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

the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in a second.

“Come,” he said, “let me help you.”

“No, go away. I will do it in my own way.”

He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbed cautiously.

“What a way to climb!” he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely to earth again.

“Hateful stiles!” she cried.

“Duffer of a little woman,” he replied, “who can’t get over ’em.”

In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farm buildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the apple orchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deep under a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade. The farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced the sunshine towards the wood. It was very still.

Mother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scent of red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out to cool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenly appeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, had a rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, and dark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, she disappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman, rosy, with great dark brown eyes.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, “you’ve come, then. I am glad to see you.” Her voice was intimate and rather sad.

The two women shook hands.

“Now are you sure we’re not a bother to you?” said Mrs. Morel. “I know what a farming life is.”

“Oh no! We’re only too thankful to see a new face, it’s so lost up here.”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Morel.

They were taken through into the parlour⁠—a long, low room, with a great bunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilst Paul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling the gillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly to the heap of coal which stood by the fence.

“I suppose these are cabbage-roses?” he said to her, pointing to the bushes along the fence.

She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes.

“I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she faltered. “They’re white with pink middles.”

“Then they’re maiden-blush.”

Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You don’t have much in your garden,” he said.

“This is our first year here,” she answered, in a distant, rather superior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, but went his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and they went through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted.

“And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?” said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers.

“No,” replied the little woman. “I can’t find time to look after cattle, and I’m not used to it. It’s as much as I can do to keep going in the house.”

“Well, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Morel.

Presently the girl came out.

“Tea is ready, mother,” she said in a musical, quiet voice.

“Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we’ll come,” replied her mother, almost ingratiatingly. “Would you care to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Morel. “Whenever it’s ready.”

Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then they went out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while fumy forget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were in ecstasy together.

When they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the eldest son, were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then Geoffrey and Maurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in from school. Mr. Leivers was a good-looking man in the prime of life, with a golden-brown moustache, and blue eyes screwed up against the weather.

The boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. They went round for eggs, scrambling into all sorts of places. As they were feeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no notice of her. One hen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. Maurice took his hand full of corn and let the hen peck from it.

“Durst you do it?” he asked of Paul.

“Let’s see,” said Paul.

He had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam watched. He held the corn to the hen. The bird eyed it with her hard, bright eye, and suddenly made a peck into his hand. He started, and laughed. “Rap, rap, rap!” went the bird’s beak in his palm. He laughed again, and the other boys joined.

“She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts,” said Paul, when the last corn had gone. “Now, Miriam,” said Maurice, “you come an ’ave a go.”

“No,” she cried, shrinking back.

“Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!” said her brothers.

“It doesn’t hurt a bit,” said Paul. “It only just nips rather nicely.”

“No,” she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking.

“She dursn’t,” said Geoffrey. “She niver durst do anything except recite poitry.”

“Dursn’t jump off a gate, dursn’t tweedle, dursn’t go on a slide, dursn’t stop a girl hittin’ her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin’ herself somebody. ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ Yah!” cried Maurice.

Miriam was crimson with shame and misery.

“I dare do more than you,” she cried. “You’re never anything but cowards and bullies.”

“Oh, cowards and bullies!” they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech.

“Not such a clown shall anger me,
A boor is answered silently,”

he quoted against her, shouting with laughter.

She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where they had rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was more agile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossom that hung low on a swinging bough.

“I wouldn’t get the apple-blossom,” said Edgar, the eldest brother. “There’ll be no apples next year.”

“I wasn’t going to get it,” replied Paul, going away.

The boys felt