scene; all that remained was a vast, dark matrix of sorrow and tragedy, the same in all the houses and the river-flats and the people and the birds; they were only shapen differently. And now that the forms seemed to have melted away, there remained the mass from which all the landscape was composed, a dark mass of struggle and pain. The factory, the girls, his mother, the large, uplifted church, the thicket of the town, merged into one atmosphere--dark, brooding, and sorrowful, every bit.
`Is that two o'clock striking?' Mrs Dawes said in surprise.
Paul started, and everything sprang into form, regained its individuality, its forgetfulness, and its cheerfulness.
They hurried back to work.
When he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post, examining the work up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing, the evening postman came in.
` "Mr Paul Morel," ' he said smiling, handing Paul a package. `A lady's handwriting! Don't let the girls see it.'
The postman, himself a favourite, was pleased to make fun of the girls' affection for Paul.
It was a volume of verse with a brief note: `You will allow me to send you this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathize and wish you well.--C. D.' Paul flushed hot.
`Good Lord! Mrs Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord, who ever'd have thought it!'
He was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmth of her. In the glow he could almost feel her as if she were present--her arms, her shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them, almost contain them.
This move on the part of Clara brought them into closer intimacy. The other girls noticed that when Paul met Mrs Dawes his eyes lifted and gave that peculiar bright greeting which they could interpret. Knowing he was unaware, Clara made no sign, save that occasionally she turned aside her face from him when he came upon her.
They walked out together very often at dinner-time; it was quite open, quite frank. Everybody seemed to feel that he was quite unaware of the state of his own feeling, and that nothing was wrong. He talked to her now with some of the old fervour with which he had talked to Miriam, but he cared less about the talk; he did not bother about his conclusions.
One day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly they came to a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate, she sat on the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still, with a dim haze, and yellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet.
`How old were you when you married?' he asked quietly.
`Twenty-two.'
Her voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would tell him now.
`It is eight years ago?'
`Yes.'
`And when did you leave him?'
`Three years ago.'