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eyes dilating. He smiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara, a little way off, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayed close together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee, quickly gathering the best blossoms, moving from tuft to tuft restlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers lovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and almost scientific. Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers. He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a right to them. She had more reverence for them: they held something she had not.
The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As he gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he said:
“Why don't you get some?”
“I don't believe in it. They look better growing.”
“But you'd like some?”
“They want to be left.”
“I don't believe they do.”
“I don't want the corpses of flowers about me,” she said.
“That's a stiff, artificial notion,” he said. “They don't die any quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice in a bowl—they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it looks corpse-like.”
“Whether it is one or not?” she argued.
“It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower.”
Clara now ignored him.
“And even so—what right have you to pull them?” she asked.
“Because I like them, and want them—and there's plenty of them.”
“And that is sufficient?”
“Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your room in Nottingham.”
“And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.”
“But then—it does not matter if they do die.”
Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some scent from the cowslips.
“I think,” said Miriam, “if you treat them with reverence you don't do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters.”
“Yes,” he said. “But no, you get 'em because you want 'em, and that's all.” He held out his bunch.
Miriam was silent. He picked some more.
“Look at these!” he continued; “sturdy and lusty like little trees and like boys with fat legs.”
Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering a handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:
“Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
If the Lord won't have you the devil must.”
The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on her face, and she shut her eyes.
Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.
“I thought you wanted a funeral,” he said, ill at ease.
Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips from her hair. She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled in her hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he had sprinkled over her.
At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up to them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him.
“Look how they've come out of the wood!” he said.
Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.
“Yes,” she smiled.
His blood beat up.
“It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they would be when they got breast to breast with the open space.”
“Do you think they were?” she asked.
“I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes—those bursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from the open tiptoeing into the forests.”
“I should think the second,” she answered.
“Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force yourself into the dark, don't you?”
“How should I know?” she answered queerly.
The conversation ended there.
The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley was full of shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly, her face in her big, loose bunch of flowers, walking ankle-deep through the scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming into shape, all shadow.
“Shall we go?” she asked.
And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path they could see the light of home right across, and on the ridge of the hill a thin dark outline with little lights, where the colliery village touched the sky.
“It has been nice, hasn't it?” he asked.
Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent.
“Don't you think so?” he persisted.
But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell by the way she moved, as if she didn't care, that she suffered.
At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright and enthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railway carriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as if she were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, to fasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with his hand.
They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for the cathedral.
“There she is, mother!” he cried.
They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “So she is!”
He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the cathedral quietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternal repose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, was reflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his young will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh and pink and downy, but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, sinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there was on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat against it with all the strength of his soul.
“Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streets and streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether.”
“So she does!” exclaimed his mother, breaking bright into life again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the window at the cathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the relentlessness of life. And the crow's-feet near her eyes, and her mouth shut so hard, made him feel he would go mad.
They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant.
“Don't imagine I like it,” she said, as she ate her cutlet. “I DON'T like it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money