Sons and Lovers - Daimon Club

in the darkness under the hanging tree. There was no more of her
but this pale blotch.
"Good-bye!" she called softly. She had no body, only a
voice and a dim face. He turned away and ran down the road,
his fists clenched; and when he came to the wall over the lake
he leaned there, almost stunned, looking up the black water.
Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid
of people, what they might say; but she dreaded the issue
with him. Yes, she would let him have her if he insisted;
and then, when she thought of it afterwards, her heart went down.
He would be disappointed, he would find no satisfaction, and then he
would go away. Yet he was so insistent; and over this, which did
not seem so all-important to her, was their love to break down.
After all, he was only like other men, seeking his satisfaction.
Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper! She could
trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession was
a great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there.
Perhaps it was so. There was something divine in it; then she
would submit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her.
And at the thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily,
hard, as if against something; but Life forced her through this
gate of suffering, too, and she would submit. At any rate,
it would give him what he wanted, which was her deepest wish.
She brooded and brooded and brooded herself towards accepting him.
He courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot,
she put his face from her, held it between her hands, and looked in
his eyes. He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love,
earnest and searching, made him turn away. Not for an instant
would she let him forget. Back again he had to torture himself
into a sense of his responsibility and hers. Never any relaxing,
never any leaving himself to the great hunger and impersonality
of passion; he must be brought back to a deliberate, reflective creature.
As if from a swoon of passion she caged him back to the littleness,
the personal relationship. He could not bear it. "Leave me
alone--leave me alone!" he wanted to cry; but she wanted him to
look at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full of the dark,
impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her.
There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at
the back of the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarlet
and crimson drops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gathering
the fruit one evening. It had been a hot day, and now the clouds
were rolling in the sky, dark and warm. Paul combed high in the tree,
above the scarlet roofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily,
made the whole tree rock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirred
the blood. The young man, perched insecurely in the slender branches,
rocked till he felt slightly drunk, reached down the boughs,
where the scarlet beady cherries hung thick underneath, and tore
off handful after handful of the sleek, cool-fleshed fruit.
Cherries touched his ears and his neck as he stretched forward,
their chill finger-tips sending a flash down his blood. All shades
of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson, glowed and met
his eyes under a darkness of leaves.