LITMIR.BIZ

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tea Clara felt the refinement and sang-froid of the household. Mrs. Morel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea and attending to the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in her talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark blue willow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little bowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the circle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the self-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone; there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where everyone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a fear deep at the bottom of her.

      Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was conscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming blown quickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and thither of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him. By the way she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see she was possessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman was sorry for her.

      Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two women to talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced through the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums. She felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet he seemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as he tied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wanted to shriek in her helplessness.

      Mrs. Morel rose.

      “You will let me help you wash up,” said Clara.

      “Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute,” said the other.

      Clara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be on such good terms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow him down the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if a rope were taken off her ankle.

      The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood 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 cinder-track 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.

      “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.

      “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

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