Page 298 - sons-and-lovers

And he, coming home from his walks with Miri-
am, was wild with torture. He walked biting his lips and
with clenched fists, going at a great rate. Then, brought
up against a stile, he stood for some minutes, and did not
move. There was a great hollow of darkness fronting him,
and on the black upslopes patches of tiny lights, and in the
lowest trough of the night, a flare of the pit. It was all weird
and dreadful. Why was he torn so, almost bewildered, and
unable to move? Why did his mother sit at home and suf-
fer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And
why did he hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the
thought of his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffer-
ing, then he hated her—and he easily hated her. Why did she
make him feel as if he were uncertain of himself, insecure,
an indefinite thing, as if he had not sufficient sheathing to
prevent the night and the space breaking into him? How he
hated her! And then, what a rush of tenderness and humil-
ity!
Suddenly he plunged on again, running home. His
mother saw on him the marks of some agony, and she said
nothing. But he had to make her talk to him. Then she was
angry with him for going so far with Miriam.
‘Why don’t you like her, mother?’ he cried in despair.
‘I don’t know, my boy,’ she replied piteously. ‘I’m sure I’ve
tried to like her. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t—I can’t!’
And he felt dreary and hopeless between the two.
Spring was the worst time. He was changeable, and in-
tense and cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then
came the hours when he knew Miriam was expecting him.