Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/184

172 the stable underneath, and talking to Jimmy, who had been a pit-horse, and who was seedy.

“Well, Jimmy my lad, how are ter? Nobbut sick an’ sadly, like? Why, then, it’s a shame, my owd lad.”

She heard the rope run through the hole as the horse lifted its head from the lad’s caress. How she loved to listen when he thought only the horse could hear. But there was a serpent in her Eden. She searched earnestly in herself to see if she wanted Paul Morel. She felt there would be some disgrace in it. Full of twisted feeling, she was afraid she did want him. She stood self-convicted. Then came an agony of new shame. She shrank within herself in a coil of torture. Did she want Paul Morel, and did he know she wanted him? What a subtle infamy upon her! She felt as if her whole soul coiled into knots of shame.

Agatha was dressed first, and ran downstairs. Miriam heard her greet the lad gaily, knew exactly how brilliant her grey eyes became with that tone. She herself would have felt it bold to have greeted him in such wise. Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture. In bitter perplexity she kneeled down and prayed:

“O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, if I ought not to love him.”

Something anomalous in the prayer arrested her. She lifted her head and pondered. How could it be wrong to love him? Love was God’s gift. And yet it caused her shame. That was because of him, Paul Morel. But, then, it was not his affair, it was her own, between herself and God. She was to be a sacrifice. But it was God’s sacrifice, not Paul Morel’s or her own. After a few minutes she hid her face in the pillow again, and said:

“But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love him—as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me love him splendidly, because he is Thy son.”

She remained kneeling for some time, quite still, and deeply moved, her black hair against the red squares and the lavender-sprigged squares of the patchwork-quilt. Prayer was almost essential to her. Then she fell into that rapture of self-sacrifice, identifying herself with a God who was sacrificed, which gives to so many human souls their deepest bliss.

When she went downstairs Paul was lying back in an arm-chair, holding forth with much vehemence to Agatha, who was scorning a little painting he had brought to show her.