Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four.”
She laughed quaintly, saying:
“Does it need Sir Thomas More's sanction?”
“No; but one ought to marry about then.”
“Ay,” she answered broodingly; and she waited.
“I can't marry you,” he continued slowly, “not now, because we've no money, and they depend on me at home.”
She sat half-guessing what was coming.
“But I want to marry now—”
“You want to marry?” she repeated.
“A woman—you know what I mean.”
She was silent.
“Now, at last, I must,” he said.
“Ay,” she answered.
“And you love me?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Why are you ashamed of it,” he answered. “You wouldn't be ashamed before your God, why are you before people?”
“Nay,” she answered deeply, “I am not ashamed.”
“You are,” he replied bitterly; “and it's my fault. But you know I can't help being—as I am—don't you?”
“I know you can't help it,” she replied.
“I love you an awful lot—then there is something short.”
“Where?” she answered, looking at him.
“Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed—like a spiritual cripple. And I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?”
“I don't know,” replied Miriam.
“And I don't know,” he repeated. “Don't you think we have been too fierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that to be so much afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness?”
She looked at him with startled dark eyes.
“You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the motion from you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse.”
There was silence in the room for some time.
“Yes,” she said, “it is so.”
“There is between us,” he said, “all these years of intimacy. I feel naked enough before you. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she answered.
“And you love me?”
She laughed.
“Don't be bitter,” he pleaded.
She looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were dark with torture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have this deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. He might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her.
“Nay,” she said softly, “I am not bitter.”
She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him. She put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himself aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more like nullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, when it would drive her away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him and kissed her.
They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him, she watched his eyes; they were staring across the room, with a peculiar dark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. She could feel his heart throbbing heavily in his breast.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
The blaze in his eyes shuddered, became uncertain.
“I was thinking, all the while, I love you. I have been obstinate.”
She sank her head on his breast.
“Yes,” she answered.
“That's all,” he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouth was kissing her throat.
Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her full gaze of love. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from her, and then was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment of anguish.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer and closer.
When she walked home with him over the fields, he said:
“I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you—as if there was nothing to hide. We will be happy?”
“Yes,” she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes.
“Some sort of perversity in our souls,” he said, “makes us not want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that.”
“Yes,” she said, and she felt stunned.
As she stood under the drooping-thorn tree, in the darkness by the roadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. In the darkness, where he could not see her but only feel her, his passion flooded him. He clasped her very close.
“Sometime you will have me?” he murmured, hiding his face on her shoulder. It was so difficult.
“Not now,” she said.
His hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him.
“No,” he said.
His clasp of her slackened.
“I love to feel your arm THERE!” she said, pressing his arm against her back, where it went round her waist. “It rests me so.”
He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back to rest her.
“We belong to each other,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether?”
“But—” she faltered.
“I know it's a lot to ask,” he said; “but there's not much risk for you really—not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?”
“Oh, I can trust you.” The answer came quick and strong. “It's not that—it's not that at all—but—”
“What?”
She
