Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/165

Rh To the mother he went for that sympathy and that appeal which seemed to draw him out. Edgar was his very close friend. And to Miriam he more or less condescended, because she seemed so humble.

But the girl gradually sought him out. If he brought up his sketch-book, it was she who pondered longest over the last picture. Then she would look up at him. Suddenly, her dark eyes alight like water that shakes with a stream of gold in the dark, she would ask:

“Why do I like this so?”

Always something in his breast shrank from these close, intimate, dazzled looks of hers.

“Why do you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It seems so true.”

“It’s because—it’s because there is scarcely any shadow in it; it’s more shimmery, as if I’d painted the shimmering protoplasm in the leaves and everywhere, and not the stiffness of the shape. That seems dead to me. Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really.”

And she, with her little finger in her mouth, would ponder these sayings. They gave her a feeling of life again, and vivified things which had meant nothing to her. She managed to find some meaning in his struggling, abstract speeches. And they were the medium through which she came distinctly at her beloved objects.

Another day she sat at sunset whilst he was painting some pine-trees which caught the red glare from the west. He had been quiet.

“There you are!” he said suddenly. “I wanted that. Now, look at them and tell me, are they pine-trunks or are they red coals, standing-up pieces of fire in that darkness? There’s God’s burning bush for you, that burned not away.”

Miriam looked, and was frightened. But the pine-trunks were wonderful to her, and distinct. He packed his box and rose. Suddenly he looked at her.

“Why are you always sad?” he asked her.

“Sad!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with startled, wonderful brown eyes.

“Yes,” he replied. “You are always, always sad.”

“I am not—oh, not a bit!” she cried.

“But even your joy is like a flame coming off of sadness,” he persisted. “You’re never jolly or even just all right.”

“No,” she pondered. “I wonder—why.”