LITMIR.BIZ

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how can you separate it?” he said. “It's the culmination of everything. All our intimacy culminates then.”

      “Not for me,” she said.

      He was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all, she was dissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought they fulfilled each other. But he believed her too implicitly.

      “I feel,” she continued slowly, “as if I hadn't got you, as if all of you weren't there, and as if it weren't ME you were taking—”

      “Who, then?”

      “Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that I daren't think of it. But is it ME you want, or is it IT?”

      He again felt guilty. Did he leave Clara out of count, and take simply women? But he thought that was splitting a hair.

      “When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I DID feel as if I had all of him,” she said.

      “And it was better?” he asked.

      “Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don't say you haven't given me more than he ever gave me.”

      “Or could give you.”

      “Yes, perhaps; but you've never given me yourself.”

      He knitted his brows angrily.

      “If I start to make love to you,” he said, “I just go like a leaf down the wind.”

      “And leave me out of count,” she said.

      “And then is it nothing to you?” he asked, almost rigid with chagrin.

      “It's something; and sometimes you have carried me away—right away—I know—and—I reverence you for it—but—”

      “Don't 'but' me,” he said, kissing her quickly, as a fire ran through him.

      She submitted, and was silent.

      It was true as he said. As a rule, when he started love-making, the emotion was strong enough to carry with it everything—reason, soul, blood—in a great sweep, like the Trent carries bodily its back-swirls and intertwinings, noiselessly. Gradually the little criticisms, the little sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything borne along in one flood. He became, not a man with a mind, but a great instinct. His hands were like creatures, living; his limbs, his body, were all life and consciousness, subject to no will of his, but living in themselves. Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous, wintry stars were strong also with life. He and they struck with the same pulse of fire, and the same joy of strength which held the bracken-frond stiff near his eyes held his own body firm. It was as if he, and the stars, and the dark herbage, and Clara were licked up in an immense tongue of flame, which tore onwards and upwards. Everything rushed along in living beside him; everything was still, perfect in itself, along with him. This wonderful stillness in each thing in itself, while it was being borne along in a very ecstasy of living, seemed the highest point of bliss.

      And Clara knew this held him to her, so she trusted altogether to the passion. It, however, failed her very often. They did not often reach again the height of that once when the peewits had called. Gradually, some mechanical effort spoilt their loving, or, when they had splendid moments, they had them separately, and not so satisfactorily. So often he seemed merely to be running on alone; often they realised it had been a failure, not what they had wanted. He left her, knowing THAT evening had only made a little split between them. Their loving grew more mechanical, without the marvellous glamour. Gradually they began to introduce novelties, to get back some of the feeling of satisfaction. They would be very near, almost dangerously near to the river, so that the black water ran not far from his face, and it gave a little thrill; or they loved sometimes in a little hollow below the fence of the path where people were passing occasionally, on the edge of the town, and they heard footsteps coming, almost felt the vibration of the tread, and they heard what the passersby said—strange little things that were never intended to be heard. And afterwards each of them was rather ashamed, and these things caused a distance between the two of them. He began to despise her a little, as if she had merited it!

      One night he left her to go to Daybrook Station over the fields. It was very dark, with an attempt at snow, although the spring was so far advanced. Morel had not much time; he plunged forward. The town ceases almost abruptly on the edge of a steep hollow; there the houses with their yellow lights stand up against the darkness. He went over the stile, and dropped quickly into the hollow of the fields. Under the orchard one warm window shone in Swineshead Farm. Paul glanced round. Behind, the houses stood on the brim of the dip, black against the sky, like wild beasts glaring curiously with yellow eyes down into the darkness. It was the town that seemed savage and uncouth, glaring on the clouds at the back of him. Some creature stirred under the willows of the farm pond. It was too dark to distinguish anything.

      He was close up to the next stile before he saw a dark shape leaning against it. The man moved aside.

      “Good-evening!” he said.

      “Good-evening!” Morel answered, not noticing.

      “Paul Morel?” said the man.

      Then he knew it was Dawes. The man stopped his way.

      “I've got yer, have I?” he said awkwardly.

      “I shall miss my train,” said Paul.

      He could see nothing of Dawes's face. The man's teeth seemed to chatter as he talked.

      “You're going to get it from me now,” said Dawes.

      Morel attempted to move forward; the other man stepped in front of him.

      “Are yer goin' to take that top-coat off,” he said, “or are you goin' to lie down to it?”

      Paul was afraid the man was mad.

      “But,” he said, “I don't know how to fight.”

      “All right, then,” answered Dawes, and before the younger man knew where he was, he was staggering backwards from a blow across the face.

      The whole night went black. He tore off his overcoat and coat, dodging a blow, and flung the garments over Dawes. The latter swore savagely. Morel, in his shirt-sleeves, was now alert and furious. He felt his whole body unsheath itself like a claw. He could not fight, so he would use his wits. The other man became more distinct to him; he could see particularly the shirt-breast. Dawes stumbled over Paul's coats, then came rushing forward. The young man's mouth was bleeding. It was the other man's mouth he was dying to get at, and the desire was anguish in its strength. He stepped quickly through the stile, and as Dawes was coming through after him, like a flash he got a blow in over the other's mouth. He shivered with pleasure. Dawes advanced slowly, spitting. Paul was afraid; he moved round to get to the stile again. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, came a great blow against his ear, that sent him falling helpless backwards. He heard Dawes's heavy panting, like a wild beast's, then came a kick on the knee, giving him such agony that he got up and, quite blind, leapt clean under his enemy's guard. He felt blows and kicks, but they did not hurt. He hung on to the bigger man like a wild cat, till at last Dawes fell with a crash, losing his presence of mind. Paul went down with him. Pure instinct brought his hands to the man's neck, and before Dawes, in frenzy and agony, could wrench him free, he had got his fists twisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug in the throat of the other man. He was a pure instinct, without reason or feeling. His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against the struggling body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He was quite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to kill this other man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He lay pressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itself to its one pure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactly at the right moment, with exactly the right amount of strength, the struggles of the other, silent, intent, unchanging, gradually pressing its knuckles deeper, feeling the struggles of the other body become wilder and more frenzied. Tighter and tighter grew his body, like a screw that is gradually increasing in pressure, till something breaks.

      Then suddenly he relaxed, full of wonder and misgiving. Dawes had been yielding.

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