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said.d across in the other garden, beside a bush of pale
Michaelmas daisies, watching the last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming, he turned to her with an easy
motion, saying:
"It's the end of the run with these chaps."
Clara stood near him. Over the low red wall in front was the country and the far-off hills, all golden dim.
At that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door. She saw Clara go up to him, saw him turn, and
saw them come to rest together. Something in their perfect isolation together made her know that it was
accomplished between them, that they were, as she put it, married. She walked very slowly down the cindertrack of the long garden.
Clara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breaking it to get the seeds. Above her bowed head the
pink flowers stared, as if defending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive.
"Count your money," laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seeds one by one from the roll of coin. She looked at
him.
"I'm well off," she said, smiling.
"How much? Pf!" He snapped his fingers. "Can I turn them into gold?"
"I'm afraid not," she laughed.
They looked into each other's eyes, laughing. At that moment they became aware of Miriam. There was a click,
and everything had altered.
"Hello, Miriam!" he exclaimed. "You said you'd come!"
"Yes. Had you forgotten?"
She shook hands with Clara, saying:
"It seems strange to see you here."
"Yes," replied the other; "it seems strange to be here."
There was a hesitation.
"This is pretty, isn't it?" said Miriam.
"I like it very much," replied Clara.
Then Miriam realised that Clara was accepted as she had never been.
"Have you come down alone?" asked Paul.
"Yes; I went to Agatha's to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called in for a moment to see Clara."
"You should have come in here to tea," he said.
Miriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside.
"Do you like the chrysanthemums?" he asked.
"Yes; they are very fine," replied Miriam.
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"Which sort do you like best?" he asked.
"I don't know. The bronze, I think."
"I don't think you've seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see which are YOUR favourites, Clara."
He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsled bushes of flowers of all colours stood raggedly
along the path down to the field. The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge.
"Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. They aren't so fine here, are they?"
"No," said Miriam.
"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.
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"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 hymnbook 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.
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"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."
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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
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