Sons and Lovers, D. H. Lawrence [best fiction books to read TXT] 📗

flood water. The sky was grey, with glisten of silver here and there. In Wilford churchyard the dahlias were sodden with rain⁠—wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path that went along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade.

There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the green meadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The river slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself like some subtle, complex creature. Clara walked moodily beside him.

“Why,” she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, “did you leave Miriam?”

He frowned.

“Because I wanted to leave her,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to go on with her. And I didn’t want to marry.”

She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path. Drops of water fell from the elm-trees.

“You didn’t want to marry Miriam, or you didn’t want to marry at all?” she asked.

“Both,” he answered⁠—“both!”

They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools of water.

“And what did she say?” Clara asked.

“Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always had battled her off.”

Clara pondered over this for a time.

“But you have really been going with her for some time?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And now you don’t want any more of her?”

“No. I know it’s no good.”

She pondered again.

“Don’t you think you’ve treated her rather badly?” she asked.

“Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been no good going on. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“How old are you?” Clara asked.

“Twenty-five.”

“And I am thirty,” she said.

“I know you are.”

“I shall be thirty-one⁠—or am I thirty-one?”

“I neither know nor care. What does it matter!”

They were at the entrance to the Grove. The wet, red track, already sticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass. On either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle, arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell. All was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and he held both her hands. Laughing, she looked down into his eyes. Then she leaped. Her breast came against his; he held her, and covered her face with kisses.

They went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released his hand and put it round her waist.

“You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly,” she said.

They walked along. His fingertips felt the rocking of her breast. All was silent and deserted. On the left the red wet plough-land showed through the doorways between the elm-boles and their branches. On the right, looking down, they could see the treetops of elms growing far beneath them, hear occasionally the gurgle of the river. Sometimes there below they caught glimpses of the full, soft-sliding Trent, and of water-meadows dotted with small cattle.

“It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come,” he said.

But he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush was fusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that pouted disconsolate. She stirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string.

Halfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the Grove rose highest above the river, their forward movement faltered to an end. He led her across to the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path. The cliff of red earth sloped swiftly down, through trees and bushes, to the river that glimmered and was dark between the foliage. The far-below water-meadows were very green. He and she stood leaning against one another, silent, afraid, their bodies touching all along. There came a quick gurgle from the river below.

“Why,” he asked at length, “did you hate Baxter Dawes?”

She turned to him with a splendid movement. Her mouth was offered him, and her throat; her eyes were half-shut; her breast was tilted as if it asked for him. He flashed with a small laugh, shut his eyes, and met her in a long, whole kiss. Her mouth fused with his; their bodies were sealed and annealed. It was some minutes before they withdrew. They were standing beside the public path.

“Will you go down to the river?” he asked.

She looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over the brim of the declivity and began to climb down.

“It is slippery,” he said.

“Never mind,” she replied.

The red clay went down almost sheer. He slid, went from one tuft of grass to the next, hanging on to the bushes, making for a little platform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laughing with excitement. Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her. He frowned. At last he caught her hand, and she stood beside him. The cliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyes flashed. He looked at the big drop below them.

“It’s risky,” he said; “or messy, at any rate. Shall we go back?”

“Not for my sake,” she said quickly.

“All right. You see, I can’t help you; I should only hinder. Give me that little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!”

They stood perched on the face of the declivity, under the trees.

“Well, I’ll go again,” he said.

Away he went, slipping, staggering, sliding to the next tree, into which he fell with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. She came after cautiously, hanging on to the twigs and grasses. So they descended, stage by stage, to the river’s brink. There, to his disgust, the flood had eaten away the path, and the red decline ran straight into the water. He dug in his heels and brought himself up violently. The string of the parcel broke with a snap; the brown parcel bounded down, leaped into the water, and sailed smoothly away. He hung on to his tree.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried crossly. Then he laughed. She was coming perilously