Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics - D. H. Lawrence [119]
“Bill, I’ve had enough o’ thee,” he said.
But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back.
“No,” he said—“no—I’ve had enough.”
And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun.
He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beauty he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the courage to leave Miriam.
“Why are you sad?” she asked humbly.
“I’m not sad; why should I be,” he answered. “I’m only normal.”
She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was disagreeable.
“But what is the matter?” she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly.
“Nothing!”
“Nay!” she murmured.
He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it.
“You’d far better not talk,” he said.
“But I wish to know—” she replied.
He laughed resentfully.
“You always do,” he said.
“It’s not fair to me,” she murmured.
He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, digging up little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She gently and firmly laid her hand on his wrist.
“Don’t!” she said. “Put it away.”
He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was bottled up.
“What is it?” she pleaded softly.
He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they full of torment.
“You know,” he said at length, rather wearily—“you know—we’d better break off.”
It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before her eyes.
“Why!” she murmured. “What has happened?”
“Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It’s no good—”
She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatient with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him.
“We agreed on friendship,” he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. “How often have we agreed for friendship! And yet—it neither stops there, nor gets anywhere else.”
He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with him.
“I can only give friendship—its all I’m capable of—its a flaw in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side—I hate a toppling balance. Let us have done.”
There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely-subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.
“But what has happened?” she said.
“Nothing—it’s all in myself—it only comes out just now. We’re always like this towards Easter-time.”
He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she never floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chiefly humiliated.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
“Why—I mustn’t come often—that’s all. Why should I monopolise you when I’m not—You see, I’m deficient in something with regard to you—”
He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her a chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy he was! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he, ah! she loved his soul. Was he deficient in something? Perhaps he was.
“But I don’t understand,” she said huskily. “Yesterday—”
The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering.
“I know,” he cried, “you never will! You’ll never believe that I can’t-can’t physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark—”
“What?” she murmured. Now she dreaded.
“Love you.”
He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love her! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not loving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belonged to her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencing him. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreign-ness of another influence.