“Both,” he answered — ”both!”
They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools of water.
“And what did she say?” Clara asked.
“Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always HAD battled her off.”
Clara pondered over this for a time.
“But you have really been going with her for some time?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And now you don’t want any more of her?”
“No. I know it’s no good.”
She pondered again.
“Don’t you think you’ve treated her rather badly?” she asked.
“Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been no good going on. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“How old ARE you?” Clara asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“And I am thirty,” she said.
“I know you are.”
“I shall be thirty-one — or AM I thirty-one?”
“I neither know nor care. What does it matter!”
They were at the entrance to the Grove. The wet, red track, already sticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass. On either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle, arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell. All was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and he held both her hands. Laughing, she looked down into his eyes. Then she leaped. Her breast came against his; he held her, and covered her face with kisses.
They went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released his hand and put it round her waist.
“You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly,” she said.
They walked along. His finger-tips felt the rocking of her breast. All was silent and deserted. On the left the red wet plough-land showed through the doorways between the elm-boles and their branches. On the right, looking down, they could see the tree-tops of elms growing far beneath them, hear occasionally the gurgle of the river. Sometimes there below they caught glimpses of the full, soft-sliding Trent, and of water-meadows dotted with small cattle.
“It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come,” he said.
But he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush was fusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that pouted disconsolate. She stirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string.
Halfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the Grove rose highest above the river, their forward movement faltered to an end. He led her across to the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path. The cliff of red earth sloped swiftly down, through trees and bushes, to the river that glimmered and was dark between the foliage. The far-below water-meadows were very green. He and she stood leaning against one another, silent, afraid, their bodies touching all along. There came a quick gurgle from the river below.
“Why,” he asked at length, “did you hate Baxter Dawes?”
She turned to him with a splendid movement. Her mouth was offered him, and her throat; her eyes were half-shut; her breast was tilted as if it asked for him. He flashed with a small laugh, shut his eyes, and met her in a long, whole kiss. Her mouth fused with his; their bodies were sealed and annealed. It was some minutes before they withdrew. They were standing beside the public path.
“Will you go down to the river?” he asked.
She looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over the brim of the declivity and began to climb down.
“It is slippery,” he said.
“Never mind,” she replied.
The red clay went down almost sheer. He slid, went from one tuft of grass to the next, hanging on to the bushes, making for a little platform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laughing with excitement. Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her. He frowned. At last he caught her hand, and she stood beside him. The cliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyes flashed. He looked at the big drop below them.
“It’s risky,” he said; “or messy, at any rate. Shall we go back?”
“Not for my sake,” she said quickly.
“All right. You see, I can’t help you; I should only hinder. Give me that little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!”
They stood perched on the face of the declivity, under the trees.
“Well, I’ll go again,” he said.
Away he went, slipping, staggering, sliding to the next tree, into which he fell with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. She came after cautiously, hanging on to the twigs and grasses. So they descended, stage by stage, to the river’s brink. There, to his disgust, the flood had eaten away the path, and the red decline ran straight into the water. He dug in his heels and brought himself up violently. The string of the parcel broke with a snap; the brown parcel bounded down, leaped into the water, and sailed smoothly away. He hung on to his tree.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried crossly. Then he laughed. She was coming perilously down.
“Mind!” he warned her. He stood with his back to the tree, waiting. “Come now,” he called, opening his arms.
She let herself run. He caught her, and together they stood watching the dark water scoop at the raw edge of the bank. The parcel had sailed out of sight.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
He held her close and kissed her. There was only room for their four feet.
“It’s a swindle!” he said. “But there’s a rut where a man has been, so if we go on I guess we shall find the path again.”
The river slid and twined its great volume. On the other bank cattle were feeding on the desolate flats. The cliff rose high above Paul and Clara on their right hand. They stood against the tree in the watery silence.
“Let us try going forward,” he said; and they struggled in the red clay along the groove a man’s nailed boots had made. They were hot and flushed. Their barkled shoes hung heavy on their steps. At last they found the broken path. It was littered with rubble from the water, but at any rate it was easier. They cleaned their boots with twigs. His heart was beating thick and fast.
Suddenly, coming on to the little level, he saw two figures of men standing silent at the water’s edge. His heart leaped. They were fishing. He turned and put his hand up warningly to Clara. She hesitated, buttoned her coat. The two went on together.
The fishermen turned curiously to watch the two intruders on their privacy and solitude. They had had a fire, but it was nearly out. All kept perfectly still. The men turned again to their fishing, stood over the grey glinting river like statues. Clara went with bowed head, flushing; he was laughing to himself. Directly they passed out of sight behind the willows.
“Now they ought to be drowned,” said Paul softly.
Clara did not answer. They toiled forward along a tiny path on the river’s lip. Suddenly it vanished. The bank was sheer red solid clay in front of them, sloping straight into the river. He stood and cursed beneath his breath, setting his teeth.
“It’s impossible!” said Clara.
He stood erect, looking round. Just ahead were two islets in the stream, covered with osiers. But they were unattainable. The cliff came down like a sloping wall from far above their heads. Behind, not far back, were the fishermen. Across the river the distant cattle fed silently in the desolate afternoon. He cursed again deeply under his breath. He gazed up the great steep bank. Was there no hope but to scale back to the public path?
“Stop a minute,” he said, and, digging his heels sideways into the steep bank of red clay, he began nimbly to mount. He looked across at every tree-foot. At last he found what he wanted. Two beech-trees side by side on the hill held a little level on the upper face between their roots. It was littered with damp leaves, but it would do. The fishermen were perhaps sufficiently out of sight. He threw down his rainproof and waved to her to come.
She toiled to his side. Arriving th
ere, she looked at him heavily, dumbly, and laid her head on his shoulder. He held her fast as he looked round. They were safe enough from all but the small, lonely cows over the river. He sunk his mouth on her throat, where he felt her heavy pulse beat under his lips. Everything was perfectly still. There was nothing in the afternoon but themselves.
When she arose, he, looking on the ground all the time, saw suddenly sprinkled on the black wet beech-roots many scarlet carnation petals, like splashed drops of blood; and red, small splashes fell from her bosom, streaming down her dress to her feet.
“Your flowers are smashed,” he said.
She looked at him heavily as she put back her hair. Suddenly he put his finger-tips on her cheek.
“Why dost look so heavy?” he reproached her.
She smiled sadly, as if she felt alone in herself. He caressed her cheek with his fingers, and kissed her.
“Nay!” he said. “Never thee bother!”
She gripped his fingers tight, and laughed shakily. Then she dropped her hand. He put the hair back from her brows, stroking her temples, kissing them lightly.
“But tha shouldna worrit!” he said softly, pleading.
“No, I don’t worry!” she laughed tenderly and resigned.
“Yea, tha does! Dunna thee worrit,” he implored, caressing.
“No!” she consoled him, kissing him.
They had a stiff climb to get to the top again. It took them a quarter of an hour. When he got on to the level grass, he threw off his cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and sighed.
“Now we’re back at the ordinary level,” he said.
She sat down, panting, on the tussocky grass. Her cheeks were flushed pink. He kissed her, and she gave way to joy.
“And now I’ll clean thy boots and make thee fit for respectable folk,” he said.
He kneeled at her feet, worked away with a stick and tufts of grass. She put her fingers in his hair, drew his head to her, and kissed it.
“What am I supposed to be doing,” he said, looking at her laughing; “cleaning shoes or dibbling with love? Answer me that!”
“Just whichever I please,” she replied.
“I’m your boot-boy for the time being, and nothing else!” But they remained looking into each other’s eyes and laughing. Then they kissed with little nibbling kisses.
“T-t-t-t!” he went with his tongue, like his mother. “I tell you, nothing gets done when there’s a woman about.”
And he returned to his boot-cleaning, singing softly. She touched his thick hair, and he kissed her fingers. He worked away at her shoes. At last they were quite presentable.
“There you are, you see!” he said. “Aren’t I a great hand at restoring you to respectability? Stand up! There, you look as irreproachable as Britannia herself!”
He cleaned his own boots a little, washed his hands in a puddle, and sang. They went on into Clifton village. He was madly in love with her; every movement she made, every crease in her garments, sent a hot flash through him and seemed adorable.
The old lady at whose house they had tea was roused into gaiety by them.
“I could wish you’d had something of a better day,” she said, hovering round.
“Nay!” he laughed. “We’ve been saying how nice it is.”
The old lady looked at him curiously. There was a peculiar glow and charm about him. His eyes were dark and laughing. He rubbed his moustache with a glad movement.
“Have you been saying SO!” she exclaimed, a light rousing in her old eyes.
“Truly!” he laughed.
“Then I’m sure the day’s good enough,” said the old lady.
She fussed about, and did not want to leave them.
“I don’t know whether you’d like some radishes as well,” she said to Clara; “but I’ve got some in the garden — AND a cucumber.”
Clara flushed. She looked very handsome.
“I should like some radishes,” she answered.
And the old lady pottered off gleefully.
“If she knew!” said Clara quietly to him.
“Well, she doesn’t know; and it shows we’re nice in ourselves, at any rate. You look quite enough to satisfy an archangel, and I’m sure I feel harmless — so — if it makes you look nice, and makes folk happy when they have us, and makes us happy — why, we’re not cheating them out of much!”
They went on with the meal. When they were going away, the old lady came timidly with three tiny dahlias in full blow, neat as bees, and speckled scarlet and white. She stood before Clara, pleased with herself, saying:
“I don’t know whether — ” and holding the flowers forward in her old hand.
“Oh, how pretty!” cried Clara, accepting the flowers.
“Shall she have them all?” asked Paul reproachfully of the old woman.
“Yes, she shall have them all,” she replied, beaming with joy. “You have got enough for your share.”
“Ah, but I shall ask her to give me one!” he teased.
“Then she does as she pleases,” said the old lady, smiling. And she bobbed a little curtsey of delight.
Clara was rather quiet and uncomfortable. As they walked along, he said:
“You don’t feel criminal, do you?”
She looked at him with startled grey eyes.
“Criminal!” she said. “No.”
“But you seem to feel you have done a wrong?”
“No,” she said. “I only think, ‘If they knew!’“
“If they knew, they’d cease to understand. As it is, they do understand, and they like it. What do they matter? Here, with only the trees and me, you don’t feel not the least bit wrong, do you?”
He took her by the arm, held her facing him, holding her eyes with his. Something fretted him.
“Not sinners, are we?” he said, with an uneasy little frown.
“No,” she replied.
He kissed her, laughing.
“You like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe,” he said. “I believe Eve enjoyed it, when she went cowering out of Paradise.”
But there was a certain glow and quietness about her that made him glad. When he was alone in the railway-carriage, he found himself tumultuously happy, and the people exceedingly nice, and the night lovely, and everything good.
Mrs. Morel was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not good now, and there had come that ivory pallor into her face which he never noticed, and which afterwards he never forgot. She did not mention her own ill-health to him. After all, she thought, it was not much.
“You are late!” she said, looking at him.
His eyes were shining; his face seemed to glow. He smiled to her.
“Yes; I’ve been down Clifton Grove with Clara.”
His mother looked at him again.
“But won’t people talk?” she said.
“Why? They know she’s a suffragette, and so on. And what if they do talk!”
“Of course, there may be nothing wrong in it,” said his mother. “But you know what folks are, and if once she gets talked about — ”
“Well, I can’t help it. Their jaw isn’t so almighty important, after all.”
“I think you ought to consider HER.”
“So I DO! What can people say? — that we take a walk together. I believe you’re jealous.”
“You know I should be GLAD if she weren’t a married woman.”
“Well, my dear, she lives separate from her husband, and talks on platforms; so she’s already singled out from the sheep, and, as far as I can see, hasn’t much to lose. No; her life’s nothing to her, so what’s the worth of nothing? She goes with me — it becomes something. Then she must pay — we both must pay! Folk are so frightened of paying; they’d rather starve and die.”
“Very well, my son. We’ll see how it will end.”
“Very well, my mother. I’ll abide by the end.”
“We’ll see!”
“And she’s — she’s AWFULLY nice, mo
ther; she is really! You don’t know!”
“That’s not the same as marrying her.”
“It’s perhaps better.”
There was silence for a while. He wanted to ask his mother something, but was afraid.
“Should you like to know her?” He hesitated.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel coolly. “I should like to know what she’s like.”
“But she’s nice, mother, she is! And not a bit common!”
“I never suggested she was.”
“But you seem to think she’s — not as good as — She’s better than ninety-nine folk out of a hundred, I tell you! She’s BETTER, she is! She’s fair, she’s honest, she’s straight! There isn’t anything underhand or superior about her. Don’t be mean about her!”
Mrs. Morel flushed.
“I am sure I am not mean about her. She may be quite as you say, but — ”
“You don’t approve,” he finished.
“And do you expect me to?” she answered coldly.
“Yes! — yes! — if you’d anything about you, you’d be glad! Do you WANT to see her?”
“I said I did.”
“Then I’ll bring her — shall I bring her here?”
“You please yourself.”
“Then I WILL bring her here — one Sunday — to tea. If you think a horrid thing about her, I shan’t forgive you.”
His mother laughed.
“As if it would make any difference!” she said. He knew he had won.
“Oh, but it feels so fine, when she’s there! She’s such a queen in her way.”
Occasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam and Edgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very much the same with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her presence. One evening she was alone when he accompanied her. They began by talking books: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. Morel had said that his and Miriam’s affair was like a fire fed on books — if there were no more volumes it would die out. Miriam, for her part, boasted that she could read him like a book, could place her finger any minute on the chapter and the line. He, easily taken in, believed that Miriam knew more about him than anyone else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself, like the simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his own doings. It flattered him immensely that he was of such supreme interest.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 99