Page 319 - sons-and-lovers

might she not press his body with her two hands. It looked
so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,
why not her?
Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost
with terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead
and came towards her.
‘Half-past eight!’ he said. ‘We’d better buck up. Where’s
your French?’
Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exer-
cise-book. Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of
her inner life, in her own French. He had found this was
the only way to get her to do compositions. And her diary
was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as
if her soul’s history were going to be desecrated by him in
his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand,
firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was read-
ing only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But
gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, mo-
tionless. She quivered.
‘Ce matin les oiseaux m’ont eveille,’’ he read. ‘Il faisait
encore un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma cham-
bre etait bleme, et puis, jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois
eclaterent dans un chanson vif et resonnant. Toute l’aube
tressaillit. J’avais reve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aus-
si l’aube? Les oiseaux m’eveillent presque tous les matins,
et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des
grives. Il est si clair—-’’
Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite
still, trying to understand. He only knew she loved him.

1 Sons and Lovers