Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics - D. H. Lawrence [121]
“Go away, Bill,” he said. “I don’t want you.”
Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. There was a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. It was not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared.
Turning his face a little to one side, so that she could not see him, he began, speaking slowly and painfully:
“Do you think—if I didn’t come up so much—you might get to like somebody else—another man?”
So this was what he was still harping on.
“But I don’t know any other men. Why do you ask?” she replied, in a low tone that should have been a reproach to him.
“Why,” he blurted, “because they say I’ve no right to come up like this—without we mean to marry—”
Miriam was indignant at anybody’s forcing the issues between them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much.
“Who says?” she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with it. They had not.
“Mother—and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it’s not fair to you. And I’ve tried to find out—and I don’t think I love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?”
Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle. People should leave him and her alone.
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
“Do you think we love each other enough to marry?” he asked definitely. It made her tremble.
“No,” she answered truthfully. “I don’t think so—were too young.”
“I thought perhaps,” he went on miserably, “that you, with your intensity in things, might have given me more—than I could ever make up to you. And even now—if you think it better—we’ll be engaged.”
Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such a child for people to do as they liked with.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said firmly.
He pondered a minute.
“You see,” he said, “with me—I don’t think one person would ever monopolize me—be everything to me—I think never.”
This she did not consider.
“No,” she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her dark eyes flashed.
“This is your mother,” she said. “I know she never liked me.”
“No, no, it isn’t,” he said hastily. “It was for your sake she spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself engaged.” There was a silence. “And if I ask you to come down any time, you won’t stop away, will you?”
She did not answer. By this time she was very angry.
“Well, what shall we do?” she said shortly. “I suppose I’d better drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go on alone.”
“I don’t see that we need,” he said. “I can give you a French lesson, surely.”
“Well—and there are Sunday nights. I shan’t stop coming to chapel, because I enjoy it, and it’s all the social life I get. But you’ve no need to come home with me. I can go alone.”
“All right,” he answered, rather taken aback. “But if I ask Edgar, he’ll always come with us, and then they can say nothing.”
There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She wished they would mind their own business.
“And you won’t think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?” he asked.
“Oh no,” replied Miriam, without looking at him.
He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no anchor of righteousness that held him.
“Because,” he continued, “a man gets across his bicycle—and goes to work—and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods.”
“No, I shan’t bother,” said Miriam. And she meant it.
It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors.
“How white Paul looks!” Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. “Miriam, you shouldn’t have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you’ve taken cold, Paul?”
“Oh, no!” he laughed.
But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o’clock, he rose to go.