CHAPTER EIGHT

Trouble in Love

Paul had two of his paintings shown at an art show. He won first prize for both. He was very excited when he told his mother the news. She was full of joy. William had given her his sporting trophies. She still kept them and never forgot his death for even a moment. Young Arthur was handsome, warm, and generous, and probably would do well one day. But Paul was going to be something special, she thought. She had a great belief in him, partly because he didn't know his own powers. There was so much that came out of his mind and heart. The future seemed rich for her son. She was to succeed in the end. Her struggle had not been wasted.

Several times during the art show, Mrs Morel walked around without telling Paul. She walked down the long room and looked at the other paintings. Yes, they were good. But they did not have what she thought of as greatness. She looked at them a long time, trying to find mistakes in them. Then suddenly her heart beat faster. There was Paul's painting. She knew it by heart.

'Name—Paul Morel—First Prize', the sign under the painting read. It looked so strange, there in public, hanging on the walls where she had seen so many pictures in her lifetime. She felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies going home, she thought to herself:

"Yes, you look nice, but does your son have two first prizes at the art show?"

Paul felt he had done something for her, even if it was only small. All his work was for her.

One day, going to the art show, he met Miriam. She was walking with a very beautiful blond woman. Miriam looked at Paul to try to see what he was thinking. But his eyes were, on the blond stranger. Miriam saw the man in him raise its head.

"I didn't know you were coming to town," he said to Miriam.

"I didn't know myself until the last minute," Miriam said.

He looked at the blond woman again.

"I've told you about Mrs Dawes," said Miriam. "Clara, do you know Paul?"

"I think I've seen him before," she said, not taking much interest.

The women left. Paul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend of Mrs Leivers. She was separated from her husband and had taken up the cause of women's rights. She was said to be intelligent. Paul was interested.

The next time Paul went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. There was a fire in the front room, she was waiting for him. Three of Paul's paintings hung on the walls. He sat in a chair, while she sat at his feet.

"What did you think of Mrs Dawes?" she asked.

"She doesn't look very friendly," he replied.

"No, but do you think she's beautiful?" she asked.

"Yes, in a way," he said.

There was silence for a moment, while he thought of Clara.

"What did you like about her?" asked Miriam.

"Her skin and the look of bravery she has. I looked at her through the eyes of an artist, that's all."

They were silent. The sadness between them excited her. He seemed so beautiful with his eyes gone so dark and looking like they were deeper than the deepest well. She wanted to reach out to him, but could not.

When it was time to go he found that the tire on his bike had no air in it. He set to work fixing it. Miriam watched him work. She loved to see him doing things with his hands. He was thin and strong, with relaxed movements. Busy in his work, he forgot that she was there. She loved him completely. She wanted to run her hands over his body. She always wanted to touch him, so long as he didn't want her.

When he finished fixing the bicycle, he stood up. His back was to her. She put her hands on his sides and ran them quickly down.

"You are so fine," she said.

He laughed, hating her. But his blood went red hot with the touch of her hands. Quickly he got on his bike and rode away.

About this time, he was twenty-one and she was twenty, he began to question his religion. He challenged Miriam on all her beliefs. Miriam suffered a lot under his attacks. His intelligence was like a knife, and it was cutting apart her religion. The man she loved was bleeding her dry.

It was also at about this time that Mrs Morel began to dislike Miriam. She thought that Miriam wanted too much of Paul. Her fear was that if he gave himself to her he would leave nothing left. He would never be a whole man with her. She would be too much for him.

One day he asked his mother:

"Why don't you like her, mother?"

"I don't know my boy," she said, "I've tried, but I can't."

Spring was the worst time. He felt angry and sad in turns. He decided to stay away from her. Then came the hours when he knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother would watch him grow restless. He couldn't paint. He could do nothing. It was as if some unseen power was drawing him towards her. He could not stop himself any longer. He went out. On the way, he felt happy, but when he was with her he felt the old anger.

They walked part of the way home together. The stars were shining brightly, it was a beautiful night. But they were both too trapped in their thoughts to notice. When it was time to part he said to her:

"You know it's only friendship, don't you?"

She was hurt, but more for him than for herself. She was sorry that he could be so dishonest with himself. And she worried that if he could not be, she would lose him forever.

She still came to the house for her French lessons on Friday nights. When they had something to busy themselves with, like a French lesson, they both loved being together.

Morel was always happy on Friday nights, unless the week's pay was small. He wanted his dinner as soon as he entered the house. After eating he went to wash. When he had finished he returned to the kitchen.

"Where's my towel?" he asked his wife.

"Here it is," she said, handing it to him.

"A skinny rabbit like me could freeze to death, washing in this weather," he said.

Mrs Morel laughed. He still had a wonderfully young body, without any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It could have been the body of a twenty-eight year old, except for the blue scars, where the dust from the mine stayed under the skin. He put his hands on his side, showing that he was too thin. It was still his belief that because he did not get fat, he was as thin as a little rabbit.

The French lesson continued. Miriam took out her book, in which she had done the work from the last lesson. She was always very shy at these times, afraid that he would find too many mistakes. She watched his hand moving so quickly across her work. He could feel her across the table. He knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love for him. It was too good to him, he was not worth it. His love was at fault, not hers. Sadly, he corrected her work.

She sat and waited for him to finish. She bent forward to see what he was doing. As she did, her hair touched his face. He jumped back as if he had been burned. His breathing became quick. Her eyes showed her love and her fear. He knew that before he could kiss her, he must kill something inside himself. Knowing this, he hated her a little. He continued to look at her work.

"OK, it's getting late. Should we finish, or do you want to read a bit?" he asked her.

"Maybe we could read a little," she answered.

She thought there was nothing better in the world than to hear him read. It was food for her love. He made a copy of a poem for her. Then read it to her. His voice was soft and rich. But as he read more of the poem, a sharp edge came into his voice. She felt pain, as if the sound of his voice was cutting into her body. She did not understand why he had to become so angry. There was so much pain inside him, that even though she would have given the world to make him feel happy, she seemed to only make him feel worse.

He finished the poem and went into the kitchen. Miriam looked at the bookcase, she saw the postcards and letters he had been sent. She saw his books. One interested her, so she took it out to look at it. He returned from the kitchen and they set off towards Miriam's house.

He did not return home until eleven o'clock. His mother was sitting by the fire. Annie was sitting with her. Paul entered quietly. No one spoke. His mother was reading the newspaper. He took off his coat and went to sit with them. Still, no one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. He could tell that his mother was angry with him, but he did not know why.

Paul sat, pretending to read. If his mother was angry, he wanted to know why. So, instead of going to bed, which he would have liked to do, he sat and waited. Still there was silence. The clock was the loudest sound in the room.

"If you want something to eat, you will have to get it yourself," she said, finally.

"I don't want anything," he replied.

He was hungry, but he was too angry to do anything that she suggested. With all his troubled thoughts over Miriam, he thought that at least when he was home, he should be able to feel relaxed. He took off his tie and stood up to go to bed. He bent over to kiss his mother. She threw her arms around him and started to cry.

"I can't fctand it. Any other woman, but not her ... She would leave me no room, nothing," she cried.

He put his hand on her head to comfort her.

"I don't love her, mother," he said.

He kissed her, and went to bed.

V

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