She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained—sad, pensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time he grieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience; and he felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. He could not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He could not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which was three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her.
When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been written to her.
“May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, is changing, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and left you its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I have given it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you are a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun—as a mystic monk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret—no, have regretted—the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not talk to you through the senses—rather through the spirit. That is why we cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be dreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people marry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be commonplace with each other without feeling awkward—not as two souls. So I feel it.
“Ought I to send this letter?—I doubt it. But there—it is best to understand. Au revoir.”
Miriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A year later she broke the seal to show her mother the letter.
“You are a nun—you are a nun.” The words went into her heart again and again. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so deeply, fixedly, like a mortal wound.
She answered him two days after the party.
“'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little mistake,'” she quoted. “Was the mistake mine?”
Almost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her at the same time a little “Omar Khayyam.”
“I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put me to shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympathy. But in fundamentals we may always be together I think.
“I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many a sketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which, to my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovely joke, that. Au revoir.”
This was the end of the first phase of Paul's love affair. He was now about twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex instinct that Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew particularly strong. Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that thickening and quickening of his blood, that peculiar concentration in the breast, as if something were alive there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning him that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But he belonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed her right.
Chapter X
Clara
When he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to the winter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a good deal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he met other artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious.
One morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery. Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the kitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly waving a letter and crying “Hurrah!” as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and frightened.
“Why, mother!” he exclaimed.
She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved the letter, crying:
“Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!”
He was afraid of her—the small, severe woman with graying hair suddenly bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraid something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door.
“His picture's got first prize, Fred,” she cried, “and is sold for twenty guineas.”
“My word, that's something like!” said the young postman, whom they had known all his life.
“And Major Moreton has bought it!” she cried.
“It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel,” said the postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.
“Mother!” he exclaimed.
“Didn't I SAY we should do it!” she said, pretending she was not crying.
He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea.
“You didn't think, mother—” he began tentatively.
“No, my son—not so much—but I expected a good deal.”
“But not so much,” he said.
“No—no—but I knew we should do it.”
And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl's, and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet.
“Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy Arthur out. Now you needn't borrow any. It'll just do.”
“Indeed, I shan't take it all,” she said.
“But why?”
“Because I shan't.”
“Well—you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine.”
They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to take only the five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got over the stress of emotion by quarrelling.
Morel came home at night from the pit, saying:
“They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold it to Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound.”
“Oh, what stories people do tell!” she cried.
“Ha!” he answered. “I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha'd told Fred Hodgkisson.”
“As if I would tell him such stuff!”
“Ha!” assented the miner.
But he was disappointed nevertheless.
“It's true he has got the first prize,” said Mrs. Morel.
The miner sat heavily in his chair.
“Has he, beguy!” he exclaimed.
He stared across the room fixedly.
“But as for fifty pounds—such nonsense!” She was silent awhile. “Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true.”
“Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!” exclaimed Morel.
“Yes, and it was worth it.”
“Ay!” he said. “I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a paintin' as he knocked off in an