the rest at school, only miriam and her mother at home, the girlsaid to him, after having hesitated for some time: "have you seen the swing?""no," he answered. "where?""in the cowshed," she replied. she always hesitated to offer or to showhim anything. men have such different standards of worthfrom women, and her dear things--the

valuable things to her--her brothers had sooften mocked or flouted. "come on, then," he replied, jumping up. there were two cowsheds, one on either sideof the barn. in the lower, darker shed there wasstanding for four cows. hens flew scolding over the manger-wall asthe youth and girl went forward for the great thick rope which hung from the beamin the darkness overhead, and was pushed back over a peg in the wall. "it's something like a rope!" he exclaimedappreciatively; and he sat down on it, anxious to try it.then immediately he rose.

"come on, then, and have first go," he saidto the girl. "see," she answered, going into the barn,"we put some bags on the seat"; and she made the swing comfortable for him. that gave her pleasure.he held the rope. "come on, then," he said to her."no, i won't go first," she answered. she stood aside in her still, alooffashion. "why?""you go," she pleaded. almost for the first time in her life shehad the pleasure of giving up to a man, of spoiling him.paul looked at her.

"all right," he said, sitting down. "mind out!" he set off with a spring, and in a momentwas flying through the air, almost out of the door of the shed, the upper half ofwhich was open, showing outside the drizzling rain, the filthy yard, the cattle standing disconsolate against the blackcartshed, and at the back of all the grey- green wall of the wood.she stood below in her crimson tam-o'- shanter and watched. he looked down at her, and she saw his blueeyes sparkling.

"it's a treat of a swing," he said."yes." he was swinging through the air, every bitof him swinging, like a bird that swoops for joy of movement.and he looked down at her. her crimson cap hung over her dark curls,her beautiful warm face, so still in a kind of brooding, was lifted towards him.it was dark and rather cold in the shed. suddenly a swallow came down from the highroof and darted out of the door. "i didn't know a bird was watching," hecalled. he swung negligently. she could feel him falling and liftingthrough the air, as if he were lying on

some force. "now i'll die," he said, in a detached,dreamy voice, as though he were the dying motion of the swing.she watched him, fascinated. suddenly he put on the brake and jumpedout. "i've had a long turn," he said."but it's a treat of a swing--it's a real treat of a swing!" miriam was amused that he took a swing soseriously and felt so warmly over it. "no; you go on," she said."why, don't you want one?" he asked, astonished.

"well, not much.i'll have just a little." she sat down, whilst he kept the bags inplace for her. "it's so ripping!" he said, setting her inmotion. "keep your heels up, or they'll bang themanger wall." she felt the accuracy with which he caughther, exactly at the right moment, and the exactly proportionate strength of histhrust, and she was afraid. down to her bowels went the hot wave offear. she was in his hands.again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at the right moment.

she gripped the rope, almost swooning."ha!" she laughed in fear. "no higher!""but you're not a bit high," he remonstrated. "but no higher."he heard the fear in her voice, and desisted. her heart melted in hot pain when themoment came for him to thrust her forward again.but he left her alone. she began to breathe. "won't you really go any farther?" heasked.

"should i keep you there?""no; let me go by myself," she answered. he moved aside and watched her. "why, you're scarcely moving," he said.she laughed slightly with shame, and in a moment got down."they say if you can swing you won't be sea-sick," he said, as he mounted again. "i don't believe i should ever be sea-sick." away he went.there was something fascinating to her in him. for the moment he was nothing but a pieceof swinging stuff; not a particle of him

that did not swing.she could never lose herself so, nor could it roused a warmth in her.it was almost as if he were a flame that had lit a warmth in her whilst he swung inthe middle air. and gradually the intimacy with the familyconcentrated for paul on three persons--the mother, edgar, and miriam.to the mother he went for that sympathy and that appeal which seemed to draw him out. edgar was his very close friend.and to miriam he more or less condescended, because she seemed so humble.but the girl gradually sought him out. if he brought up his sketch-book, it wasshe who pondered longest over the last

picture.then she would look up at him. suddenly, her dark eyes alight like waterthat shakes with a stream of gold in the dark, she would ask:"why do i like this so?" always something in his breast shrank fromthese close, intimate, dazzled looks of hers."why do you?" he asked. "i don't know. it seems so true." "it's because--it's because there isscarcely any shadow in it; it's more shimmery, as if i'd painted the shimmeringprotoplasm in the leaves and everywhere,

and not the stiffness of the shape. that seems dead to me.only this shimmeriness is the real living. the shape is a dead crust.the shimmer is inside really." and she, with her little finger in hermouth, would ponder these sayings. they gave her a feeling of life again, andvivified things which had meant nothing to her. she managed to find some meaning in hisstruggling, abstract speeches. and they were the medium through which shecame distinctly at her beloved objects. another day she sat at sunset whilst he waspainting some pine-trees which caught the

red glare from the west.he had been quiet. "there you are!" he said suddenly. "i wanted that.now, look at them and tell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals,standing-up pieces of fire in that darkness? there's god's burning bush for you, thatburned not away." miriam looked, and was frightened.but the pine trunks were wonderful to her, and distinct. he packed his box and rose.suddenly he looked at her.

"why are you always sad?" he asked her."sad!" she exclaimed, looking up at him with startled, wonderful brown eyes. "yes," he replied."you are always sad." "i am not--oh, not a bit!" she cried."but even your joy is like a flame coming off of sadness," he persisted. "you're never jolly, or even just allright." "no," she pondered."i wonder--why?" "because you're not; because you'redifferent inside, like a pine-tree, and then you flare up; but you're not just likean ordinary tree, with fidgety leaves and

jolly--" he got tangled up in his own speech; butshe brooded on it, and he had a strange, roused sensation, as if his feelings werenew. she got so near him. it was a strange stimulant.then sometimes he hated her. her youngest brother was only five. he was a frail lad, with immense brown eyesin his quaint fragile face--one of reynolds's "choir of angels", with a touchof elf. often miriam kneeled to the child and drewhim to her.

"eh, my hubert!" she sang, in a voice heavyand surcharged with love. "eh, my hubert!" and, folding him in her arms, she swayedslightly from side to side with love, her face half lifted, her eyes half closed, hervoice drenched with love. "don't!" said the child, uneasy--"don't,miriam!" "yes; you love me, don't you?" she murmureddeep in her throat, almost as if she were in a trance, and swaying also as if shewere swooned in an ecstasy of love. "don't!" repeated the child, a frown on hisclear brow. "you love me, don't you?" she murmured.

"what do you make such a fuss for?" criedpaul, all in suffering because of her extreme emotion."why can't you be ordinary with him?" she let the child go, and rose, and saidnothing. her intensity, which would leave no emotionon a normal plane, irritated the youth into a frenzy. and this fearful, naked contact of her onsmall occasions shocked him. he was used to his mother's reserve. and on such occasions he was thankful inhis heart and soul that he had his mother, so sane and wholesome.

> chapter vii part 2lad-and-girl love all the life of miriam's body was in hereyes, which were usually dark as a dark church, but could flame with light like aconflagration. her face scarcely ever altered from itslook of brooding. she might have been one of the women whowent with mary when jesus was dead. her body was not flexible and living. she walked with a swing, rather heavily,her head bowed forward, pondering. she was not clumsy, and yet none of hermovements seemed quite the movement.

often, when wiping the dishes, she wouldstand in bewilderment and chagrin because she had pulled in two halves a cup or atumbler. it was as if, in her fear and self-mistrust, she put too much strength into the effort.there was no looseness or abandon about everything was gripped stiff withintensity, and her effort, overcharged, closed in on itself.she rarely varied from her swinging, forward, intense walk. occasionally she ran with paul down thefields. then her eyes blazed naked in a kind ofecstasy that frightened him.

but she was physically afraid. if she were getting over a stile, shegripped his hands 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 andpalpitating. "no!" she cried, half laughing in terror--"no!" "you shall!" he cried once, and, jerkingher forward, he brought her falling from the fence.but her wild "ah!" of pain, as if she were losing consciousness, cut him.

she landed on her feet safely, andafterwards had courage in this respect. she was very much dissatisfied with herlot. "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 i, because i'm a girl, be keptat home and not allowed to be anything?

what chance have i?""chance of what?" "of knowing anything--of learning, of doinganything. it's not fair, because i'm a woman."she seemed very bitter. paul wondered. in his own home annie was almost glad to bea girl. she had not so much responsibility; thingswere lighter for her. she never wanted to be other than a girl. but miriam almost fiercely wished she werea man. and yet she hated men 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 gladto be women as men are 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 eye expanding in akind of defiance.

"well, you can learn as much as i know," hesaid. "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 thesethings. "i'm going to teach miriam algebra," hesaid. "well," replied mrs. morel, "i hope she'llget fat on it." when he went up to the farm on the mondayevening, it was drawing twilight.

miriam was just sweeping up the kitchen,and was kneeling at the hearth when he entered.everyone was out but her. she looked round at him, flushed, her darkeyes shining, her fine hair 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 book from 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 mustbegin." she took up her ashes in the dustpan andlooked 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, where the big milk-cans werestanding, tipped up, to air. the men were in the cowsheds.

he could hear the little sing-song of themilk spurting 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 hisshoulder. it irritated him. he gave her the book quickly."here," he said. "it's only letters for figures.you put down 'a' instead of '2' or '6'." they worked, he talking, she with her headdown on the book.

he was quick and hasty.she never answered. occasionally, when he demanded of her, "doyou see?" she looked up at him, her eyes wide with the half-laugh that comes offear. "don't you?" he cried. he had been too fast.but she said nothing. he questioned her 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 with laughter that wasafraid, apologetic, ashamed. then edgar came along with two buckets ofmilk.

"hello!" he said."what are you doing?" "algebra," replied paul. "algebra!" repeated edgar curiously.then he passed on with a laugh. paul took a bite at his forgotten apple,looked at the miserable cabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls, andhe wanted to pull them up. then he glanced at miriam. she was poring over the book, seemedabsorbed in it, yet trembling lest she could not get at it.it made him cross. she was ruddy and beautiful.

yet her soul seemed to be intenselysupplicating. the algebra-book she closed, shrinking,knowing he was angered; and at the same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurtbecause she did not understand. but things came slowly to her. and when she held herself in a grip, seemedso utterly humble before the lesson, it made his blood rouse. he stormed at her, got ashamed, continuedthe lesson, and grew furious again, abusing her.she listened in silence. occasionally, very rarely, she defendedherself.

her liquid dark eyes blazed at him."you don't give me time to learn it," she said. "all right," he answered, throwing the bookon the table and lighting a cigarette. then, after a while, he went back to herrepentant. so the lessons went. he was always either in a rage or verygentle. "what do you tremble your soul before itfor?" he cried. "you don't learn algebra with your blessedsoul. can't you look at it with your clear simplewits?"

often, when he went again into the kitchen,mrs. leivers would look at him reproachfully, saying:"paul, don't be so hard on miriam. she may not be quick, but i'm sure shetries." "i can't help it," he said rather pitiably."i go off like it." "you don't mind me, miriam, do you?" heasked of the girl later. "no," she reassured him in her beautifuldeep tones--"no, i don't mind." "don't mind me; it's my fault." but, in spite of himself, his blood beganto boil with her. it was strange that no one else made him insuch 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 in all his bones. she never reproached him or was angry withhim. he was often cruelly ashamed. but still again his anger burst like abubble surcharged; and still, when he saw her eager, silent, as it were, blind face,he felt he wanted to throw the pencil in it; and still, when he saw her hand

trembling and her mouth parted withsuffering, 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 withedgar. miriam and her brother were naturallyantagonistic. edgar was a rationalist, who was curious,and had a sort of scientific interest in life. it was a great bitterness to miriam to seeherself deserted by paul for edgar, who seemed so much lower.but the youth was very happy with her elder

brother. the two men spent afternoons together onthe land or in the loft doing carpentry, when it rained. and they talked together, or paul taughtedgar the songs he himself had learned from annie at the piano. and often all the men, mr. leivers as well,had bitter debates on the nationalizing of the land and similar problems. paul had already heard his mother's views,and as these were as yet his own, he argued for her.

miriam attended and took part, but was allthe time waiting until it should be over and a personal communication might begin. "after all," she said within herself, "ifthe land were nationalized, edgar and paul and i would be just the same."so she waited for the youth to come back to he was studying for his painting.he loved to sit at home, alone with his mother, at night, working and working.she sewed or read. then, looking up from his task, he wouldrest his eyes for a moment on her face, that was bright with living warmth, and hereturned gladly to his work. "i can do my best things when you sit therein your rocking-chair, mother," he said.

"i'm sure!" she exclaimed, sniffing withmock scepticism. but she felt it was so, and her heartquivered with brightness. for many hours she sat still, slightlyconscious of him labouring away, whilst she worked or read her book. and he, with all his soul's intensitydirecting his pencil, could feel her warmth inside him like strength.they were both very happy so, and both unconscious of it. these times, that meant so much, and whichwere 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 stimulated into knowledge ofthe 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 theart school--miss jordan's provision-- returning in the evening.then the factory closed at six instead of eight on thursday and friday evenings.

one evening in the summer miriam and hewent over the fields by herod's farm on their way from the library home.so it was only three miles to willey farm. there was a yellow glow over the mowing-grass, and the sorrel-heads burned crimson. gradually, as they walked along the highland, the gold in the west sank down to red, the red to crimson, and then the chillblue crept up against the glow. they came out upon the high road toalfreton, which ran white between the darkening fields.there paul hesitated. it was two miles home for him, one mileforward for miriam. they both looked up the road that ran inshadow right under the glow of the north-

west sky. on the crest of the hill, selby, with itsstark houses and the up-pricked headstocks of the pit, stood in black silhouette smallagainst 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 tothe 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 pasturein the dusk. there was a coolness in the wood, a scentof leaves, of honeysuckle, and a twilight. the two walked in silence. night came wonderfully there, among thethrong of dark tree-trunks. he looked round, expectant.she wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had 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 mist was rising, and he hesitated, wondering whether onewhiteness were a strand of fog or only campion-flowers pallid in a cloud. by the time they came to the pine-treesmiriam was getting very eager and very tense.her bush might be gone. she might not be able to find it; and shewanted it so much. almost passionately she wanted to be withhim when he stood before the flowers. they were going to have a communiontogether--something that thrilled her,

something holy.he was walking beside her in silence. they were very near to each other. she trembled, and he listened, vaguelyanxious. coming to the edge of the wood, they sawthe sky in front, like mother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. somewhere on the outermost branches of thepine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent."where?" he asked. "down the middle path," she murmured,quivering. when they turned the corner of the path shestood still.

in the wide walk between the pines, gazingrather 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 long streamers trailed thick, right down to the grass, splashing thedarkness everywhere with great spilt stars, pure white. in bosses of ivory and in large splashedstars the roses gleamed on the darkness of

foliage and stems and grass.paul and miriam stood close together, silent, and watched. point after point the steady roses shoneout 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 expectant with wonder, her lips were parted, and her dark eyes layopen 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 likebutterflies, 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 theflowers; she went forward and touched them in worship."let us go," he said. there was a cool scent of ivory roses--awhite, virgin scent. something made him feel anxious andimprisoned.

"till sunday," he said quietly, and lefther; and she walked home slowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of thenight. he stumbled down the path. and as soon as he was out of the wood, inthe free open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to run as fast as hecould. it was like a delicious delirium in hisveins. always when he went with miriam, and itgrew rather late, he knew his mother was fretting and getting angry about him--why,he could not understand. as he went into the house, flinging downhis cap, his mother looked up at the clock.

she had been sitting thinking, because achill to her eyes prevented her reading. she could feel paul being drawn away bythis girl. and she did not care for miriam. "she is one of those who will want to sucka man's soul out till he has none of his own left," she said to herself; "and he isjust such a gaby as to let himself be absorbed. she will never let him become a man; shenever will." so, while he was away with miriam, mrs.morel grew more and more worked up. she glanced at the clock and said, coldlyand 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 hishair was damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowning in his heavy fashion,resentfully. "she must be wonderfully fascinating, thatyou can't get away from her, but must go trailing eight miles at this time ofnight." he was hurt between the past glamour withmiriam and the knowledge 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 answeredirritably. "is there nobody else to talk to?" "you wouldn't say anything if i went withedgar." "you know i should. you know, whoever you went with, i shouldsay it was too far for you to go trailing, late at night, when you've been tonottingham.

besides"--her voice suddenly flashed intoanger and contempt--"it is disgusting--bits of 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 the sarcastic rejoinder. paul snapped at the laces of his bootsangrily. "what are you so mad about?" he asked."because you don't like her." "i don't say i don't like her.

but i don't hold with children keepingcompany, and never did." "but you don't mind our annie going outwith 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 thisremark. but his mother looked tired. she was never so strong after william'sdeath; and her eyes hurt her. "well," he said, "it's so pretty in thecountry. mr. sleath asked about you.

he said he'd missed you.are you a bit better?" "i ought to have been in bed a long timeago," she replied. "why, mother, you know you wouldn't havegone before quarter-past ten." "oh, yes, i should!""oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeable with me, wouldn't you?" he kissed her forehead that he knew sowell: the deep marks between the brows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, andthe proud setting of the temples. his hand lingered on her shoulder after hiskiss. then he went slowly to bed.

he had forgotten miriam; he only saw howhis 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 toher: "don't let me be late to-night--not laterthan ten o'clock. my mother gets so upset." miriam dropped her bead, brooding."why does she get upset?" she asked. "because she says i oughtn't to be out latewhen i have to get up early." "very well!" said miriam, rather quietly,with just a touch of a sneer. he resented that.and he was usually late again.

that there was any love growing between himand miriam neither of them would have acknowledged. he thought he was too sane for suchsentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. they both were late in coming to maturity,and psychical ripeness was much behind even the physical.miriam was exceedingly sensitive, as her mother had always been. the slightest grossness made her recoilalmost in anguish. her brothers were brutal, but never coarsein speech.

the men did all the discussing of farmmatters outside. but, perhaps, because of the continualbusiness of birth and of begetting which goes on upon every farm, miriam was themore hypersensitive to the matter, and her blood was chastened almost to disgust of the faintest suggestion of suchintercourse. paul took his pitch from her, and theirintimacy went on in an utterly blanched and chaste fashion. it could never be mentioned that the marewas in foal. when he was nineteen, he was earning onlytwenty shillings a week, but he was happy.

his painting went well, and life went wellenough. on the good friday he organised a walk tothe hemlock stone. there were three lads of his own age, thenannie and arthur, miriam and geoffrey. arthur, apprenticed as an electrician innottingham, was home for the holiday. morel, as usual, was up early, whistlingand sawing in the yard. at seven o'clock the family heard him buythreepennyworth of hot-cross buns; he talked with gusto to the little girl whobrought them, calling her "my darling". he turned away several boys who came withmore buns, telling them they had been "kested" by a little lass.then mrs. morel got up, and the family

straggled down. it was an immense luxury to everybody, thislying 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. morelwent into the garden. they were now in another house, an old one,near the scargill street 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 afield. it was a grey, cold day, with a sharp windblowing out of derbyshire. two fields away bestwood began, with ajumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of which rose the church tower and the spireof the congregational chapel. and beyond went woods and hills, right awayto the pale grey heights of the pennine

chain.paul looked down the garden for his mother. her head appeared among the young currant-bushes. "come here!" she cried."what for?" he answered. "come and see." she had been looking at the buds on thecurrant 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 comefrom very immature bulbs, and three scyllas

in bloom. mrs. morel pointed to the deep blueflowers. "now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "i was looking at the currant bushes, when,thinks i to myself, 'there's something very blue; is it a bit of sugar-bag?' and there,behold you! sugar-bag! three glories of the snow, and suchbeauties! 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 weed and blade inthis 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 little blue flowers."they're a glorious colour!" he said. "aren't they!" she cried. "i guess they come from switzerland, wherethey say they have such lovely things. fancy them against the snow!but where have they come from? they can't have blown here, can they?"

then he remembered having set here a lot oflittle trash of 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 never had a glory of the snow inmy garden in my life." she was full of excitement and elation. the garden was an endless joy to her.paul was thankful for her sake at last to be in a house with a long garden that wentdown to a field. every morning after breakfast she went outand was happy pottering about in it.

and it was true, she knew every weed andblade. everybody turned up for the walk. food was packed, and they set off, a merry,delighted party. they hung over the wall of the mill-race,dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunnel and watched it shoot out on theother. they stood on the foot-bridge overboathouse station and looked at the metals gleaming coldly. "you should see the flying scotsman comethrough at half-past six!" said leonard, whose father was a signalman.

"lad, but she doesn't half buzz!" and thelittle party looked up the lines one way, to london, and the other way, to scotland,and they felt the touch of these two magical places. in ilkeston the colliers were waiting ingangs for the public-houses to open. it was a town of idleness and lounging.at stanton gate the iron foundry blazed. over everything there were greatdiscussions. at trowell they crossed again fromderbyshire into nottinghamshire. they came to the hemlock stone at dinner-time. its field was crowded with folk fromnottingham and ilkeston.

they had expected a venerable and dignifiedmonument. they found a little, gnarled, twisted stumpof rock, something like a decayed mushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of afield. leonard and dick immediately proceeded tocarve their initials, "l. w." and "r. p.", in the old red sandstone; but pauldesisted, because he had read in the newspaper satirical remarks about initial- carvers, who could find no other road toimmortality. then all the lads climbed to the top of therock to look round. everywhere in the field below, factorygirls and lads were eating lunch or

sporting about.beyond was the garden of an old manor. it had yew-hedges and thick clumps andborders of yellow crocuses round the lawn. "see," said paul to miriam, "what a quietgarden!" she saw the dark yews and the goldencrocuses, then she looked gratefully. he had not seemed to belong to her amongall these others; he was different then-- not her paul, who understood the slightestquiver of her innermost soul, but something else, speaking another language than hers. how it hurt her, and deadened her veryperceptions. only when he came right back to her,leaving his other, his lesser self, as she

thought, would she feel alive again. and now he asked her to look at thisgarden, wanting the contact with her again. impatient of the set in the field, sheturned to the quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves of shut-up crocuses. a feeling of stillness, almost of ecstasy,came over her. it felt almost as if she were alone withhim in this garden. then he left her again and joined theothers. soon they started home.miriam loitered behind, alone. she did not fit in with the others; shecould very rarely get into human relations

with anyone: so her friend, her companion,her lover, was nature. she saw the sun declining wanly. in the dusky, cold hedgerows were some redleaves. she lingered to gather them, tenderly,passionately. the love in her finger-tips caressed theleaves; the passion in her heart came to a glow upon the leaves.suddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road, and she hurried forward. turning a corner in the lane, she came uponpaul, who stood bent over something, his mind fixed on it, working away steadily,patiently, a little hopelessly.

she hesitated in her approach, to watch. he remained concentrated in the middle ofthe road. beyond, one rift of rich gold in thatcolourless grey evening seemed to make him stand out in dark relief. she saw him, slender and firm, as if thesetting sun had given him to her. a deep pain took hold of her, and she knewshe must love him. and she had discovered him, discovered inhim a rare potentiality, discovered his loneliness.quivering as at some "annunciation", she went slowly forward.

at last he looked up."why," he exclaimed gratefully, "have you waited for me!"she saw a deep shadow in his eyes. "what is it?" she asked. "the spring broken here;" and he showed herwhere his umbrella was injured. instantly, with some shame, she knew he hadnot done the damage himself, but that geoffrey was responsible. "it is only an old umbrella, isn't it?" sheasked. she wondered why he, who did not usuallytrouble over trifles, made such a mountain of this molehill.

"but it was william's an' my mother can'thelp but know," he said quietly, still patiently working at the umbrella.the words went through miriam like a blade. this, then, was the confirmation of hervision of him! she looked at him. but there was about him a certain reserve,and she dared not comfort him, not even speak softly to him."come on," he said. "i can't do it;" and they went in silencealong the road. that same evening they were walking alongunder the trees by nether green. he was talking to her fretfully, seemed tobe struggling to convince himself.

"you know," he said, with an effort, "ifone person loves, the other does." "ah!" she answered. "like mother said to me when i was little,'love begets love.'" "yes, something like that, i think it mustbe." "i hope so, because, if it were not, lovemight be a very terrible thing," she said. "yes, but it is--at least with mostpeople," he answered. and miriam, thinking he had assuredhimself, felt strong in herself. she always regarded that sudden coming uponhim in the lane as a revelation. and this conversation remained graven inher mind as one of the letters of the law.

now she stood with him and for him. when, about this time, he outraged thefamily feeling at willey farm by some overbearing insult, she stuck to him, andbelieved he was right. and at this time she dreamed dreams of him,vivid, unforgettable. these dreams came again later on, developedto a more subtle psychological stage. chapter vii part 3lad-and-girl love on the easter monday the same party took anexcursion to wingfield manor. it was great excitement to miriam to catcha train at sethley bridge, amid all the bustle of the bank holiday crowd.

they left the train at alfreton.paul was interested in the street and in the colliers with their dogs.here was a new race of miners. miriam did not live till they came to thechurch. they were all rather timid of entering,with their bags of food, for fear of being turned out. leonard, a comic, thin fellow, went first;paul, who would have died rather than be sent back, went last.the place was decorated for easter. in the font hundreds of white narcissiseemed to be growing. the air was dim and coloured from thewindows and thrilled with a subtle scent of

lilies and narcissi. in that atmosphere miriam's soul came intoa glow. paul was afraid of the things he mustn'tdo; and he was sensitive to the feel of the place. miriam turned to him.he answered. they were together.he would not go beyond the communion-rail. she loved him for that. her soul expanded into prayer beside him.he felt the strange fascination of shadowy religious places.all his latent mysticism quivered into

she was drawn to him.he was a prayer along with her. miriam very rarely talked to the otherlads. they at once became awkward in conversationwith her. so usually she was silent.it was past midday when they climbed the steep path to the manor. all things shone softly in the sun, whichwas wonderfully warm and enlivening. celandines and violets were out.everybody was tip-top full with happiness. the glitter of the ivy, the soft,atmospheric grey of the castle walls, the gentleness of everything near the ruin, wasperfect.

the manor is of hard, pale grey stone, andthe other walls are blank and calm. the young folk were in raptures. they went in trepidation, almost afraidthat the delight of exploring this ruin might be denied them. in the first courtyard, within the highbroken walls, were farm-carts, with their shafts lying idle on the ground, the tyresof the wheels brilliant with gold-red rust. it was very still. all eagerly paid their sixpences, and wenttimidly through the fine clean arch of the inner courtyard.they were shy.

here on the pavement, where the hall hadbeen, an old thorn tree was budding. all kinds of strange openings and brokenrooms were in the shadow around them. after lunch they set off once more toexplore the ruin. this time the girls went with the boys, whocould act as guides and expositors. there was one tall tower in a corner,rather tottering, where they say mary queen of scots was imprisoned. "think of the queen going up here!" saidmiriam in a low voice, as she climbed the hollow stairs."if she could get up," said paul, "for she had rheumatism like anything.

i reckon they treated her rottenly.""you don't think she deserved it?" asked miriam."no, i don't. she was only lively." they continued to mount the windingstaircase. a high wind, blowing through the loopholes,went rushing up the shaft, and filled the girl's skirts like a balloon, so that shewas ashamed, until he took the hem of her dress and held it down for her. he did it perfectly simply, as he wouldhave picked up her glove. she remembered this always.round the broken top of the tower the ivy

bushed out, old and handsome. also, there were a few chill gillivers, inpale cold bud. miriam wanted to lean over for some ivy,but he would not let her. instead, she had to wait behind him, andtake from him each spray as he gathered it and held it to her, each one separately, inthe purest manner of chivalry. the tower seemed to rock in the wind. they looked over miles and miles of woodedcountry, and country with gleams of pasture.the crypt underneath the manor was beautiful, and in perfect preservation.

paul made a drawing: miriam stayed withhim. she was thinking of mary queen of scotslooking with her strained, hopeless eyes, that could not understand misery, over thehills whence no help came, or sitting in this crypt, being told of a god as cold asthe place she sat in. they set off again gaily, looking round ontheir beloved manor that stood so clean and big on its hill. "supposing you could have that farm," saidpaul to miriam. "yes!""wouldn't it be lovely to come and see you!"

they were now in the bare country of stonewalls, which he loved, and which, though only ten miles from home, seemed so foreignto miriam. the party was straggling. as they were crossing a large meadow thatsloped away from the sun, along a path embedded with innumerable tiny glitteringpoints, paul, walking alongside, laced his fingers in the strings of the bag miriam was carrying, and instantly she felt anniebehind, watchful and jealous. but the meadow was bathed in a glory ofsunshine, and the path was jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave her any sign.

she held her fingers very still among thestrings of the bag, his fingers touching; and the place was golden as a vision.at last they came into the straggling grey village of crich, that lies high. beyond the village was the famous crichstand that paul could see from the garden at home.the party pushed on. great expanse of country spread around andbelow. the lads were eager to get to the top ofthe hill. it was capped by a round knoll, half ofwhich was by now cut away, and on the top of which stood an ancient monument, sturdyand squat, for signalling in old days far

down into the level lands ofnottinghamshire and leicestershire. it was blowing so hard, high up there inthe exposed place, that the only way to be safe was to stand nailed by the wind to thewan of the tower. at their feet fell the precipice where thelimestone was quarried away. below was a jumble of hills and tinyvillages--mattock, ambergate, stoney middleton. the lads were eager to spy out the churchof bestwood, far away among the rather crowded country on the left.they were disgusted that it seemed to stand on a plain.

they saw the hills of derbyshire fall intothe monotony of the midlands that swept away south.miriam was somewhat scared by the wind, but the lads enjoyed it. they went on, miles and miles, towhatstandwell. all the food was eaten, everybody washungry, and there was very little money to get home with. but they managed to procure a loaf and acurrant-loaf, which they hacked to pieces with shut-knives, and ate sitting on thewall near the bridge, watching the bright derwent rushing by, and the brakes frommatlock pulling up at the inn.

paul was now pale with weariness.he had been responsible for the party all day, and now he was done. miriam understood, and kept close to him,and he left himself in her hands. they had an hour to wait at ambergatestation. trains came, crowded with excursionistsreturning to manchester, birmingham, and london."we might be going there--folk easily might think we're going that far," said paul. they got back rather late.miriam, walking home with geoffrey, watched the moon rise big and red and misty.she felt something was fulfilled in her.

she had an elder sister, agatha, who was aschool-teacher. between the two girls was a feud.miriam considered agatha worldly. and she wanted herself to be a school-teacher. one saturday afternoon agatha and miriamwere upstairs dressing. their bedroom was over the stable. it was a low room, not very large, andbare. miriam had nailed on the wall areproduction of veronese's "st. catherine". she loved the woman who sat in the window,dreaming. her own windows were too small to sit in.

but the front one was dripped over withhoneysuckle and virginia creeper, and looked upon the tree-tops of the oak-woodacross the yard, while the little back window, no bigger than a handkerchief, was a loophole to the east, to the dawn beatingup against the beloved round hills. the two sisters did not talk much to eachother. agatha, who was fair and small anddetermined, had rebelled against the home atmosphere, against the doctrine of "theother cheek". she was out in the world now, in a fair wayto be independent. and she insisted on worldly values, onappearance, on manners, on position, which

miriam would fain have ignored. both girls liked to be upstairs, out of theway, when paul came. they preferred to come running down, openthe stair-foot door, and see him watching, expectant of them. miriam stood painfully pulling over herhead a rosary he had given her. it caught in the fine mesh of her hair. but at last she had it on, and the red-brown wooden beads looked well against her cool brown neck.she was a well-developed girl, and very handsome.

but in the little looking-glass nailedagainst the whitewashed wall she could only see a fragment of herself at a time.agatha had bought a little mirror of her own, which she propped up to suit herself. miriam was near the window.suddenly she heard the well-known click of the chain, and she saw paul fling open thegate, push his bicycle into the yard. she saw him look at the house, and sheshrank away. he walked in a nonchalant fashion, and hisbicycle went with him as if it were a live thing. "paul's come!" she exclaimed."aren't you glad?" said agatha cuttingly.

miriam stood still in amazement andbewilderment. "well, aren't you?" she asked. "yes, but i'm not going to let him see it,and think i wanted him." miriam was startled. she heard him putting his bicycle in thestable underneath, and talking to jimmy, who had been a pit-horse, and who wasseedy. "well, jimmy my lad, how are ter? nobbut sick an' sadly, like?why, then, it's a shame, my owd lad." she heard the rope run through the hole asthe horse lifted its head from the lad's

caress. how she loved to listen when he thoughtonly the horse could hear. but there was a serpent in her eden.she searched earnestly in herself to see if she wanted paul morel. she felt there would be some disgrace init. full of twisted feeling, she was afraid shedid want him. she stood self-convicted. then came an agony of new shame.she shrank within herself in a coil of torture.did she want paul morel, and did he know

she wanted him? what a subtle infamy upon her.she felt as if her whole soul coiled into knots of shame.agatha was dressed first, and ran downstairs. miriam heard her greet the lad gaily, knewexactly how brilliant her grey eyes became with that tone.she herself would have felt it bold to have greeted him in such wise. yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture.in bitter perplexity she kneeled down and

prayed: "o lord, let me not love paul morel.keep me from loving him, if i ought not to love him."something anomalous in the prayer arrested she lifted her head and pondered.how could it be wrong to love him? love was god's gift.and yet it caused her shame. that was because of him, paul morel. but, then, it was not his affair, it washer own, between herself and god. she was to be a sacrifice.but it was god's sacrifice, not paul morel's or her own.

after a few minutes she hid her face in thepillow again, and said: "but, lord, if it is thy will that i shouldlove him, make me love him--as christ would, who died for the souls of men. make me love him splendidly, because he isthy son." she remained kneeling for some time, quitestill, and deeply moved, her black hair against the red squares and the lavender-sprigged squares of the patchwork quilt. prayer was almost essential to her. then she fell into that rapture of self-sacrifice, identifying herself with a god who was sacrificed, which gives to so manyhuman souls their deepest bliss.

when she went downstairs paul was lyingback in an armchair, holding forth with much vehemence to agatha, who was scorninga little painting he had brought to show miriam glanced at the two, and avoidedtheir levity. she went into the parlour to be alone. it was tea-time before she was able tospeak to paul, and then her manner was so distant he thought he had offended her. miriam discontinued her practice of goingeach thursday evening to the library in bestwood. after calling for paul regularly during thewhole spring, a number of trifling

incidents and tiny insults from his familyawakened her to their attitude towards her, and she decided to go no more. so she announced to paul one evening shewould not call at his house again for him on thursday nights."why?" he asked, very short. "nothing. only i'd rather not.""very well." "but," she faltered, "if you'd care to meetme, we could still go together." "meet you where?" "somewhere--where you like.""i shan't meet you anywhere.

i don't see why you shouldn't keep callingfor me. but if you won't, i don't want to meetyou." so the thursday evenings which had been soprecious to her, and to him, were dropped. he worked instead. mrs. morel sniffed with satisfaction atthis arrangement. he would not have it that they were lovers. the intimacy between them had been kept soabstract, such a matter of the soul, all thought and weary struggle intoconsciousness, that he saw it only as a platonic friendship.

he stoutly denied there was anything elsebetween them. miriam was silent, or else she very quietlyagreed. he was a fool who did not know what washappening to himself. by tacit agreement they ignored the remarksand insinuations of their acquaintances. "we aren't lovers, we are friends," he saidto her. "we know it.let them talk. what does it matter what they say." sometimes, as they were walking together,she slipped her arm timidly into his. but he always resented it, and she knew it.it caused a violent conflict in him.

with miriam he was always on the high planeof abstraction, when his natural fire of love was transmitted into the fine streamof thought. she would have it so. if he were jolly and, as she put it,flippant, she waited till he came back to her, till the change had taken place in himagain, and he was wrestling with his own soul, frowning, passionate in his desirefor understanding. and in this passion for understanding hersoul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. but he must be made abstract first.then, if she put her arm in his, it caused

him almost torture.his consciousness seemed to split. the place where she was touching him ranhot with friction. he was one internecine battle, and hebecame cruel to her because of it. one evening in midsummer miriam called atthe house, warm from climbing. paul was alone in the kitchen; his mothercould be heard moving about upstairs. "come and look at the sweet-peas," he saidto the girl. they went into the garden. the sky behind the townlet and the churchwas orange-red; the flower-garden was flooded with a strange warm light thatlifted every leaf into significance.

paul passed along a fine row of sweet-peas,gathering a blossom here and there, all cream and pale blue.miriam followed, breathing the fragrance. to her, flowers appealed with such strengthshe felt she must make them part of when she bent and breathed a flower, it wasas if she and the flower were loving each other.paul hated her for it. there seemed a sort of exposure about theaction, something too intimate. when he had got a fair bunch, they returnedto the house. he listened for a moment to his mother'squiet movement upstairs, then he said: "come here, and let me pin them in foryou."

he arranged them two or three at a time inthe bosom of her dress, stepping back now and then to see the effect. "you know," he said, taking the pin out ofhis mouth, "a woman ought always to arrange her flowers before her glass."miriam laughed. she thought flowers ought to be pinned inone's dress without any care. that paul should take pains to fix herflowers for her was his whim. he was rather offended at her laughter. "some women do--those who look decent," hesaid. miriam laughed again, but mirthlessly, tohear him thus mix her up with women in a

general way. from most men she would have ignored it.but from him it hurt her. he had nearly finished arranging theflowers when he heard his mother's footstep on the stairs. hurriedly he pushed in the last pin andturned away. "don't let mater know," he said. miriam picked up her books and stood in thedoorway looking with chagrin at the beautiful sunset.she would call for paul no more, she said. "good-evening, mrs. morel," she said, in adeferential way.

she sounded as if she felt she had no rightto be there. "oh, is it you, miriam?" replied mrs. morelcoolly. but paul insisted on everybody's acceptinghis friendship with the girl, and mrs. morel was too wise to have any openrupture. it was not till he was twenty years oldthat the family could ever afford to go away for a holiday. mrs. morel had never been away for aholiday, except to see her sister, since she had been married.now at last paul had saved enough money, and they were all going.

there was to be a party: some of annie'sfriends, one friend of paul's, a young man in the same office where william hadpreviously been, and miriam. it was great excitement writing for rooms. paul and his mother debated it endlesslybetween them. they wanted a furnished cottage for twoweeks. she thought one week would be enough, buthe insisted on two. at last they got an answer frommablethorpe, a cottage such as they wished for thirty shillings a week. there was immense jubilation.paul was wild with joy for his mother's

sake.she would have a real holiday now. he and she sat at evening picturing what itwould be like. annie came in, and leonard, and alice, andkitty. there was wild rejoicing and anticipation. paul told miriam.she seemed to brood with joy over it. but the morel's house rang with excitement.they were to go on saturday morning by the seven train. paul suggested that miriam should sleep athis house, because it was so far for her to walk.she came down for supper.

everybody was so excited that even miriamwas accepted with warmth. but almost as soon as she entered thefeeling in the family became close and tight. he had discovered a poem by jean ingelowwhich mentioned mablethorpe, and so he must read it to miriam. he would never have got so far in thedirection of sentimentality as to read poetry to his own family.but now they condescended to listen. miriam sat on the sofa absorbed in him. she always seemed absorbed in him, and byhim, when he was present.

mrs. morel sat jealously in her own chair.she was going to hear also. and even annie and the father attended,morel with his head cocked on one side, like somebody listening to a sermon andfeeling conscious of the fact. paul ducked his head over the book. he had got now all the audience he caredfor. and mrs. morel and annie almost contestedwith miriam who should listen best and win his favour. he was in very high feather."but," interrupted mrs. morel, "what is the 'bride of enderby' that the bells aresupposed to ring?"

"it's an old tune they used to play on thebells for a warning against water. i suppose the bride of enderby was drownedin a flood," he replied. he had not the faintest knowledge what itreally was, but he would never have sunk so low as to confess that to his womenfolk.they listened and believed him. he believed himself. "and the people knew what that tune meant?"said his mother. "yes--just like the scotch when they heard'the flowers o' the forest'--and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm." "how?" said annie."a bell sounds the same whether it's rung

backwards or forwards." "but," he said, "if you start with the deepbell and ring up to the high one--der--der- -der--der--der--der--der--der!"he ran up the scale. everybody thought it clever. he thought so too.then, waiting a minute, he continued the poem."hm!" said mrs. morel curiously, when he finished. "but i wish everything that's writtenweren't so sad." "i canna see what they want drownin'theirselves for," said morel.

there was a pause. annie got up to clear the table.miriam rose to help with the pots. "let me help to wash up," she said."certainly not," cried annie. "you sit down again. there aren't many."and miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat down again to look at the bookwith paul. he was master of the party; his father wasno good. and great tortures he suffered lest the tinbox should be put out at firsby instead of at mablethorpe.

and he wasn't equal to getting a carriage.his bold little mother did that. "here!" she cried to a man."here!" paul and annie got behind the rest,convulsed with shamed laughter. "how much will it be to drive to brookcottage?" said mrs. morel. "two shillings." "why, how far is it?""a good way." "i don't believe it," she said.but she scrambled in. there were eight crowded in one old seasidecarriage. "you see," said mrs. morel, "it's onlythreepence each, and if it were a tramcar--

" they drove along.each cottage they came to, mrs. morel cried:"is it this? now, this is it!" everybody sat breathless.they drove past. there was a universal sigh."i'm thankful it wasn't that brute," said mrs. morel. "i was frightened."they drove on and on. at last they descended at a house thatstood alone over the dyke by the highroad.

there was wild excitement because they hadto cross a little bridge to get into the front garden. but they loved the house that lay sosolitary, with a sea-meadow on one side, and immense expanse of land patched inwhite barley, yellow oats, red wheat, and green root-crops, flat and stretching levelto the sky. paul kept accounts.he and his mother ran the show. the total expenses--lodging, food,everything--was sixteen shillings a week per person.he and leonard went bathing in the mornings.

morel was wandering abroad quite early."you, paul," his mother called from the bedroom, "eat a piece of bread-and-butter.""all right," he answered. and when he got back he saw his motherpresiding in state at the breakfast-table. the woman of the house was young.her husband was blind, and she did laundry work. so mrs. morel always washed the pots in thekitchen and made the beds. "but you said you'd have a real holiday,"said paul, "and now you work." "work!" she exclaimed. "what are you talking about!"he loved to go with her across the fields

to the village and the sea.she was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused her for being a baby. on the whole he stuck to her as if he wereher man. miriam did not get much of him, except,perhaps, when all the others went to the "coons". coons were insufferably stupid to miriam,so he thought they were to himself also, and he preached priggishly to annie aboutthe fatuity of listening to them. yet he, too, knew all their songs, and sangthem along the roads roisterously. and if he found himself listening, thestupidity pleased him very much.

yet to annie he said: "such rot! there isn't a grain ofintelligence in it. nobody with more gumption than agrasshopper could go and sit and listen." and to miriam he said, with much scorn ofannie and the others: "i suppose they're at the 'coons'."it was queer to see miriam singing coon songs. she had a straight chin that went in aperpendicular line from the lower lip to the turn. she always reminded paul of some sadbotticelli angel when she sang, even when

it was:"come down lover's lane for a walk with me, talk with me." only when he sketched, or at evening whenthe others were at the "coons", she had him to herself. he talked to her endlessly about his loveof horizontals: how they, the great levels of sky and land in lincolnshire, meant tohim the eternality of the will, just as the bowed norman arches of the church, repeating themselves, meant the doggedleaping forward of the persistent human soul, on and on, nobody knows where; incontradiction to the perpendicular lines

and to the gothic arch, which, he said, leapt up at heaven and touched the ecstasyand lost itself in the divine. himself, he said, was norman, miriam wasgothic. she bowed in consent even to that. one evening he and she went up the greatsweeping shore of sand towards theddlethorpe.the long breakers plunged and ran in a hiss of foam along the coast. it was a warm evening.there was not a figure but themselves on the far reaches of sand, no noise but thesound of the sea.

paul loved to see it clanging at the land. he loved to feel himself between the noiseof it and the silence of the sandy shore. miriam was with him.everything grew very intense. it was quite dark when they turned again. the way home was through a gap in thesandhills, and then along a raised grass road between two dykes.the country was black and still. from behind the sandhills came the whisperof the sea. paul and miriam walked in silence.suddenly he started. the whole of his blood seemed to burst intoflame, and he could scarcely breathe.

an enormous orange moon was staring at themfrom the rim of the sandhills. he stood still, looking at it. "ah!" cried miriam, when she saw it.he remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddy moon, the only thing inthe far-reaching darkness of the level. his heart beat heavily, the muscles of hisarms contracted. "what is it?" murmured miriam, waiting forhim. he turned and looked at her. she stood beside him, for ever in shadow.her face, covered with the darkness of her hat, was watching him unseen.but she was brooding.

she was slightly afraid--deeply moved andreligious. that was her best state.he was impotent against it. his blood was concentrated like a flame inhis chest. but he could not get across to her.there were flashes in his blood. but somehow she ignored them. she was expecting some religious state inhim. still yearning, she was half aware of hispassion, and gazed at him, troubled. "what is it?" she murmured again. "it's the moon," he answered, frowning."yes," she assented.

"isn't it wonderful?"she was curious about him. the crisis was past. he did not know himself what was thematter. he was naturally so young, and theirintimacy was so abstract, he did not know he wanted to crush her on to his breast toease the ache there. he was afraid of her. the fact that he might want her as a manwants a woman had in him been suppressed into a shame. when she shrank in her convulsed, coiledtorture from the thought of such a thing,

he had winced to the depths of his soul.and now this "purity" prevented even their first love-kiss. it was as if she could scarcely stand theshock of physical love, even a passionate kiss, and then he was too shrinking andsensitive to give it. as they walked along the dark fen-meadow hewatched the moon and did not speak. she plodded beside him.he hated her, for she seemed in some way to make him despise himself. looking ahead--he saw the one light in thedarkness, the window of their lamp-lit cottage.he loved to think of his mother, and the

other jolly people. "well, everybody else has been in longago!" said his mother as they entered. "what does that matter!" he criedirritably. "i can go a walk if i like, can't i?" "and i should have thought you could get into supper with the rest," said mrs. morel. "i shall please myself," he retorted."it's not late. i shall do as i like." "very well," said his mother cuttingly,"then do as you like." and she took no further notice of him thatevening.

which he pretended neither to notice nor tocare about, but sat reading. miriam read also, obliterating herself.mrs. morel hated her for making her son like this. she watched paul growing irritable,priggish, and melancholic. for this she put the blame on miriam.annie and all her friends joined against the girl. miriam had no friend of her own, only paul.but she did not suffer so much, because she despised the triviality of these otherpeople. and paul hated her because, somehow, shespoilt his ease and naturalness.

and he writhed himself with a feeling ofhumiliation.

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