Chapter XII: Passion (2)

“But they’re hardier. You’re so sheltered; things grow big and tender, and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?”

While they were out there the bells began to ring in the church, sounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at the tower, proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he had brought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her even yet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors.

“What! is that Miriam?” asked his mother coldly.

“Yes; she said she’d call and see Clara.”

“You told her, then?” came the sarcastic answer.

“Yes; why shouldn’t I?”

“There’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Morel, and she returned to her book. He winced from his mother’s irony, frowned irritably, thinking: “Why can’t I do as I like?”

“You’ve not seen Mrs. Morel before?” Miriam was saying to Clara.

“No; but she’s _so_ nice!”

“Yes,” said Miriam, dropping her head; “in some ways she’s very fine.”

“I should think so.”

“Had Paul told you much about her?”

“He had talked a good deal.”

“Ha!”

There was silence until he returned with the book.

“When will you want it back?” Miriam asked.

“When you like,” he answered.

Clara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriam to the gate.

“When will you come up to Willey Farm?” the latter asked.

“I couldn’t say,” replied Clara.

“Mother asked me to say she’d be pleased to see you any time, if you cared to come.”

“Thank you; I should like to, but I can’t say when.”

“Oh, very well!” exclaimed Miriam rather bitterly, turning away.

She went down the path with her mouth to the flowers he had given her.

“You’re sure you won’t come in?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“We are going to chapel.”

“Ah, I shall see you, then!” Miriam was very bitter.

“Yes.”

They parted. He felt guilty towards her. She was bitter, and she scorned him. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could have Clara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give her the same hymn-book he had given herself years before. She heard him running quickly indoors.

But he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass, he heard his mother’s voice, then Clara’s answer:

“What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam.”

“Yes,” said his mother quickly, “yes; _doesn’t_ it make you hate her, now!”

His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about the girl. What right had they to say that? Something in the speech itself stung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heart rebelled furiously at Clara’s taking the liberty of speaking so about Miriam. After all, the girl was the better woman of the two, he thought, if it came to goodness. He went indoors. His mother looked excited. She was beating with her hand rhythmically on the sofa-arm, as women do who are wearing out. He could never bear to see the movement. There was a silence; then he began to talk.

In chapel Miriam saw him find the place in the hymn-book for Clara, in exactly the same way as he used for herself. And during the sermon he could see the girl across the chapel, her hat throwing a dark shadow over her face. What did she think, seeing Clara with him? He did not stop to consider. He felt himself cruel towards Miriam.

After chapel he went over Pentrich with Clara. It was a dark autumn night. They had said good-bye to Miriam, and his heart had smitten him as he left the girl alone. “But it serves her right,” he said inside himself, and it almost gave him pleasure to go off under her eyes with this other handsome woman.

There was a scent of damp leaves in the darkness. Clara’s hand lay warm and inert in his own as they walked. He was full of conflict. The battle that raged inside him made him feel desperate.

Up Pentrich Hill Clara leaned against him as he went. He slid his arm round her waist. Feeling the strong motion of her body under his arm as she walked, the tightness in his chest because of Miriam relaxed, and the hot blood bathed him. He held her closer and closer.

Then: “You still keep on with Miriam,” she said quietly.

“Only talk. There never _was_ a great deal more than talk between us,” he said bitterly.

“Your mother doesn’t care for her,” said Clara.

“No, or I might have married her. But it’s all up really!”

Suddenly his voice went passionate with hate.

“If I was with her now, we should be jawing about the ‘Christian Mystery’, or some such tack. Thank God, I’m not!”

They walked on in silence for some time.

“But you can’t really give her up,” said Clara.

“I don’t give her up, because there’s nothing to give,” he said.

“There is for her.”

“I don’t know why she and I shouldn’t be friends as long as we live,” he said. “But it’ll only be friends.”

Clara drew away from him, leaning away from contact with him.

“What are you drawing away for?” he asked.

She did not answer, but drew farther from him.

“Why do you want to walk alone?” he asked.

Still there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head.

“Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!” he exclaimed.

She would not answer him anything.

“I tell you it’s only words that go between us,” he persisted, trying to take her again.

She resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring her way.

“Damn it!” he said. “What do you want now?”

“You’d better run after Miriam,” mocked Clara.

The blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She drooped sulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her in his arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss of rage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard and relentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall of his chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, and kissed her.

He heard people coming down the hill.

“Stand up! stand up!” he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. If he had let go, she would have sunk to the ground.

She sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence.

“We will go over the fields,” he said; and then she woke up.

But she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in silence with him over the first dark field. It was the way to Nottingham and to the station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. They came out on a bare hilltop where stood the dark figure of the ruined windmill. There he halted. They stood together high up in the darkness, looking at the lights scattered on the night before them, handfuls of glittering points, villages lying high and low on the dark, here and there.

“Like treading among the stars,” he said, with a quaky laugh.

Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved aside her mouth to ask, dogged and low:

“What time is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he pleaded thickly.

“Yes it does—yes! I must go!”

“It’s early yet,” he said.

“What time is it?” she insisted.

All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights.

“I don’t know.”

She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the joints fuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he stood panting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face of the watch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till he could take her in his arms again.

“I can’t see,” she said.

“Then don’t bother.”

“Yes; I’m going!” she said, turning away.

“Wait! I’ll look!” But he could not see. “I’ll strike a match.”

He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face lit up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All was black before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Where was he?

“What is it?” she asked, afraid.

“You can’t do it,” his voice answered out of the darkness.

There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in his voice. It frightened her.

“What time is it?” she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless.

“Two minutes to nine,” he replied, telling the truth with a struggle.

“And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?”

“No. At any rate—”

She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted to escape.

“But can’t I do it?” she pleaded.

“If you hurry,” he said brusquely. “But you could easily walk it, Clara; it’s only seven miles to the tram. I’ll come with you.”

“No; I want to catch the train.”

“But why?”

“I do—I want to catch the train.”

Suddenly his voice altered.

“Very well,” he said, dry and hard. “Come along, then.”

And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting to cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, dark fields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row of lights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly:

“There she is!” he cried, breaking into a run.

There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, like a luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling ceased.

“She’s over the viaduct. You’ll just do it.”

Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The whistle blew. He was gone. Gone!—and she was in a carriage full of people. She felt the cruelty of it.

He turned round and plunged home. Before he knew where he was he was in the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark and dangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him.

“Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!” she said.

He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother wondered if he were drunk.

“She caught the train then?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I hope _her_ feet weren’t so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her I don’t know!”

He was silent and motionless for some time.

“Did you like her?” he asked grudgingly at last.

“Yes, I liked her. But you’ll tire of her, my son; you know you will.”

He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing.

“Have you been running?” she asked.

“We had to run for the train.”

“You’ll go and knock yourself up. You’d better drink hot milk.”

It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went to bed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rage and pain. There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost to feel.

“This is how she serves me, is it?” he said in his heart, over and over, pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over the scene, and again he hated her.

The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara was very gentle, almost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a touch of contempt. She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round.

One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royal in Nottingham, giving “La Dame aux Camélias”. Paul wanted to see this old and famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told his mother to leave the key in the window for him.

“Shall I book seats?” he asked of Clara.

“Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I’ve never seen you in it.”

“But, good Lord, Clara! Think of _me_ in evening suit at the theatre!” he remonstrated.

“Would you rather not?” she asked.

“I will if you _want_ me to; but I s’ll feel a fool.”

She laughed at him.

“Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won’t you?”

The request made his blood flush up.

“I suppose I s’ll have to.”

“What are you taking a suitcase for?” his mother asked.

He blushed furiously.

“Clara asked me,” he said.

“And what seats are you going in?”

“Circle—three-and-six each!”

“Well, I’m sure!” exclaimed his mother sarcastically.

“It’s only once in the bluest of blue moons,” he said.

He dressed at Jordan’s, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met Clara in a café. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old long coat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrap over her head, which he hated. The three went to the theatre together.

Clara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was in a sort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and part of her breast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thing of green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, he thought. He could see her figure inside the frock, as if that were wrapped closely round her. The firmness and the softness of her upright body could almost be felt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists.

And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm, watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching the breasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight dress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this torture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head and stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could not help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself. A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, made it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched down on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist. Her beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights went down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and arm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time his blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his consciousness momentarily.

The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere; he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara’s white heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be himself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identified with that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara, her bosom coming down on him, her arm that he held gripped between his hands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless, her towering in her force above him.

Only the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expressibly. He wanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark again. In a maze, he wandered out for a drink. Then the lights were out, and the strange, insane reality of Clara and the drama took hold of him again.

The play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire to kiss the tiny blue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel it. His whole face seemed suspended till he had put his lips there. It must be done. And the other people! At last he bent quickly forward and touched it with his lips. His moustache brushed the sensitive flesh. Clara shivered, drew away her arm.

When all was over, the lights up, the people clapping, he came to himself and looked at his watch. His train was gone.

“I s’ll have to walk home!” he said.

Clara looked at him.

“It is too late?” she asked.

He nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat.

“I love you! You look beautiful in that dress,” he murmured over her shoulder, among the throng of bustling people.

She remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He saw the cabs waiting, the people passing. It seemed he met a pair of brown eyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and Clara turned away, mechanically taking the direction to the station.

The train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I shall enjoy it.”

“Won’t you,” she said, flushing, “come home for the night? I can sleep with mother.”

He looked at her. Their eyes met.

“What will your mother say?” he asked.

“She won’t mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite!”

“_Shall_ I come?”

“If you will.”

“Very well.”

And they turned away. At the first stopping-place they took the car. The wind blew fresh in their faces. The town was dark; the tram tipped in its haste. He sat with her hand fast in his.

“Will your mother be gone to bed?” he asked.

“She may be. I hope not.”

They hurried along the silent, dark little street, the only people out of doors. Clara quickly entered the house. He hesitated.

He leaped up the step and was in the room. Her mother appeared in the inner doorway, large and hostile.

“Who have you got there?” she asked.

“It’s Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we might put him up for the night, and save him a ten-mile walk.”

“H’m,” exclaimed Mrs. Radford. “That’s _your_ lookout! If you’ve invited him, he’s very welcome as far as I’m concerned. _You_ keep the house!”

“If you don’t like me, I’ll go away again,” he said.

“Nay, nay, you needn’t! Come along in! I dunno what you’ll think of the supper I’d got her.”

It was a little dish of chip potatoes and a piece of bacon. The table was roughly laid for one.

“You can have some more bacon,” continued Mrs. Radford. “More chips you can’t have.”

“It’s a shame to bother you,” he said.

“Oh, don’t you be apologetic! It doesn’t _do_ wi’ me! You treated her to the theatre, didn’t you?” There was a sarcasm in the last question.

“Well?” laughed Paul uncomfortably.

“Well, and what’s an inch of bacon! Take your coat off.”

The big, straight-standing woman was trying to estimate the situation. She moved about the cupboard. Clara took his coat. The room was very warm and cosy in the lamplight.

“My sirs!” exclaimed Mrs. Radford; “but you two’s a pair of bright beauties, I must say! What’s all that get-up for?”

“I believe we don’t know,” he said, feeling a victim.

“There isn’t room in _this_ house for two such bobby-dazzlers, if you fly your kites _that_ high!” she rallied them. It was a nasty thrust.

He in his dinner jacket, and Clara in her green dress and bare arms, were confused. They felt they must shelter each other in that little kitchen.

“And look at _that_ blossom!” continued Mrs. Radford, pointing to Clara. “What does she reckon she did it for?”

Paul looked at Clara. She was rosy; her neck was warm with blushes. There was a moment of silence.

“You like to see it, don’t you?” he asked.

The mother had them in her power. All the time his heart was beating hard, and he was tight with anxiety. But he would fight her.

“Me like to see it!” exclaimed the old woman. “What should I like to see her make a fool of herself for?”

“I’ve seen people look bigger fools,” he said. Clara was under his protection now.

“Oh, ay! and when was that?” came the sarcastic rejoinder.

“When they made frights of themselves,” he answered.

Mrs. Radford, large and threatening, stood suspended on the hearthrug, holding her fork.

“They’re fools either road,” she answered at length, turning to the Dutch oven.

“No,” he said, fighting stoutly. “Folk ought to look as well as they can.”

“And do you call _that_ looking nice!” cried the mother, pointing a scornful fork at Clara. “That—that looks as if it wasn’t properly dressed!”

“I believe you’re jealous that you can’t swank as well,” he said laughing.

“Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I’d wanted to!” came the scornful answer.

“And why didn’t you want to?” he asked pertinently. “Or _did_ you wear it?”

There was a long pause. Mrs. Radford readjusted the bacon in the Dutch oven. His heart beat fast, for fear he had offended her.

“Me!” she exclaimed at last. “No, I didn’t! And when I was in service, I knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bare shoulders what sort _she_ was, going to her sixpenny hop!”

“Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?” he said.

Clara sat with bowed head. His eyes were dark and glittering. Mrs. Radford took the Dutch oven from the fire, and stood near him, putting bits of bacon on his plate.

“_There’s_ a nice crozzly bit!” she said.

“Don’t give me the best!” he said.

“_She’s_ got what _she_ wants,” was the answer.

There was a sort of scornful forbearance in the woman’s tone that made Paul know she was mollified.

“But _do_ have some!” he said to Clara.

She looked up at him with her grey eyes, humiliated and lonely.

“No thanks!” she said.

“Why won’t you?” he answered carelessly.

The blood was beating up like fire in his veins. Mrs. Radford sat down again, large and impressive and aloof. He left Clara altogether to attend to the mother.

“They say Sarah Bernhardt’s fifty,” he said.

“Fifty! She’s turned sixty!” came the scornful answer.

“Well,” he said, “you’d never think it! She made me want to howl even now.”

“I should like to see myself howling at _that_ bad old baggage!” said Mrs. Radford. “It’s time she began to think herself a grandmother, not a shrieking catamaran—”

He laughed.

“A catamaran is a boat the Malays use,” he said.

“And it’s a word as _I_ use,” she retorted.

“My mother does sometimes, and it’s no good my telling her,” he said.

“I s’d think she boxes your ears,” said Mrs. Radford, good-humouredly.

“She’d like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool to stand on.”

“That’s the worst of my mother,” said Clara. “She never wants a stool for anything.”

“But she often can’t touch _that_ lady with a long prop,” retorted Mrs. Radford to Paul.

“I s’d think she doesn’t want touching with a prop,” he laughed. “_I_ shouldn’t.”

“It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head with one,” said the mother, laughing suddenly.

“Why are you so vindictive towards me?” he said. “I’ve not stolen anything from you.”

“No; I’ll watch that,” laughed the older woman.

Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her chair. Paul lit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit, which she spread on the fender to air.

“Why, I’d forgot all about _them!_” said Mrs. Radford. “Where have they sprung from?”

“Out of my drawer.”

“H’m! You bought ’em for Baxter, an’ he wouldn’t wear ’em, would he?”—laughing. “Said he reckoned to do wi’out trousers i’ bed.” She turned confidentially to Paul, saying: “He couldn’t _bear_ ’em, them pyjama things.”

The young man sat making rings of smoke.

“Well, it’s everyone to his taste,” he laughed.

Then followed a little discussion of the merits of pyjamas.

“My mother loves me in them,” he said. “She says I’m a pierrot.”

“I can imagine they’d suit you,” said Mrs. Radford.

After a while he glanced at the little clock that was ticking on the mantelpiece. It was half-past twelve.

“It is funny,” he said, “but it takes hours to settle down to sleep after the theatre.”

“It’s about time you did,” said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table.

“Are _you_ tired?” he asked of Clara.

“Not the least bit,” she answered, avoiding his eyes.

“Shall we have a game at cribbage?” he said.

“I’ve forgotten it.”

“Well, I’ll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?” he asked.

“You’ll please yourselves,” she said; “but it’s pretty late.”

“A game or so will make us sleepy,” he answered.

Clara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-ring whilst he shuffled them. Mrs. Radford was washing up in the scullery. As it grew later Paul felt the situation getting more and more tense.

“Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two’s eight—!”

The clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radford had done all the little jobs preparatory to going to bed, had locked the door and filled the kettle. Still Paul went on dealing and counting. He was obsessed by Clara’s arms and throat. He believed he could see where the division was just beginning for her breasts. He could not leave her. She watched his hands, and felt her joints melt as they moved quickly. She was so near; it was almost as if he touched her, and yet not quite. His mettle was roused. He hated Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly dropping asleep, but determined and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her, then at Clara. She met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard as steel. Her own answered him in shame. He knew _she_, at any rate, was of his mind. He played on.

At last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiffly, and said:

“Isn’t it nigh on time you two was thinking o’ bed?”

Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiently to murder her.

“Half a minute,” he said.

The elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery, returning with his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then she sat down again. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, he dropped his cards.

“We’ll stop, then,” he said, but his voice was still a challenge.

Clara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It seemed like an agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing, to clear her throat.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve finished,” said Mrs. Radford. “Here, take your things”—she thrust the warm suit in his hand—“and this is your candle. Your room’s over this; there’s only two, so you can’t go far wrong. Well, good-night. I hope you’ll rest well.”

“I’m sure I shall; I always do,” he said.

“Yes; and so you ought at your age,” she replied.

He bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting stairs of white, scrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He went doggedly. The two doors faced each other. He went in his room, pushed the door to, without fastening the latch.

It was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara’s hair-pins were on the dressing-table—her hair-brush. Her clothes and some skirts hung under a cloth in a corner. There was actually a pair of stockings over a chair. He explored the room. Two books of his own were there on the shelf. He undressed, folded his suit, and sat on the bed, listening. Then he blew out the candle, lay down, and in two minutes was almost asleep. Then click!—he was wide awake and writhing in torment. It was as if, when he had nearly got to sleep, something had bitten him suddenly and sent him mad. He sat up and looked at the room in the darkness, his feet doubled under him, perfectly motionless, listening. He heard a cat somewhere away outside; then the heavy, poised tread of the mother; then Clara’s distinct voice:

“Will you unfasten my dress?”

There was silence for some time. At last the mother said:

“Now then! aren’t you coming up?”

“No, not yet,” replied the daughter calmly.

“Oh, very well then! If it’s not late enough, stop a bit longer. Only you needn’t come waking me up when I’ve got to sleep.”

“I shan’t be long,” said Clara.

Immediately afterwards Paul heard the mother slowly mounting the stairs. The candlelight flashed through the cracks in his door. Her dress brushed the door, and his heart jumped. Then it was dark, and he heard the clatter of her latch. She was very leisurely indeed in her preparations for sleep. After a long time it was quite still. He sat strung up on the bed, shivering slightly. His door was an inch open. As Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He waited. All was dead silence. The clock struck two. Then he heard a slight scrape of the fender downstairs. Now he could not help himself. His shivering was uncontrollable. He felt he must go or die.

He stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then he went straight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first stair cracked like a shot. He listened. The old woman stirred in her bed. The staircase was dark. There was a slit of light under the stair-foot door, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. Then he went on, mechanically. Every step creaked, and his back was creeping, lest the old woman’s door should open behind him up above. He fumbled with the door at the bottom. The latch opened with a loud clack. He went through into the kitchen, and shut the door noisily behind him. The old woman daren’t come now.

Then he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of white underclothing on the hearthrug, her back towards him, warming herself. She did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, and her rounded beautiful back was towards him, and her face was hidden. She was warming her body at the fire for consolation. The glow was rosy on one side, the shadow was dark and warm on the other. Her arms hung slack.

He shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hard to keep control. Then he went forward to her. He put one hand on her shoulder, the fingers of the other hand under her chin to raise her face. A convulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his touch. She kept her head bent.

“Sorry!” he murmured, realising that his hands were very cold.

Then she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that is afraid of death.

“My hands are so cold,” he murmured.

“I like it,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

The breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms clasped his knees. The cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and made her shiver. As the warmth went into him, his shuddering became less.

At length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and she buried her head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowly with an infinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him, trying to hide herself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at last she looked at him, mute, imploring, looking to see if she must be ashamed.

His eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if her beauty and his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked at her with a little pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before her. She kissed him fervently on the eyes, first one, then the other, and she folded herself to him. She gave herself. He held her fast. It was a moment intense almost to agony.

She stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It healed her hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It made her feel erect and proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside her. She had been cheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride again. It was her restoration and her recognition.

Then he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed to each other, and he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off, the minutes passed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together, mouth to mouth, like a statue in one block.

But again his fingers went seeking over her, restless, wandering, dissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her head on his shoulder.

“Come you to my room,” he murmured.

She looked at him and shook her head, her mouth pouting disconsolately, her eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly.

“Yes!” he said.

Again she shook her head.

“Why not?” he asked.

She looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again she shook her head. His eyes hardened, and he gave way.

When, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she had refused to come to him openly, so that her mother would know. At any rate, then things would have been definite. And she could have stayed with him the night, without having to go, as she was, to her mother’s bed. It was strange, and he could not understand it. And then almost immediately he fell asleep.

He awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes, he saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking down on him. She held a cup of tea in her hand.

“Do you think you’re going to sleep till Doomsday?” she said.

He laughed at once.

“It ought only to be about five o’clock,” he said.

“Well,” she answered, “it’s half-past seven, whether or not. Here, I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”

He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, and roused himself.

“What’s it so late for!” he grumbled.

He resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neck in the flannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl’s. He rubbed his hair crossly.

“It’s no good your scratching your head,” she said. “It won’t make it no earlier. Here, an’ how long d’you think I’m going to stand waiting wi’ this here cup?”

“Oh, dash the cup!” he said.

“You should go to bed earlier,” said the woman.

He looked up at her, laughing with impudence.

“I went to bed before _you_ did,” he said.

“Yes, my Guyney, you did!” she exclaimed.

“Fancy,” he said, stirring his tea, “having tea brought to bed to me! My mother’ll think I’m ruined for life.”

“Don’t she never do it?” asked Mrs. Radford.

“She’d as leave think of flying.”

“Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That’s why they’ve turned out such bad uns,” said the elderly woman.

“You’d only Clara,” he said. “And Mr. Radford’s in heaven. So I suppose there’s only you left to be the bad un.”

“I’m not bad; I’m only soft,” she said, as she went out of the bedroom. “I’m only a fool, I am!”

Clara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of air of proprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radford was evidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting.

“What’s the good,” exclaimed the mother, “of your whittling and worrying and twistin’ and too-in’ at that painting of yours? What _good_ does it do you, I should like to know? You’d better be enjoyin’ yourself.”

“Oh, but,” exclaimed Paul, “I made over thirty guineas last year.”

“Did you! Well, that’s a consideration, but it’s nothing to the time you put in.”

“And I’ve got four pounds owing. A man said he’d give me five pounds if I’d paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went and put the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy, so I had to knock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn’t like the dog. I made a picture of it. What shall I do when he pays me the four pounds?”

“Nay! you know your own uses for your money,” said Mrs. Radford.

“But I’m going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the seaside for a day or two?”

“Who?”

“You and Clara and me.”

“What, on your money!” she exclaimed, half-wrathful.

“Why not?”

“_You_ wouldn’t be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!” she said.

“So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?”

“Nay; you may settle that atween you.”

“And you’re willing?” he asked, amazed and rejoicing.

“You’ll do as you like,” said Mrs. Radford, “whether I’m willing or not.”