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diff --git a/old/217.txt b/old/217.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60a8847 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/217.txt @@ -0,0 +1,22492 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sons and Lovers, by David Herbert Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sons and Lovers + +Author: David Herbert Lawrence + +Last Updated: January 3, 2009 +Release Date: January 16, 2006 [EBook #217] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONS AND LOVERS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan Charles Veeck, Jr. and David Widger + + + + + +SONS AND LOVERS + +D. H. LAWRENCE + + + +CONTENTS + + PART I + 1. The Early Married Life of the Morels + 2. The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle + 3. The Casting Off of Morel--The Taking on of William + 4. The Young Life of Paul + 5. Paul Launches into Life + 6. Death in the Family + + PART II + + 7. Lad-and-Girl Love + 8. Strife in Love + 9. Defeat of Miriam + 10. Clara + 11. The Test on Miriam + 12. Passion + 13. Baxter Dawes + 14. The Release + 15. Derelict + + + + +PART ONE + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS + +"THE BOTTOMS" succeeded to "Hell Row". Hell Row was a block of thatched, +bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There +lived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away. +The brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small +mines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded +wearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were these +same pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, the +few colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth, +making queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields and +the meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs +here and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers, +straying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood. + +Then, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place, gin-pits were +elbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and iron +field of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waite +and Co. appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formally +opened the company's first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood +Forest. + +About this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old had +acquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansed +away. + +Carston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, down the +valleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, until +soon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstone +among the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of the +Carthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, down to Spinney Park, then on to +Minton, a large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands +of the valleyside to Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and running +north to Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of +Derbyshire: six mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by a +loop of fine chain, the railway. + +To accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. built the +Squares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood, +and then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected the +Bottoms. + +The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two rows +of three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in a +block. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp +slope from Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, on +the slow climb of the valley towards Selby. + +The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk +all round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in +the shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny +top block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privet +hedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; that +was the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers' wives. +The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facing +inward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then at +the ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits, +went the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and the +men smoked. So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, that +was so well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury because +people must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that +nasty alley of ash-pits. + +Mrs. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which was already +twelve years old and on the downward path, when she descended to it from +Bestwood. But it was the best she could do. Moreover, she had an end +house in one of the top blocks, and thus had only one neighbour; on +the other side an extra strip of garden. And, having an end house, she +enjoyed a kind of aristocracy among the other women of the "between" +houses, because her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead of +five shillings a week. But this superiority in station was not much +consolation to Mrs. Morel. + +She was thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rather +small woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she shrank a little +from the first contact with the Bottoms women. She came down in the +July, and in the September expected her third baby. + +Her husband was a miner. They had only been in their new home three +weeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she knew, was sure to make +a holiday of it. He went off early on the Monday morning, the day of +the fair. The two children were highly excited. William, a boy of seven, +fled off immediately after breakfast, to prowl round the wakes ground, +leaving Annie, who was only five, to whine all morning to go also. Mrs. +Morel did her work. She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew no +one with whom to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her to +the wakes after dinner. + +William appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad, +fair-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about him. + +"Can I have my dinner, mother?" he cried, rushing in with his cap on. +"'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so." + +"You can have your dinner as soon as it's done," replied the mother. + +"Isn't it done?" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indignation. +"Then I'm goin' be-out it." + +"You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It is +only half-past twelve." + +"They'll be beginnin'," the boy half cried, half shouted. + +"You won't die if they do," said the mother. "Besides, it's only +half-past twelve, so you've a full hour." + +The lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat down. +They were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy jumped off his +chair and stood perfectly stiff. Some distance away could be heard the +first small braying of a merry-go-round, and the tooting of a horn. His +face quivered as he looked at his mother. + +"I told you!" he said, running to the dresser for his cap. + +"Take your pudding in your hand--and it's only five past one, so you +were wrong--you haven't got your twopence," cried the mother in a +breath. + +The boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then went +off without a word. + +"I want to go, I want to go," said Annie, beginning to cry. + +"Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!" said the +mother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill under the +tall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from the fields, and +cattle were turned on to the eddish. It was warm, peaceful. + +Mrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of horses, one +going by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three organs were grinding, +and there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, fearful screeching of the +cocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt Sally man, screeches from the +peep-show lady. The mother perceived her son gazing enraptured outside +the Lion Wallace booth, at the pictures of this famous lion that had +killed a negro and maimed for life two white men. She left him alone, +and went to get Annie a spin of toffee. Presently the lad stood in front +of her, wildly excited. + +"You never said you was coming--isn't the' a lot of things?--that lion's +killed three men--I've spent my tuppence--an' look here." + +He pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses on them. + +"I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles in +them holes. An' I got these two in two goes-'aepenny a go-they've got +moss-roses on, look here. I wanted these." + +She knew he wanted them for her. + +"H'm!" she said, pleased. "They ARE pretty!" + +"Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?" + +He was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about the ground, +showed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she explained the +pictures, in a sort of story, to which he listened as if spellbound. He +would not leave her. All the time he stuck close to her, bristling with +a small boy's pride of her. For no other woman looked such a lady as she +did, in her little black bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she saw +women she knew. When she was tired she said to her son: + +"Well, are you coming now, or later?" + +"Are you goin' a'ready?" he cried, his face full of reproach. + +"Already? It is past four, I know." + +"What are you goin' a'ready for?" he lamented. + +"You needn't come if you don't want," she said. + +And she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son stood +watching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable to leave +the wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the Moon and Stars +she heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, and hurried a little, +thinking her husband was probably in the bar. + +At about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather pale, and +somewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did not know it, because +he had let her go alone. Since she had gone, he had not enjoyed his +wakes. + +"Has my dad been?" he asked. + +"No," said the mother. + +"He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through that +black tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves rolled up." + +"Ha!" exclaimed the mother shortly. "He's got no money. An' he'll be +satisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him more or not." + +When the light was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more to sew, she +rose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound of excitement, the +restlessness of the holiday, that at last infected her. She went +out into the side garden. Women were coming home from the wakes, the +children hugging a white lamb with green legs, or a wooden horse. +Occasionally a man lurched past, almost as full as he could carry. +Sometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. But +usually the women and children were alone. The stay-at-home mothers +stood gossiping at the corners of the alley, as the twilight sank, +folding their arms under their white aprons. + +Mrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her little +girl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind her, +fixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. The world +seemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen for her--at +least until William grew up. But for herself, nothing but this dreary +endurance--till the children grew up. And the children! She could not +afford to have this third. She did not want it. The father was serving +beer in a public house, swilling himself drunk. She despised him, and +was tied to him. This coming child was too much for her. If it were not +for William and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with poverty and +ugliness and meanness. + +She went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take herself out, +yet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And looking ahead, +the prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive. + +The front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There she +stood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and the +fading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the stile that +led uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow of the cut +pastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow sank +quickly off the field; the earth and the hedges smoked dusk. As it grew +dark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out of the glare the +diminished commotion of the fair. + +Sometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path under the +hedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed into a run down +the steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a crash into the stile. +Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up, swearing viciously, rather +pathetically, as if he thought the stile had wanted to hurt him. + +She went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. She was +beginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed so far +away from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same person walking +heavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run so lightly up the +breakwater at Sheerness ten years before. + +"What have I to do with it?" she said to herself. "What have I to do +with all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem as if +I were taken into account." + +Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes +one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were +slurred over. + +"I wait," Mrs. Morel said to herself--"I wait, and what I wait for can +never come." + +Then she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, looked +out the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After which +she sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her needle flashed +regularly through the stuff. Occasionally she sighed, moving to relieve +herself. And all the time she was thinking how to make the most of what +she had, for the children's sakes. + +At half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very red and +very shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded slightly. He was +pleased with himself. + +"Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpin' Anthony, an' what's +think he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'f-crown, an' that's ivry +penny--" + +"He thinks you've made the rest up in beer," she said shortly. + +"An' I 'aven't--that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very little +this day, I have an' all." His voice went tender. "Here, an' I browt +thee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children." He laid the +gingerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. "Nay, tha +niver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?" + +As a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if it +had any milk. + +"It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' Bill +Hodgkisson. 'Bill,' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does ter? +Arena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I ham, +Walter, my lad,' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind.' An' so I +took one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes, +but 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt.' An' so, yer +see, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nice +chap!" + +"A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're drunk +along with him," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy, who's drunk, I sh'd like ter know?" said +Morel. He was extraordinarily pleased with himself, because of his day's +helping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered on. + +Mrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as quickly +as possible, while he raked the fire. + +Mrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, famous independents +who had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who remained stout +Congregationalists. Her grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-market +at a time when so many lace-manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Her +father, George Coppard, was an engineer--a large, handsome, haughty +man, proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of his +integrity. Gertrude resembled her mother in her small build. But her +temper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards. + +George Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He became foreman +of the engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness. Mrs. Morel--Gertrude--was +the second daughter. She favoured her mother, loved her mother best of +all; but she had the Coppards' clear, defiant blue eyes and their broad +brow. She remembered to have hated her father's overbearing manner +towards her gentle, humorous, kindly-souled mother. She remembered +running over the breakwater at Sheerness and finding the boat. She +remembered to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she had +gone to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. She +remembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had become, whom +she had loved to help in the private school. And she still had the Bible +that John Field had given her. She used to walk home from chapel +with John Field when she was nineteen. He was the son of a well-to-do +tradesman, had been to college in London, and was to devote himself to +business. + +She could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, when +they had sat under the vine at the back of her father's house. The sun +came through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made beautiful patterns, +like a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some of the leaves were +clean yellow, like yellow flat flowers. + +"Now sit still," he had cried. "Now your hair, I don't know what it IS +like! It's as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, and +it has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it's +brown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour." + +She had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed the +elation which rose within her. + +"But you say you don't like business," she pursued. + +"I don't. I hate it!" he cried hotly. + +"And you would like to go into the ministry," she half implored. + +"I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate +preacher." + +"Then why don't you--why DON'T you?" Her voice rang with defiance. "If I +were a man, nothing would stop me." + +She held her head erect. He was rather timid before her. + +"But my father's so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business, +and I know he'll do it." + +"But if you're a MAN?" she had cried. + +"Being a man isn't everything," he replied, frowning with puzzled +helplessness. + +Now, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some experience of +what being a man meant, she knew that it was NOT everything. + +At twenty, owing to her health, she had left Sheerness. Her father had +retired home to Nottingham. John Field's father had been ruined; the +son had gone as a teacher in Norwood. She did not hear of him until, two +years later, she made determined inquiry. He had married his landlady, a +woman of forty, a widow with property. + +And still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's Bible. She did not now +believe him to be--Well, she understood pretty well what he might or +might not have been. So she preserved his Bible, and kept his memory +intact in her heart, for her own sake. To her dying day, for thirty-five +years, she did not speak of him. + +When she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas party, a +young man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then twenty-seven years +old. He was well set-up, erect, and very smart. He had wavy black hair +that shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved. +His cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist mouth was noticeable because +he laughed so often and so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich, +ringing laugh. Gertrude Coppard had watched him, fascinated. He was +so full of colour and animation, his voice ran so easily into comic +grotesque, he was so ready and so pleasant with everybody. Her own +father had a rich fund of humour, but it was satiric. This man's was +different: soft, non-intellectual, warm, a kind of gambolling. + +She herself was opposite. She had a curious, receptive mind which found +much pleasure and amusement in listening to other folk. She was clever +in leading folk to talk. She loved ideas, and was considered very +intellectual. What she liked most of all was an argument on religion or +philosophy or politics with some educated man. This she did not often +enjoy. So she always had people tell her about themselves, finding her +pleasure so. + +In her person she was rather small and delicate, with a large brow, and +dropping bunches of brown silk curls. Her blue eyes were very straight, +honest, and searching. She had the beautiful hands of the Coppards. +Her dress was always subdued. She wore dark blue silk, with a peculiar +silver chain of silver scallops. This, and a heavy brooch of twisted +gold, was her only ornament. She was still perfectly intact, deeply +religious, and full of beautiful candour. + +Walter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the miner that +thing of mystery and fascination, a lady. When she spoke to him, it was +with a southern pronunciation and a purity of English which thrilled +him to hear. She watched him. He danced well, as if it were natural and +joyous in him to dance. His grandfather was a French refugee who had +married an English barmaid--if it had been a marriage. Gertrude Coppard +watched the young miner as he danced, a certain subtle exultation like +glamour in his movement, and his face the flower of his body, ruddy, +with tumbled black hair, and laughing alike whatever partner he bowed +above. She thought him rather wonderful, never having met anyone like +him. Her father was to her the type of all men. And George Coppard, +proud in his bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who preferred +theology in reading, and who drew near in sympathy only to one man, the +Apostle Paul; who was harsh in government, and in familiarity ironic; +who ignored all sensuous pleasure:--he was very different from the +miner. Gertrude herself was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had not +the slightest inclination towards that accomplishment, and had never +learned even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father, +high-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of +this man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the +flame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by +thought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful, +beyond her. + +He came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through her as if she had +drunk wine. + +"Now do come and have this one wi' me," he said caressively. "It's easy, +you know. I'm pining to see you dance." + +She had told him before she could not dance. She glanced at his humility +and smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It moved the man so that he +forgot everything. + +"No, I won't dance," she said softly. Her words came clean and ringing. + +Not knowing what he was doing--he often did the right thing by +instinct--he sat beside her, inclining reverentially. + +"But you mustn't miss your dance," she reproved. + + +"Nay, I don't want to dance that--it's not one as I care about." + +"Yet you invited me to it." + +He laughed very heartily at this. + +"I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in taking the curl out of me." + +It was her turn to laugh quickly. + +"You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled," she said. + +"I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it," he laughed, +rather boisterously. + +"And you are a miner!" she exclaimed in surprise. + +"Yes. I went down when I was ten." + +She looked at him in wondering dismay. + +"When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?" she asked. + +"You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop out at +night to see what's going on." + +"It makes me feel blind," she frowned. + +"Like a moudiwarp!" he laughed. "Yi, an' there's some chaps as does +go round like moudiwarps." He thrust his face forward in the blind, +snout-like way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer for direction. "They +dun though!" he protested naively. "Tha niver seed such a way they get +in. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time, an' tha can see for +thysen." + +She looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenly +opened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds of them +toiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed to her noble. He +risked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked at him, with a touch +of appeal in her pure humility. + +"Shouldn't ter like it?" he asked tenderly. "'Appen not, it 'ud dirty +thee." + +She had never been "thee'd" and "thou'd" before. + +The next Christmas they were married, and for three months she was +perfectly happy: for six months she was very happy. + +He had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: he +was nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his own house. +It was small, but convenient enough, and quite nicely furnished, +with solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest soul. The women, her +neighbours, were rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother and sisters +were apt to sneer at her ladylike ways. But she could perfectly well +live by herself, so long as she had her husband close. + +Sometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to open her +heart seriously to him. She saw him listen deferentially, but without +understanding. This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and she had +flashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of an evening: it was not +enough for him just to be near her, she realised. She was glad when he +set himself to little jobs. + +He was a remarkably handy man--could make or mend anything. So she would +say: + +"I do like that coal-rake of your mother's--it is small and natty." + +"Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee one!" + +"What! why, it's a steel one!" + +"An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactly +same." + +She did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy and +happy. + +But in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, she +felt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity, +took them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was married +in: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning the +papers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid. + +"Look here," she said at night, after he was washed and had had his +dinner. "I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. Haven't you +settled the bills yet?" + +"No. I haven't had a chance." + +"But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottingham on +Saturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's chairs +and eating from an unpaid table." + +He did not answer. + +"I can have your bank-book, can't I?" + +"Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee." + +"I thought--" she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money left +over. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigid +with bitterness and indignation. + +The next day she went down to see his mother. + +"Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?" she asked. + +"Yes, I did," tartly retorted the elder woman. + +"And how much did he give you to pay for it?" + +The elder woman was stung with fine indignation. + +"Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin'," she replied. + +"Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!" + +"I can't help that." + +"But where has it all gone?" + +"You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look--beside ten pound as +he owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down here." + +"Six pounds!" echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that, +after her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six pounds +more should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter's +parents' house, at his expense. + +"And how much has he sunk in his houses?" she asked. + +"His houses--which houses?" + +Gertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house he +lived in, and the next one, was his own. + +"I thought the house we live in--" she began. + +"They're my houses, those two," said the mother-in-law. "And not clear +either. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid." + +Gertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now. + +"Then we ought to be paying you rent," she said coldly. + +"Walter is paying me rent," replied the mother. + +"And what rent?" asked Gertrude. + +"Six and six a week," retorted the mother. + +It was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect, +looked straight before her. + +"It is lucky to be you," said the elder woman, bitingly, "to have a +husband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free +hand." + +The young wife was silent. + +She said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towards +him. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard +as rock. + +When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, at +Christmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This +Christmas she would bear him a child. + +"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?" asked her nearest neighbour, +in October, when there was great talk of opening a dancing-class over +the Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood. + +"No--I never had the least inclination to," Mrs. Morel replied. + +"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You know +he's quite a famous one for dancing." + +"I didn't know he was famous," laughed Mrs. Morel. + +"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners' Arms +club-room for over five year." + +"Did he?" + +"Yes, he did." The other woman was defiant. "An' it was thronged +every Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAS carryin's-on, +accordin' to all accounts." + +This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel, and she had +a fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first; for she was +superior, though she could not help it. + +He began to be rather late in coming home. + +"They're working very late now, aren't they?" she said to her +washer-woman. + +"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop to have +their pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner +stone cold--an' it serves 'em right." + +"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink." + +The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then went on with +her work, saying nothing. + +Gertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born. Morel was good to +her, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely, miles away from her own +people. She felt lonely with him now, and his presence only made it more +intense. + +The boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He was +a beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes which +changed gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him passionately. +He came just when her own bitterness of disillusion was hardest to bear; +when her faith in life was shaken, and her soul felt dreary and lonely. +She made much of the child, and the father was jealous. + +At last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned to the child; she +turned from the father. He had begun to neglect her; the novelty of his +own home was gone. He had no grit, she said bitterly to herself. What +he felt just at the minute, that was all to him. He could not abide by +anything. There was nothing at the back of all his show. + +There began a battle between the husband and wife--a fearful, bloody +battle that ended only with the death of one. She fought to make him +undertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfill his obligations. +But he was too different from her. His nature was purely sensuous, and +she strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face +things. He could not endure it--it drove him out of his mind. + +While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become so +irritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give a +little trouble when the man began to bully. A little more, and the hard +hands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed her husband, +loathed him for days; and he went out and drank; and she cared very +little what he did. Only, on his return, she scathed him with her +satire. + +The estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly, +grossly to offend her where he would not have done. + +William was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him, he was +so pretty. She was not well off now, but her sisters kept the boy in +clothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather, +and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps of hair +clustering round his head. Mrs. Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning, +to the chatter of the father and child downstairs. Then she dozed off. +When she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in the grate, the room was +hot, the breakfast was roughly laid, and seated in his armchair, against +the chimney-piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing between +his legs, the child--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round +poll--looking wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out upon +the hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a +marigold scattered in the reddening firelight. + +Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She went very white, and +was unable to speak. + +"What dost think o' 'im?" Morel laughed uneasily. + +She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward. Morel shrank +back. + +"I could kill you, I could!" she said. She choked with rage, her two +fists uplifted. + +"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im," Morel said, in a frightened +tone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers. His attempt at +laughter had vanished. + +The mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of her child. +She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head. + +"Oh--my boy!" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke, and, +snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried +painfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts as +it hurts a man. It was like ripping something out of her, her sobbing. + +Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together till +the knuckles were white. He gazed in the fire, feeling almost stunned, +as if he could not breathe. + +Presently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared away the +breakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls, spread +upon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and put it at +the back of the fire. She went about her work with closed mouth and very +quiet. Morel was subdued. He crept about wretchedly, and his meals were +a misery that day. She spoke to him civilly, and never alluded to what +he had done. But he felt something final had happened. + +Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would have +had to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even brought herself to +say to her husband it was just as well he had played barber when he +did. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had caused something +momentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all her +life, as one in which she had suffered the most intensely. + +This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her +love for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him bitterly, she +had fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her. Now she ceased +to fret for his love: he was an outsider to her. This made life much +more bearable. + +Nevertheless, she still continued to strive with him. She still had her +high moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now a +religious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with him, because +she loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned, she tortured him. If he +drank, and lied, was often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she wielded +the lash unmercifully. + +The pity was, she was too much his opposite. She could not be content +with the little he might be; she would have him the much that he ought +to be. So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be, she destroyed +him. She injured and hurt and scarred herself, but she lost none of her +worth. She also had the children. + +He drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners, and always +beer, so that whilst his health was affected, it was never injured. +The week-end was his chief carouse. He sat in the Miners' Arms until +turning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday evening. +On Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and reluctantly leave towards ten +o'clock. Sometimes he stayed at home on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, +or was only out for an hour. He practically never had to miss work owing +to his drinking. + +But although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off. He was +blab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger. Authority was hateful to him, therefore +he could only abuse the pit-managers. He would say, in the Palmerston: + +"Th' gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an' 'e says, 'You know, +Walter, this 'ere'll not do. What about these props?' An' I says to him, +'Why, what art talkin' about? What d'st mean about th' props?' 'It'll +never do, this 'ere,' 'e says. 'You'll be havin' th' roof in, one o' +these days.' An' I says, 'Tha'd better stan' on a bit o' clunch, then, +an' hold it up wi' thy 'ead.' So 'e wor that mad, 'e cossed an' 'e +swore, an' t'other chaps they did laugh." Morel was a good mimic. He +imitated the manager's fat, squeaky voice, with its attempt at good +English. + +"'I shan't have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or you?' So +I says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred. It'll 'appen +carry thee ter bed an' back."' + +So Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon companions. And some +of this would be true. The pit-manager was not an educated man. He had +been a boy along with Morel, so that, while the two disliked each other, +they more or less took each other for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth +did not forgive the butty these public-house sayings. Consequently, +although Morel was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five +pounds a week when he married, he came gradually to have worse and worse +stalls, where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and unprofitable. + +Also, in summer, the pits are slack. Often, on bright sunny mornings, +the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock. +No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on the hillside look +across as they shake the hearthrug against the fence, and count the +wagons the engine is taking along the line up the valley. And the +children, as they come from school at dinner-time, looking down the +fields and seeing the wheels on the headstocks standing, say: + +"Minton's knocked off. My dad'll be at home." + +And there is a sort of shadow over all, women and children and men, +because money will be short at the end of the week. + +Morel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week, to +provide everything--rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors. +Occasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five. But these +occasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty-five. In +winter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or fifty-five +shillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, and +Sunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts. +And out of so much, he scarcely spared the children an extra penny or +bought them a pound of apples. It all went in drink. In the bad times, +matters were more worrying, but he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs. +Morel used to say: + +"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush, there +isn't a minute of peace." + +If he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from thirty-five he kept five; +from thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three; from +twenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one-and-six; from eighteen +he kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence. He never saved a +penny, and he gave his wife no opportunity of saving; instead, she had +occasionally to pay his debts; not public-house debts, for those never +were passed on to the women, but debts when he had bought a canary, or a +fancy walking-stick. + +At the wakes time Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel was trying +to save against her confinement. So it galled her bitterly to think +he should be out taking his pleasure and spending money, whilst she +remained at home, harassed. There were two days' holiday. On the Tuesday +morning Morel rose early. He was in good spirits. Quite early, before +six o'clock, she heard him whistling away to himself downstairs. He +had a pleasant way of whistling, lively and musical. He nearly always +whistled hymns. He had been a choir-boy with a beautiful voice, and had +taken solos in Southwell cathedral. His morning whistling alone betrayed +it. + +His wife lay listening to him tinkering away in the garden, his +whistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away. It always gave +her a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she lay in bed, the +children not yet awake, in the bright early morning, happy in his man's +fashion. + +At nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were sitting +playing on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he came in from his +carpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat hanging open. He was +still a good-looking man, with black, wavy hair, and a large black +moustache. His face was perhaps too much inflamed, and there was about +him a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straight +to the sink where his wife was washing up. + +"What, are thee there!" he said boisterously. "Sluthe off an' let me +wesh mysen." + +"You may wait till I've finished," said his wife. + +"Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?" + +This good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel. + +"Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub." + +"Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy." + +With which he stood watching her a moment, then went away to wait for +her. + +When he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. Usually +he preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, however, he +made a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the way he puffed and +swilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity with which he hurried to +the mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him, +scrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He +put on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat. +As such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his +instinct for making the most of his good looks would. + +At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was +Morel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall, +thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack +eyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were +on a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where he +intended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or +less to take charge of him. + +Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had died of +consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislike +of her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her haemorrhage. +None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now his eldest daughter, +a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the two +younger children. + +"A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!" Mrs. Morel said of him. + +"I've never known Jerry mean in MY life," protested Morel. "A +opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find anywhere, accordin' +to my knowledge." + +"Open-handed to you," retorted Mrs. Morel. "But his fist is shut tight +enough to his children, poor things." + +"Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know." + +But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score. + +The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over the +scullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel's eye. + +"Mornin', missis! Mester in?" + +"Yes--he is." + +Jerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was not +invited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of men +and husbands. + +"A nice day," he said to Mrs. Morel. + +"Yes. + +"Grand out this morning--grand for a walk." + +"Do you mean YOU'RE going for a walk?" she asked. + +"Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottingham," he replied. + +"H'm!" + +The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, full of +assurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in presence +of his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. They were +going for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham. Climbing the +hillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the morning. At the +Moon and Stars they had their first drink, then on to the Old Spot. Then +a long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a glorious +pint of bitter. But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whose +gallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city, +Morel was sleepy. The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely +in the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spires +and factory bulks and chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under +an oak tree and slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go +forward he felt queer. + +The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repaired +to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing. +Morel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some +occult, malevolent power--"the devil's pictures," he called them! But +he was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge from +a Newark man, on skittles. All the men in the old, long bar took sides, +betting either one way or the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry held +the hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Some +stood with their mugs in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball +carefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and +won half a crown, which restored him to solvency. + +By seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caught the 7.30 +train home. + +In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant remaining +was out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in white +aprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a rest +between drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale; +the slate roofs glistered in the arid heat. + +Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, which +were not more than two hundred yards away. The water ran quickly over +stones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned on the rail of the old +sheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of the +meadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round the +deep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over +the blackish stagnant meadow. She knew William was at the dipping-hole, +and it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie +played under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called +currants. The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing. + +The children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then she worked awhile. + +When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load off +their minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put the +finishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with the +satisfaction of returned travellers. + +The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on the +men's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were +already rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow. +Mrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing, went indoors. Nine +o'clock passed, and ten, and still "the pair" had not returned. On a +doorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl: "Lead, kindly +Light." Mrs. Morel was always indignant with the drunken men that they +must sing that hymn when they got maudlin. + +"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough," she said. + +The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On the hob a +large black saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel took a panchion, a great +bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom, +and then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor. + +Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but +coming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over the feeling +of irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he was +so hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house. +He did not know he was angry. But when the garden gate resisted his +attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just +as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan. +Swaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquor +pitched. Mrs. Morel started back. + +"Good gracious," she cried, "coming home in his drunkenness!" + +"Comin' home in his what?" he snarled, his hat over his eye. + +Suddenly her blood rose in a jet. + +"Say you're NOT drunk!" she flashed. + +She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into the +beer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his face +forwards at her. + +"'Say you're not drunk,'" he repeated. "Why, nobody but a nasty little +bitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought." + +He thrust his face forward at her. + +"There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else." + +"I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day," he said. + +"You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing," she replied. "And," +she cried, flashing into sudden fury, "if you've been sponging on your +beloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it." + +"It's a lie, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman." + +They were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the hatred of +the other and the battle between them. She was fiery and furious as he. +They went on till he called her a liar. + +"No," she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. "Don't call me +that--you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather." +She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs. + +"You're a liar!" he yelled, banging the table with his fist. "You're a +liar, you're a liar." + +She stiffened herself, with clenched fists. + +"The house is filthy with you," she cried. + +"Then get out on it--it's mine. Get out on it!" he shouted. "It's me as +brings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. Then ger out +on't--ger out on't!" + +"And I would," she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence. "Ah, +wouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those children. Ay, +haven't I repented not going years ago, when I'd only the one"--suddenly +drying into rage. "Do you think it's for YOU I stop--do you think I'd +stop one minute for YOU?" + +"Go, then," he shouted, beside himself. "Go!" + +"No!" She faced round. "No," she cried loudly, "you shan't have it ALL +your own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've got those children to see +to. My word," she laughed, "I should look well to leave them to you." + +"Go," he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. "Go!" + +"I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I could +get away from you," she replied. + +He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, thrust +forward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled to be +free. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her roughly to the +outer door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt behind her with a +bang. Then he went back into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair, his +head, bursting full of blood, sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped +gradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and intoxication. + +The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel, +seared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a great white +light, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her inflamed soul. +She stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the glistening great +rhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She +walked down the garden path, trembling in every limb, while the child +boiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness; +mechanically she went over the last scene, then over it again, certain +phrases, certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down on +her soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each time the +brand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and the +pain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half +an hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came +again to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered to the side +garden, where she was walking up and down the path beside the currant +bushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from +the road, that cut transversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn +hedge. + +She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could stand +as if in an immense gulf of white light, the moon streaming high in face +of her, the moonlight standing up from the hills in front, and filling +the valley where the Bottoms crouched, almost blindingly. There, panting +and half weeping in reaction from the stress, she murmured to herself +over and over again: "The nuisance! the nuisance!" + +She became aware of something about her. With an effort she roused +herself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tall +white lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air was charged with +their perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gasped slightly in fear. +She touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals, then shivered. +They seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into +one white bin: the gold scarcely showed on her fingers by moonlight. She +bent down to look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeared +dusky. Then she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made her +dizzy. + +Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and she lost herself +awhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feeling +of sickness, and her consciousness in the child, herself melted out like +scent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted with +her in the mixing-pot of moonlight, and she rested with the hills and +lilies and houses, all swum together in a kind of swoon. + +When she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly she looked +about her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spread with +linen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden. +Following it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw, strong +scent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path, hesitating at +the white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the white +ruffles of the roses. Their fresh scent and cool, soft leaves reminded +her of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she +was tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt +forlorn. + +There was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had not been +wakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away, +roared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange, +stretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-grey +fog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake not far off, +sound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men. + +Her quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hurried down +the side garden to the back of the house. Softly she lifted the latch; +the door was still bolted, and hard against her. She rapped gently, +waited, then rapped again. She must not rouse the children, nor the +neighbours. He must be asleep, and he would not wake easily. Her heart +began to burn to be indoors. She clung to the door-handle. Now it was +cold; she would take a chill, and in her present condition! + +Putting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried again to the +side garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the sill, she +could just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spread out on the +table, and his black head on the board. He was sleeping with his face +lying on the table. Something in his attitude made her feel tired of +things. The lamp was burning smokily; she could tell by the copper +colour of the light. She tapped at the window more and more noisily. +Almost it seemed as if the glass would break. Still he did not wake up. + +After vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact with the +stone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn child, she +wondered what she could do for warmth. She went down to the coal-house, +where there was an old hearthrug she had carried out for the rag-man the +day before. This she wrapped over her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy. +Then she walked up and down the garden path, peeping every now and then +under the blind, knocking, and telling herself that in the end the very +strain of his position must wake him. + +At last, after about an hour, she rapped long and low at the window. +Gradually the sound penetrated to him. When, in despair, she had ceased +to tap, she saw him stir, then lift his face blindly. The labouring of +his heart hurt him into consciousness. She rapped imperatively at the +window. He started awake. Instantly she saw his fists set and his +eyes glare. He had not a grain of physical fear. If it had been +twenty burglars, he would have gone blindly for them. He glared round, +bewildered, but prepared to fight. + +"Open the door, Walter," she said coldly. + +His hands relaxed. It dawned on him what he had done. His head dropped, +sullen and dogged. She saw him hurry to the door, heard the bolt chock. +He tried the latch. It opened--and there stood the silver-grey night, +fearful to him, after the tawny light of the lamp. He hurried back. + +When Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him almost running through the door +to the stairs. He had ripped his collar off his neck in his haste to +be gone ere she came in, and there it lay with bursten button-holes. It +made her angry. + +She warmed and soothed herself. In her weariness forgetting everything, +she moved about at the little tasks that remained to be done, set his +breakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes on the hearth +to warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out a clean scarf and +snap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was already +dead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows were drawn up in a sort of +peevish misery into his forehead while his cheeks' down-strokes, and his +sulky mouth, seemed to be saying: "I don't care who you are nor what you +are, I SHALL have my own way." + +Mrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she unfastened her +brooch at the mirror, she smiled faintly to see her face all smeared +with the yellow dust of lilies. She brushed it off, and at last lay +down. For some time her mind continued snapping and jetting sparks, +but she was asleep before her husband awoke from the first sleep of his +drunkenness. + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE + +AFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed +and ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet +there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically +even, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the +least stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive bearing, his +physique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral strength. + +But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her +work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with +his help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening +till Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back again +by ten o'clock, almost quite sober. + +He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had +plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed +at six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out of +bed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay waiting +for this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest seemed to be +when he was out of the house. + +He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his +pit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There +was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in +the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel +smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled +and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he +wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper. +Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors +with rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an +hour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat +on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and +cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, +and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He +loathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely +reached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in +solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little +stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender, +his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper--what +of it he could--spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the +blinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the +habit of the mine. + +At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, +and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with +tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the +pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vest +of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like a +chemise. + +Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill, +and because it occurred to him. + +"I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass," he said. + +"Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it," she replied. + +"Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again." + +She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it. + +"I'll back my life there's no sugar in," she said. + +"Yi--there's one big 'un," he replied, injured. + +"It's a wonder," she said, sipping again. + +She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble +at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any +sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and +butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him. +He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round +his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, +that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into +the fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He +loved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared +at the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, +which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling +quite as happy as when he was in the field. + +Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round +in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace, +sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very +self-righteous, he went upstairs. + +"Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stir a peg all day, +but sit and read thy books." + +Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation. + +"And the dinner cooks itself?" she answered. + +"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner." + +"You'd know if there weren't any." + +"Ay, 'appen so," he answered, departing. + +When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She +could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the +ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have +to go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden +fence, she would call: + +"So you keep wagging on, then?" + +"Ay," answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. "There's nothing else for it." + +"Have you seen Hose?" called a very small woman from across the road. It +was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a +brown velvet dress, tight fitting. + +"I haven't," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm sure I +heered his bell." + +"Hark! He's at the end." + +The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a +man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of +cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to +him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy, +undyed stockings hanging over her arm. + +"I've done ten dozen this week," she said proudly to Mrs. Morel. + +"T-t-t!" went the other. "I don't know how you can find time." + +"Eh!" said Mrs. Anthony. "You can find time if you make time." + +"I don't know how you do it," said Mrs. Morel. "And how much shall you +get for those many?" + +"Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen," replied the other. + +"Well," said Mrs. Morel. "I'd starve before I'd sit down and seam +twenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Anthony. "You can rip along with 'em." + +Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the +yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The +man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, and +bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully. + +It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, she +should put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace, +which, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in the +adjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started +out of her skin as she heard the thud, thud, in her grate. With her +hands all floury, she rushed to the fence. + +"Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?" + +"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk." + +Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morel's +copper, and ran in to her neighbour. + +"Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried in concern. + +"You might fetch Mrs. Bower," said Mrs. Morel. + +Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, and +called: + +"Ag-gie--Ag-gie!" + +The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last +Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, whilst Mrs. Kirk +left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour. + +Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner. Mrs. +Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house. + +"Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make him an +apple-charlotte pudding," said Mrs. Morel. + +"He may go without pudding this day," said Mrs. Bower. + +Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the +pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o'clock, when the +whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at this +time about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually till +the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the +miner was sick of the work. At two o'clock he looked at his watch, by +the light of the green candle--he was in a safe working--and again at +half-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for +the next day's work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard +blows with his pick, "Uszza--uszza!" he went. + +"Shall ter finish, Sorry?" cried Barker, his fellow butty. + +"Finish? Niver while the world stands!" growled Morel. + +And he went on striking. He was tired. + +"It's a heart-breaking job," said Barker. + +But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer. +Still he struck and hacked with all his might. + +"Tha might as well leave it, Walter," said Barker. "It'll do to-morrow, +without thee hackin' thy guts out." + +"I'll lay no b---- finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel. + +"Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else'll ha'e to," said Israel. + +Then Morel continued to strike. + +"Hey-up there--LOOSE-A'!" cried the men, leaving the next stall. + +Morel continued to strike. + +"Tha'll happen catch me up," said Barker, departing. + +When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished +his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with +sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle, +took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men +went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, +heavy tramp underground. + +He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell +plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. +Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable. + +"It's rainin', Sorry," said old Giles, who had had the news from the +top. + +Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in the +lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the top +in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he +had bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of +the pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain was +falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the +sides of the waggons, over the white "C.W. and Co.". Colliers, walking +indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, +a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from +the peppering of the drops thereon. + +All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and +dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked +with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many +men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen's. Morel, feeling +sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under +the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of +Greenhill Lane. + +Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the +colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as +they went through the stile up the field. + +"There's some herb beer behind the pantry door," she said. "Th' +master'll want a drink, if he doesn't stop." + +But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it +was raining. What did he care about the child or her? + +She was very ill when her children were born. + +"What is it?" she asked, feeling sick to death. + +"A boy." + +And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of men +was warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes, +and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of +everything. She had it in bed with her. + +Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearily +and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the sink; then he +sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the +inner doorway. + +"Well," she said, "she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy childt." + +The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle on the +dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, then came and +dropped into his chair. + +"Han yer got a drink?" he asked. + +The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. She +set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel. He +drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank, +gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him +again. She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs. + +"Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel. + +"I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs. Bower. + +After he had sat with his arms on the table--he resented the fact that +Mrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him a little plate, instead +of a full-sized dinner-plate--he began to eat. The fact that his wife +was ill, that he had another boy, was nothing to him at that moment. +He was too tired; he wanted his dinner; he wanted to sit with his arms +lying on the board; he did not like having Mrs. Bower about. The fire +was too small to please him. + +After he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes; then he +stoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet, he went reluctantly +upstairs. It was a struggle to face his wife at this moment, and he was +tired. His face was black, and smeared with sweat. His singlet had +dried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round his +throat. So he stood at the foot of the bed. + +"Well, how are ter, then?" he asked. + +"I s'll be all right," she answered. + +"H'm!" + +He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and this bother was +rather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite know where he was. + +"A lad, tha says," he stammered. + +She turned down the sheet and showed the child. + +"Bless him!" he murmured. Which made her laugh, because he blessed by +rote--pretending paternal emotion, which he did not feel just then. + +"Go now," she said. + +"I will, my lass," he answered, turning away. + +Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half wanted +him to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any sign. She only +breathed freely when he was gone out of the room again, leaving behind +him a faint smell of pit-dirt. + +Mrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational clergyman. Mr. +Heaton was young, and very poor. His wife had died at the birth of his +first baby, so he remained alone in the manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts +of Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, and +he depended on her. For hours he talked to her, when she was well. He +became the god-parent of the child. + +Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then she laid +the cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim, and +hoped Morel would not come too soon; indeed, if he stayed for a pint, +she would not mind this day. She had always two dinners to cook, because +she believed children should have their chief meal at midday, whereas +Morel needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby, +whilst Mrs. Morel beat up a batter-pudding or peeled the potatoes, and +he, watching her all the time, would discuss his next sermon. His ideas +were quaint and fantastic. She brought him judiciously to earth. It was +a discussion of the wedding at Cana. + +"When He changed the water into wine at Cana," he said, "that is a +symbol that the ordinary life, even the blood, of the married husband +and wife, which had before been uninspired, like water, became filled +with the Spirit, and was as wine, because, when love enters, the whole +spiritual constitution of a man changes, is filled with the Holy Ghost, +and almost his form is altered." + +Mrs. Morel thought to herself: + +"Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why he makes his love +into the Holy Ghost." + +They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heard the +sluther of pit-boots. + +"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself. + +The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He was feeling rather +savage. He nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman, who rose to shake +hands with him. + +"Nay," said Morel, showing his hand, "look thee at it! Tha niver +wants ter shake hands wi' a hand like that, does ter? There's too much +pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it." + +The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel +rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his coat, +dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily. + +"Are you tired?" asked the clergyman. + +"Tired? I ham that," replied Morel. "YOU don't know what it is to be +tired, as I'M tired." + +"No," replied the clergyman. + +"Why, look yer 'ere," said the miner, showing the shoulders of his +singlet. "It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a clout with sweat even +yet. Feel it." + +"Goodness!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feel your +nasty singlet." + +The clergyman put out his hand gingerly. + +"No, perhaps he doesn't," said Morel; "but it's all come out of me, +whether or not. An' iv'ry day alike my singlet's wringin' wet. 'Aven't +you got a drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from +the pit?" + +"You know you drank all the beer," said Mrs. Morel, pouring out his tea. + +"An' was there no more to be got?" Turning to the clergyman--"A man gets +that caked up wi' th' dust, you know,--that clogged up down a coal-mine, +he NEEDS a drink when he comes home." + +"I am sure he does," said the clergyman. + +"But it's ten to one if there's owt for him." + +"There's water--and there's tea," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat." + +He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through his +great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out another +saucerful, and stood his cup on the table. + +"My cloth!" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate. + +"A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths," said +Morel. + +"Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically. + +The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes. + +He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward, his +mouth very red in his black face. + +"Mr. Heaton," he said, "a man as has been down the black hole all day, +dingin' away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harder than that wall--" + +"Needn't make a moan of it," put in Mrs. Morel. + +She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, he whined +and played for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the baby, hated him, +with a boy's hatred for false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment of +his mother. Annie had never liked him; she merely avoided him. + +When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth. + +"A fine mess!" she said. + +"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha's got a +parson for tea wi' thee?" he bawled. + +They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, and +Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked +Annie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel to shout +at her. In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the big +glazed text over the mantelpiece and read distinctly: + +"God Bless Our Home!" + +Whereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up, rushed at +him, boxed his ears, saying: + +"What are YOU putting in for?" + +And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her cheeks, while +William kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and Morel growled: + +"I canna see what there is so much to laugh at." + +One evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unable to bear +herself after another display from her husband, she took Annie and the +baby and went out. Morel had kicked William, and the mother would never +forgive him. + +She went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of the meadow to the +cricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space of ripe, evening light, +whispering with the distant mill-race. She sat on a seat under the +alders in the cricket-ground, and fronted the evening. Before her, level +and solid, spread the big green cricket-field, like the bed of a sea of +light. Children played in the bluish shadow of the pavilion. Many rooks, +high up, came cawing home across the softly-woven sky. They stooped in +a long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling, +like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree clump that made a dark +boss among the pasture. + +A few gentlemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear the chock +of the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused; could see the white +forms of men shifting silently over the green, upon which already the +under shadows were smouldering. Away at the grange, one side of the +haystacks was lit up, the other sides blue-grey. A waggon of sheaves +rocked small across the melting yellow light. + +The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were +blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the +glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western +space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the +bell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stood +fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in +a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; +perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset +floated pink opposite the west's scarlet. The big haystacks on the +hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold. + +With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets +vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and +the strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her. +Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby +was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the +light. + +Mrs. Morel looked down at him. She had dreaded this baby like a +catastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband. And now she felt +strangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavy because of the child, +almost as if it were unhealthy, or malformed. Yet it seemed quite well. +But she noticed the peculiar knitting of the baby's brows, and the +peculiar heaviness of its eyes, as if it were trying to understand +something that was pain. She felt, when she looked at her child's dark, +brooding pupils, as if a burden were on her heart. + +"He looks as if he was thinking about something--quite sorrowful," said +Mrs. Kirk. + +Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart melted +into passionate grief. She bowed over him, and a few tears shook swiftly +out of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers. + +"My lamb!" she cried softly. + +And at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul, that +she and her husband were guilty. + +The baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own, but its +look was heavy, steady, as if it had realised something that had stunned +some point of its soul. + +In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes, always looking up +at her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her. She +no longer loved her husband; she had not wanted this child to come, and +there it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart. She felt as if the +navel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had not +been broken. A wave of hot love went over her to the infant. She held it +close to her face and breast. With all her force, with all her soul she +would make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. She +would love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Its +clear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her? +When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was there a +reproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with fear +and pain. + +Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hill +opposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands. + +"Look!" she said. "Look, my pretty!" + +She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, almost with +relief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her bosom +again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence he +came. + +"If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will become of him--what +will he be?" + +Her heart was anxious. + +"I will call him Paul," she said suddenly; she knew not why. + +After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the deep green +meadow, darkening all. + +As she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel was home by ten +o'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully. + +Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemed +to exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody. +If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about his +dinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that +made their mother's blood boil, and made them hate him. + +On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock. The baby was unwell, +and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Morel, tired to +death, and still weak, was scarcely under control. + +"I wish the nuisance would come," she said wearily to herself. + +The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too tired to +carry him to the cradle. + +"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes," she said. "It only works +me up; I won't say anything. But I know if he does anything it'll make +my blood boil," she added to herself. + +She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could not +bear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept her head +bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But it +went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurched +against the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at the +white pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, then returned, +stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child. + +"Is there nothing to eat in the house?" he asked, insolently, as if to a +servant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the +clipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morel hated him most in this +condition. + +"You know what there is in the house," she said, so coldly, it sounded +impersonal. + +He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle. + +"I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer," he said +affectedly. + +"And you got it," she said, still ignoring him. + +He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the +table with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer to +get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways. +In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons, +forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and a +clang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start. + +"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?" the mother cried. + +"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen. Tha should get up, like +other women have to, an' wait on a man." + +"Wait on you--wait on you?" she cried. "Yes, I see myself." + +"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on ME, yes tha sh'lt wait +on me--" + +"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first." + +"What--what?" + +He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round. +His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent +second in threat. + +"P-h!" she went quickly, in contempt. + +He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharply on his +shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her. + +One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed into +the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair. To her +very soul she was sick; she clasped the child tightly to her bosom. A +few moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she brought herself to. +The baby was crying plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding rather +profusely. As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, some +drops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was at least +not hurt. She balanced her head to keep equilibrium, so that the blood +ran into her eye. + +Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table with one +hand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance, +he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of her +rocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then leaning forward over her, +and swaying as he spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering concern: + +"Did it catch thee?" + +He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child. With the +catastrophe he had lost all balance. + +"Go away," she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind. + +He hiccoughed. "Let's--let's look at it," he said, hiccoughing again. + +"Go away!" she cried. + +"Lemme--lemme look at it, lass." + +She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying grasp on +the back of her rocking-chair. + +"Go away," she said, and weakly she pushed him off. + +He stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her. Summoning all her +strength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of will, +moving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where she bathed +her eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too dizzy. Afraid lest +she should swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair, trembling in every +fibre. By instinct, she kept the baby clasped. + +Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back into its +cavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws, for the scattered +spoons. + +Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and came craning his +neck towards her. + +"What has it done to thee, lass?" he asked, in a very wretched, humble +tone. + +"You can see what it's done," she answered. + +He stood, bending forward, supported on his hands, which grasped his +legs just above the knee. He peered to look at the wound. She drew away +from the thrust of his face with its great moustache, averting her +own face as much as possible. As he looked at her, who was cold and +impassive as stone, with mouth shut tight, he sickened with feebleness +and hopelessness of spirit. He was turning drearily away, when he saw +a drop of blood fall from the averted wound into the baby's fragile, +glistening hair. Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark drop hang in +the glistening cloud, and pull down the gossamer. Another drop fell. It +would soak through to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feeling +it soak in; then, finally, his manhood broke. + +"What of this child?" was all his wife said to him. But her low, intense +tones brought his head lower. She softened: "Get me some wadding out of +the middle drawer," she said. + +He stumbled away very obediently, presently returning with a pad, which +she singed before the fire, then put on her forehead, as she sat with +the baby on her lap. + +"Now that clean pit-scarf." + +Again he rummaged and fumbled in the drawer, returning presently with a +red, narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling fingers proceeded to +bind it round her head. + +"Let me tie it for thee," he said humbly. + +"I can do it myself," she replied. When it was done she went upstairs, +telling him to rake the fire and lock the door. + +In the morning Mrs. Morel said: + +"I knocked against the latch of the coal-place, when I was getting a +raker in the dark, because the candle blew out." Her two small children +looked up at her with wide, dismayed eyes. They said nothing, but their +parted lips seemed to express the unconscious tragedy they felt. + +Walter Morel lay in bed next day until nearly dinner-time. He did not +think of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thought of anything, +but he would not think of that. He lay and suffered like a sulking dog. +He had hurt himself most; and he was the more damaged because he would +never say a word to her, or express his sorrow. He tried to wriggle out +of it. "It was her own fault," he said to himself. Nothing, however, +could prevent his inner consciousness inflicting on him the punishment +which ate into his spirit like rust, and which he could only alleviate +by drinking. + +He felt as if he had not the initiative to get up, or to say a word, or +to move, but could only lie like a log. Moreover, he had himself violent +pains in the head. It was Saturday. Towards noon he rose, cut himself +food in the pantry, ate it with his head dropped, then pulled on his +boots, and went out, to return at three o'clock slightly tipsy and +relieved; then once more straight to bed. He rose again at six in the +evening, had tea and went straight out. + +Sunday was the same: bed till noon, the Palmerston Arms till 2.30, +dinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morel went upstairs, +towards four o'clock, to put on her Sunday dress, he was fast asleep. +She would have felt sorry for him, if he had once said, "Wife, I'm +sorry." But no; he insisted to himself it was her fault. And so he +broke himself. So she merely left him alone. There was this deadlock of +passion between them, and she was stronger. + +The family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all sat down to meals +together. + +"Isn't my father going to get up?" asked William. + +"Let him lie," the mother replied. + +There was a feeling of misery over all the house. The children breathed +the air that was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They were rather +disconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at. + +Immediately Morel woke he got straight out of bed. That was +characteristic of him all his life. He was all for activity. The +prostrated inactivity of two mornings was stifling him. + +It was near six o'clock when he got down. This time he entered without +hesitation, his wincing sensitiveness having hardened again. He did not +care any longer what the family thought or felt. + +The tea-things were on the table. William was reading aloud from "The +Child's Own", Annie listening and asking eternally "why?" Both children +hushed into silence as they heard the approaching thud of their father's +stockinged feet, and shrank as he entered. Yet he was usually indulgent +to them. + +Morel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate and drank more noisily than +he had need. No one spoke to him. The family life withdrew, shrank +away, and became hushed as he entered. But he cared no longer about his +alienation. + +Immediately he had finished tea he rose with alacrity to go out. It was +this alacrity, this haste to be gone, which so sickened Mrs. Morel. As +she heard him sousing heartily in cold water, heard the eager scratch +of the steel comb on the side of the bowl, as he wetted his hair, she +closed her eyes in disgust. As he bent over, lacing his boots, there +was a certain vulgar gusto in his movement that divided him from the +reserved, watchful rest of the family. He always ran away from the +battle with himself. Even in his own heart's privacy, he excused +himself, saying, "If she hadn't said so-and-so, it would never have +happened. She asked for what she's got." The children waited in +restraint during his preparations. When he had gone, they sighed with +relief. + +He closed the door behind him, and was glad. It was a rainy evening. The +Palmerston would be the cosier. He hastened forward in anticipation. All +the slate roofs of the Bottoms shone black with wet. The roads, always +dark with coal-dust, were full of blackish mud. He hastened along. The +Palmerston windows were steamed over. The passage was paddled with wet +feet. But the air was warm, if foul, and full of the sound of voices and +the smell of beer and smoke. + +"What shollt ha'e, Walter?" cried a voice, as soon as Morel appeared in +the doorway. + +"Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?" + +The men made a seat for him, and took him in warmly. He was glad. In a +minute or two they had thawed all responsibility out of him, all shame, +all trouble, and he was clear as a bell for a jolly night. + +On the Wednesday following, Morel was penniless. He dreaded his wife. +Having hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what to do with +himself that evening, having not even twopence with which to go to the +Palmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt. So, while his wife +was down the garden with the child, he hunted in the top drawer of +the dresser where she kept her purse, found it, and looked inside. It +contained a half-crown, two halfpennies, and a sixpence. So he took the +sixpence, put the purse carefully back, and went out. + +The next day, when she wanted to pay the greengrocer, she looked in the +purse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes. Then she sat +down and thought: "WAS there a sixpence? I hadn't spent it, had I? And I +hadn't left it anywhere else?" + +She was much put about. She hunted round everywhere for it. And, as she +sought, the conviction came into her heart that her husband had taken +it. What she had in her purse was all the money she possessed. But that +he should sneak it from her thus was unbearable. He had done so twice +before. The first time she had not accused him, and at the week-end he +had put the shilling again into her purse. So that was how she had known +he had taken it. The second time he had not paid back. + +This time she felt it was too much. When he had had his dinner--he came +home early that day--she said to him coldly: + +"Did you take sixpence out of my purse last night?" + +"Me!" he said, looking up in an offended way. "No, I didna! I niver +clapped eyes on your purse." + +But she could detect the lie. + +"Why, you know you did," she said quietly. + +"I tell you I didna," he shouted. "Yer at me again, are yer? I've had +about enough on't." + +"So you filch sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking the clothes in." + +"I'll may yer pay for this," he said, pushing back his chair in +desperation. He bustled and got washed, then went determinedly upstairs. +Presently he came down dressed, and with a big bundle in a blue-checked, +enormous handkerchief. + +"And now," he said, "you'll see me again when you do." + +"It'll be before I want to," she replied; and at that he marched out +of the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly, but her heart +brimming with contempt. What would she do if he went to some other +pit, obtained work, and got in with another woman? But she knew him too +well--he couldn't. She was dead sure of him. Nevertheless her heart was +gnawed inside her. + +"Where's my dad?" said William, coming in from school. + +"He says he's run away," replied the mother. + +"Where to?" + +"Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handkerchief, and +says he's not coming back." + +"What shall we do?" cried the boy. + +"Eh, never trouble, he won't go far." + +"But if he doesn't come back," wailed Annie. + +And she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morel sat and +laughed. + +"You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll see him before the night's +out." + +But the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on. Mrs. Morel +grew anxious from very weariness. One part of her said it would be a +relief to see the last of him; another part fretted because of keeping +the children; and inside her, as yet, she could not quite let him go. At +the bottom, she knew very well he could NOT go. + +When she went down to the coal-place at the end of the garden, however, +she felt something behind the door. So she looked. And there in the dark +lay the big blue bundle. She sat on a piece of coal and laughed. Every +time she saw it, so fat and yet so ignominious, slunk into its corner in +the dark, with its ends flopping like dejected ears from the knots, she +laughed again. She was relieved. + +Mrs. Morel sat waiting. He had not any money, she knew, so if he stopped +he was running up a bill. She was very tired of him--tired to death. He +had not even the courage to carry his bundle beyond the yard-end. + +As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the door and came in, +slinking, and yet sulky. She said not a word. He took off his coat, and +slunk to his armchair, where he began to take off his boots. + +"You'd better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off," she +said quietly. + +"You may thank your stars I've come back to-night," he said, looking up +from under his dropped head, sulkily, trying to be impressive. + +"Why, where should you have gone? You daren't even get your parcel +through the yard-end," she said. + +He looked such a fool she was not even angry with him. He continued to +take his boots off and prepare for bed. + +"I don't know what's in your blue handkerchief," she said. "But if you +leave it the children shall fetch it in the morning." + +Whereupon he got up and went out of the house, returning presently and +crossing the kitchen with averted face, hurrying upstairs. As Mrs. Morel +saw him slink quickly through the inner doorway, holding his bundle, she +laughed to herself: but her heart was bitter, because she had loved him. + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL--THE TAKING ON OF WILLIAM + +DURING the next week Morel's temper was almost unbearable. Like all +miners, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, he +would often pay for himself. + +"You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral," he said. "It's a winder as we +canna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse." + +So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite first +medicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging in +the attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue, horehound, elder +flowers, parsley-purt, marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury. +Usually there was a jug of one or other decoction standing on the hob, +from which he drank largely. + +"Grand!" he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. "Grand!" And he +exhorted the children to try. + +"It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews," he vowed. But +they were not to be tempted. + +This time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs would +shift the "nasty peens in his head". He was sickening for an attack of +an inflammation of the brain. He had never been well since his sleeping +on the ground when he went with Jerry to Nottingham. Since then he had +drunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had him +to nurse. He was one of the worst patients imaginable. But, in spite of +all, and putting aside the fact that he was breadwinner, she never +quite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him for +herself. + +The neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had the children +in to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her, one +would mind the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless. +It was not every day the neighbours helped. Then she had nursing of baby +and husband, cleaning and cooking, everything to do. She was quite worn +out, but she did what was wanted of her. + +And the money was just sufficient. She had seventeen shillings a week +from clubs, and every Friday Barker and the other butty put by a portion +of the stall's profits for Morel's wife. And the neighbours made broths, +and gave eggs, and such invalids' trifles. If they had not helped her so +generously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled through, +without incurring debts that would have dragged her down. + +The weeks passed. Morel, almost against hope, grew better. He had a fine +constitution, so that, once on the mend, he went straight forward to +recovery. Soon he was pottering about downstairs. During his illness his +wife had spoilt him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He often +put his band to his head, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and +shammed pains he did not feel. But there was no deceiving her. At first +she merely smiled to herself. Then she scolded him sharply. + +"Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose." + +That wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness. + +"I wouldn't be such a mardy baby," said the wife shortly. + +Then he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy. He was +forced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine. + +Nevertheless, there was a state of peace in the house for some time. +Mrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost +like a child, was rather happy. Neither knew that she was more tolerant +because she loved him less. Up till this time, in spite of all, he had +been her husband and her man. She had felt that, more or less, what he +did to himself he did to her. Her living depended on him. There were +many, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him, but it was always +ebbing. + +Now, with the birth of this third baby, her self no longer set towards +him, helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose, standing off +from him. After this she scarcely desired him. And, standing more aloof +from him, not feeling him so much part of herself, but merely part of +her circumstances, she did not mind so much what he did, could leave him +alone. + +There was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year, which +is like autumn in a man's life. His wife was casting him off, half +regretfully, but relentlessly; casting him off and turning now for love +and life to the children. Henceforward he was more or less a husk. And +he himself acquiesced, as so many men do, yielding their place to their +children. + +During his recuperation, when it was really over between them, both made +an effort to come back somewhat to the old relationship of the first +months of their marriage. He sat at home and, when the children were in +bed, and she was sewing--she did all her sewing by hand, made all shirts +and children's clothing--he would read to her from the newspaper, slowly +pronouncing and delivering the words like a man pitching quoits. Often +she hurried him on, giving him a phrase in anticipation. And then he +took her words humbly. + +The silences between them were peculiar. There would be the swift, +slight "cluck" of her needle, the sharp "pop" of his lips as he let out +the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars as he spat in the fire. +Then her thoughts turned to William. Already he was getting a big boy. +Already he was top of the class, and the master said he was the smartest +lad in the school. She saw him a man, young, full of vigour, making the +world glow again for her. + +And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think about, +would be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul would reach out in its +blind way to her and find her gone. He felt a sort of emptiness, almost +like a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled and restless. Soon he could +not live in that atmosphere, and he affected his wife. Both felt an +oppression on their breathing when they were left together for some +time. Then he went to bed and she settled down to enjoy herself alone, +working, thinking, living. + +Meanwhile another infant was coming, fruit of this little peace and +tenderness between the separating parents. Paul was seventeen months old +when the new baby was born. He was then a plump, pale child, quiet, with +heavy blue eyes, and still the peculiar slight knitting of the brows. +The last child was also a boy, fair and bonny. Mrs. Morel was sorry when +she knew she was with child, both for economic reasons and because she +did not love her husband; but not for the sake of the infant. + +They called the baby Arthur. He was very pretty, with a mop of gold +curls, and he loved his father from the first. Mrs. Morel was glad this +child loved the father. Hearing the miner's footsteps, the baby would +put up his arms and crow. And if Morel were in a good temper, he called +back immediately, in his hearty, mellow voice: + +"What then, my beauty? I sh'll come to thee in a minute." + +And as soon as he had taken off his pit-coat, Mrs. Morel would put an +apron round the child, and give him to his father. + +"What a sight the lad looks!" she would exclaim sometimes, taking back +the baby, that was smutted on the face from his father's kisses and +play. Then Morel laughed joyfully. + +"He's a little collier, bless his bit o' mutton!" he exclaimed. + +And these were the happy moments of her life now, when the children +included the father in her heart. + +Meanwhile William grew bigger and stronger and more active, while Paul, +always rather delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and trotted after his +mother like her shadow. He was usually active and interested, but +sometimes he would have fits of depression. Then the mother would find +the boy of three or four crying on the sofa. + +"What's the matter?" she asked, and got no answer. + +"What's the matter?" she insisted, getting cross. + +"I don't know," sobbed the child. + +So she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but without +effect. It made her feel beside herself. Then the father, always +impatient, would jump from his chair and shout: + +"If he doesn't stop, I'll smack him till he does." + +"You'll do nothing of the sort," said the mother coldly. And then she +carried the child into the yard, plumped him into his little chair, and +said: "Now cry there, Misery!" + +And then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves perhaps caught his eye, or +at last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, but they +caused a shadow in Mrs. Morel's heart, and her treatment of Paul was +different from that of the other children. + +Suddenly one morning as she was looking down the alley of the Bottoms +for the barm-man, she heard a voice calling her. It was the thin little +Mrs. Anthony in brown velvet. + +"Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie." + +"Oh, do you?" replied Mrs. Morel. "Why, what's the matter?" + +"A lad as gets 'old of another an' rips his clothes off'n 'is back," +Mrs. Anthony said, "wants showing something." + +"Your Alfred's as old as my William," said Mrs. Morel. + +"'Appen 'e is, but that doesn't give him a right to get hold of the +boy's collar, an' fair rip it clean off his back." + +"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "I don't thrash my children, and even if I did, +I should want to hear their side of the tale." + +"They'd happen be a bit better if they did get a good hiding," retorted +Mrs. Anthony. "When it comes ter rippin' a lad's clean collar off'n 'is +back a-purpose--" + +"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Make me a liar!" shouted Mrs. Anthony. + +Mrs. Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her hand trembled as she held +her mug of barm. + +"But I s'll let your mester know," Mrs. Anthony cried after her. + +At dinner-time, when William had finished his meal and wanted to be off +again--he was then eleven years old--his mother said to him: + +"What did you tear Alfred Anthony's collar for?" + +"When did I tear his collar?" + +"I don't know when, but his mother says you did." + +"Why--it was yesterday--an' it was torn a'ready." + +"But you tore it more." + +"Well, I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked seventeen--an' Alfy Ant'ny 'e +says: + + 'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me, + Went down to a river to bade. + Adam an' Eve got drownded, + Who do yer think got saved?' + +An' so I says: 'Oh, Pinch-YOU,' an' so I pinched 'im, an' 'e was mad, +an' so he snatched my cobbler an' run off with it. An' so I run after +'im, an' when I was gettin' hold of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it ripped 'is +collar. But I got my cobbler--" + +He pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hanging on a +string. This old cobbler had "cobbled"--hit and smashed--seventeen other +cobblers on similar strings. So the boy was proud of his veteran. + +"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "you know you've got no right to rip his +collar." + +"Well, our mother!" he answered. "I never meant tr'a done it--an' it was +on'y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a'ready." + +"Next time," said his mother, "YOU be more careful. I shouldn't like it +if you came home with your collar torn off." + +"I don't care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose." + +The boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded. + +"No--well, you be more careful." + +William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, who hated any +bother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, +and the business would be over. + +But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood +in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. +Then: + +"Wheer's that Willy?" he asked. + +"What do you want HIM for?" asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed. + +"I'll let 'im know when I get him," said Morel, banging his pit-bottle +on to the dresser. + +"I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you about +Alfy's collar," said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering. + +"Niver mind who's got hold of me," said Morel. "When I get hold of 'IM +I'll make his bones rattle." + +"It's a poor tale," said Mrs. Morel, "that you're so ready to side +with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own +children." + +"I'll learn 'im!" said Morel. "It none matters to me whose lad 'e is; +'e's none goin' rippin' an' tearin' about just as he's a mind." + +"'Ripping and tearing about!'" repeated Mrs. Morel. "He was running +after that Alfy, who'd taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold +of his collar, because the other dodged--as an Anthony would." + +"I know!" shouted Morel threateningly. + +"You would, before you're told," replied his wife bitingly. + +"Niver you mind," stormed Morel. "I know my business." + +"That's more than doubtful," said Mrs. Morel, "supposing some +loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children." + +"I know," repeated Morel. + +And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William +ran in, saying: + +"Can I have my tea, mother?" + +"Tha can ha'e more than that!" shouted Morel. + +"Hold your noise, man," said Mrs. Morel; "and don't look so ridiculous." + +"He'll look ridiculous before I've done wi' him!" shouted Morel, rising +from his chair and glaring at his son. + +William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone +pale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father. + +"Go out!" Mrs. Morel commanded her son. + +William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, and +crouched. + +"I'll GI'E him 'go out'!" he shouted like an insane thing. + +"What!" cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. "You shall not touch him +for HER telling, you shall not!" + +"Shonna I?" shouted Morel. "Shonna I?" + +And, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in between +them, with her fist lifted. + +"Don't you DARE!" she cried. + +"What!" he shouted, baffled for the moment. "What!" + +She spun round to her son. + +"GO out of the house!" she commanded him in fury. + +The boy, as if hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morel +rushed to the door, but was too late. He returned, pale under his +pit-dirt with fury. But now his wife was fully roused. + +"Only dare!" she said in a loud, ringing voice. "Only dare, milord, to +lay a finger on that child! You'll regret it for ever." + +He was afraid of her. In a towering rage, he sat down. + +When the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joined +the Women's Guild. It was a little club of women attached to the +Co-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday night in the long +room over the grocery shop of the Bestwood "Co-op". The women were +supposed to discuss the benefits to be derived from co-operation, and +other social questions. Sometimes Mrs. Morel read a paper. It seemed +queer to the children to see their mother, who was always busy about +the house, sitting writing in her rapid fashion, thinking, referring +to books, and writing again. They felt for her on such occasions the +deepest respect. + +But they loved the Guild. It was the only thing to which they did not +grudge their mother--and that partly because she enjoyed it, partly +because of the treats they derived from it. The Guild was called by some +hostile husbands, who found their wives getting too independent, the +"clat-fart" shop--that is, the gossip-shop. It is true, from off +the basis of the Guild, the women could look at their homes, at the +conditions of their own lives, and find fault. So the colliers found +their women had a new standard of their own, rather disconcerting. And +also, Mrs. Morel always had a lot of news on Monday nights, so that the +children liked William to be in when their mother came home, because she +told him things. + +Then, when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the "Co-op." +office. He was a very clever boy, frank, with rather rough features and +real viking blue eyes. + +"What dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed Jack on 'im for?" said Morel. +"All he'll do is to wear his britches behind out an' earn nowt. What's +'e startin' wi'?" + +"It doesn't matter what he's starting with," said Mrs. Morel. + +"It wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we me, an' 'ell earn a easy ten shillin' +a wik from th' start. But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end out on a +stool's better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi'me, I know." + +"He is NOT going in the pit," said Mrs. Morel, "and there's an end of +it." + +"It wor good enough for me, but it's non good enough for 'im." + +"If your mother put you in the pit at twelve, it's no reason why I +should do the same with my lad." + +"Twelve! It wor a sight afore that!" + +"Whenever it was," said Mrs. Morel. + +She was very proud of her son. He went to the night school, and learned +shorthand, so that by the time he was sixteen he was the best shorthand +clerk and book-keeper on the place, except one. Then he taught in the +night schools. But he was so fiery that only his good-nature and his +size protected him. + +All the things that men do--the decent things--William did. He could +run like the wind. When he was twelve he won a first prize in a race; +an inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on the +dresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen pleasure. The boy only ran for her. +He flew home with his anvil, breathless, with a "Look, mother!" That was +the first real tribute to herself. She took it like a queen. + +"How pretty!" she exclaimed. + +Then he began to get ambitious. He gave all his money to his mother. +When he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him back two for +himself, and, as he never drank, he felt himself rich. He went about +with the bourgeois of Bestwood. The townlet contained nothing higher +than the clergyman. Then came the bank manager, then the doctors, then +the tradespeople, and after that the hosts of colliers. Willam began +to consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and +the tradesmen. He played billiards in the Mechanics' Hall. Also he +danced--this in spite of his mother. All the life that Bestwood offered +he enjoyed, from the sixpenny-hops down Church Street, to sports and +billiards. + +Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like +ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart for a +brief fortnight. + +Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. +Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed +the air. + +"Is Mr. Morel in?" the damsel would ask appealingly. + +"My husband is at home," Mrs. Morel replied. + +"I--I mean YOUNG Mr. Morel," repeated the maiden painfully. + +"Which one? There are several." + +Whereupon much blushing and stammering from the fair one. + +"I--I met Mr. Morel--at Ripley," she explained. + +"Oh--at a dance!" + +"Yes." + +"I don't approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is NOT at +home." + +Then he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl away +so rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow, who walked with +long strides, sometimes frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily to +the back of his head. Now he came in frowning. He threw his cap on to +the sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand, and glared down at +his mother. She was small, with her hair taken straight back from her +forehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth. +Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly. + +"Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?" he asked. + +"I don't know about a lady. There was a girl came." + +"And why didn't you tell me?" + +"Because I forgot, simply." + +He fumed a little. + +"A good-looking girl--seemed a lady?" + +"I didn't look at her." + +"Big brown eyes?" + +"I did NOT look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they're running +after you, they're not to come and ask your mother for you. Tell them +that--brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes." + +"I'm sure she was a nice girl." + +"And I'm sure she wasn't." + +There ended the altercation. Over the dancing there was a great strife +between the mother and the son. The grievance reached its height when +William said he was going to Hucknall Torkard--considered a low town--to +a fancy-dress ball. He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress he +could hire, which one of his friends had had, and which fitted him +perfectly. The Highland suit came home. Mrs. Morel received it coldly +and would not unpack it. + +"My suit come?" cried William. + +"There's a parcel in the front room." + +He rushed in and cut the string. + +"How do you fancy your son in this!" he said, enraptured, showing her +the suit. + +"You know I don't want to fancy you in it." + +On the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morel +put on her coat and bonnet. + +"Aren't you going to stop and see me, mother?" he asked. + +"No; I don't want to see you," she replied. + +She was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid of +her son's going the same way as his father. He hesitated a moment, and +his heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highland +bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her. She +went out. + +When he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a +situation in Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty shillings a week +instead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His mother and his father +were brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he was +going to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her +younger sons. Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very +clever, was getting on well, having lessons in French and German from +his godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel. +Arthur, a spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board school, but +there was talk of his trying to get a scholarship for the High School in +Nottingham. + +William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was studying +hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Still +he went out to the dances and the river parties. He did not drink. The +children were all rabid teetotallers. He came home very late at night, +and sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him to take more care, +to do one thing or another. + +"Dance, if you want to dance, my son; but don't think you can work in +the office, and then amuse yourself, and THEN study on top of all. You +can't; the human frame won't stand it. Do one thing or the other--amuse +yourself or learn Latin; but don't try to do both." + +Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. This +seemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether to rejoice or +to grieve. + +"They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother," he cried, his +eyes blazing as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silent +inside her. He read the letter: "'And will you reply by Thursday whether +you accept. Yours faithfully--' They want me, mother, at a hundred and +twenty a year, and don't even ask to see me. Didn't I tell you I could +do it! Think of me in London! And I can give you twenty pounds a year, +mater. We s'll all be rolling in money." + +"We shall, my son," she answered sadly. + +It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going +away than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for his +departure, her heart began to close and grow dreary with despair. She +loved him so much! More than that, she hoped in him so much. Almost she +lived by him. She liked to do things for him: she liked to put a cup for +his tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so proud. It was a joy +to her to have him proud of his collars. There was no laundry. So she +used to rub away at them with her little convex iron, to polish them, +till they shone from the sheer pressure of her arm. Now she would not do +it for him. Now he was going away. She felt almost as if he were going +as well out of her heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with +himself. That was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all +himself away. + +A few days before his departure--he was just twenty--he burned his +love-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen +cupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. Some +of them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most were too +trivial. + +Now, on the Saturday morning he said: + +"Come on, Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have the +birds and flowers." + +Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday's work on the Friday, because he was +having a last day's holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which +he loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so +miserable. + +He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had +purple and green thistles. William sniffed the page. + +"Nice scent! Smell." + +And he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose. + +"Um!" said Paul, breathing in. "What d'you call it? Smell, mother." + +His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper. + +"I don't want to smell their rubbish," she said, sniffing. + +"This girl's father," said William, "is as rich as Croesus. He owns +property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French. +'You will see, I've forgiven you'--I like HER forgiving me. 'I told +mother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you +come to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father's consent also. I +sincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If, +however, you--'" + +"'Let you know how it' what?" interrupted Mrs. Morel. + +"'Transpires'--oh yes!" + +"'Transpires!'" repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. "I thought she was so +well educated!" + +William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving +Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from +his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her +and made her anxious for him. + +"My lad," she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only got to +flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its +head scratched." + +"Well, they can't go on scratching for ever," he replied. "And when +they've done, I trot away." + +"But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pull +off," she answered. + +"Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter +themselves." + +"You flatter YOURSELF," she said quietly. + +Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the +file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty +tickets from the corners of the notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots +and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL + +PAUL would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small. His fair +hair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. He was a +pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and with a full, +dropping underlip. + +As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious of what other +people felt, particularly his mother. When she fretted he understood, +and could have no peace. His soul seemed always attentive to her. + +As he grew older he became stronger. William was too far removed from +him to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boy belonged at first +almost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a "flybie-skybie", as her +mother called her. But she was intensely fond of her second brother. So +Paul was towed round at the heels of Annie, sharing her game. She raced +wildly at lerky with the other young wild-cats of the Bottoms. And +always Paul flew beside her, living her share of the game, having as +yet no part of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister +adored him. He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to. + +She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not so fond. +So she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with an antimacassar, +to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul must practise jumping off +the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face of the hidden doll. +Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul +remained quite still. + +"You couldn't tell it was there, mother; you couldn't tell it was +there," he repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept for the doll +he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She forgave +her brother--he was so much upset. But a day or two afterwards she was +shocked. + +"Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella," he said. "Let's burn her." + +She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to see what the boy +would do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some of the shavings out of +Arabella's body, put the waxen fragments into the hollow face, poured +on a little paraffin, and set the whole thing alight. He watched with +wicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt off the broken forehead of +Arabella, and drop like sweat into the flame. So long as the stupid big +doll burned he rejoiced in silence. At the end be poked among the embers +with a stick, fished out the arms and legs, all blackened, and smashed +them under stones. + +"That's the sacrifice of Missis Arabella," he said. "An' I'm glad +there's nothing left of her." + +Which disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say nothing. He +seemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken it. + +All the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarly against their +father, along with their mother. Morel continued to bully and to drink. +He had periods, months at a time, when he made the whole life of the +family a misery. Paul never forgot coming home from the Band of Hope +one Monday evening and finding his mother with her eye swollen and +discoloured, his father standing on the hearthrug, feet astride, his +head down, and William, just home from work, glaring at his father. +There was a silence as the young children entered, but none of the +elders looked round. + +William was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched. He waited +until the children were silent, watching with children's rage and hate; +then he said: + +"You coward, you daren't do it when I was in." + +But Morel's blood was up. He swung round on his son. William was bigger, +but Morel was hard-muscled, and mad with fury. + +"Dossn't I?" he shouted. "Dossn't I? Ha'e much more o' thy chelp, my +young jockey, an' I'll rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an' I sholl that, +dost see?" + +Morel crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly, almost +beast-like fashion. William was white with rage. + +"Will yer?" he said, quiet and intense. "It 'ud be the last time, +though." + +Morel danced a little nearer, crouching, drawing back his fist to +strike. William put his fists ready. A light came into his blue eyes, +almost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word, and the men +would have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would. The three children sat +pale on the sofa. + +"Stop it, both of you," cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice. "We've had +enough for ONE night. And YOU," she said, turning on to her husband, +"look at your children!" + +Morel glanced at the sofa. + +"Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!" he sneered. "Why, what +have I done to the children, I should like to know? But they're like +yourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks and nasty ways--you've +learned 'em in it, you 'ave." + +She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while he threw his +boots under the table and went to bed. + +"Why didn't you let me have a go at him?" said William, when his father +was upstairs. "I could easily have beaten him." + +"A nice thing--your own father," she replied. + +"'FATHER!'" repeated William. "Call HIM MY father!" + +"Well, he is--and so--" + +"But why don't you let me settle him? I could do, easily." + +"The idea!" she cried. "It hasn't come to THAT yet." + +"No," he said, "it's come to worse. Look at yourself. WHY didn't you let +me give it him?" + +"Because I couldn't bear it, so never think of it," she cried quickly. + +And the children went to bed, miserably. + +When William was growing up, the family moved from the Bottoms to a +house on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the valley, which +spread out like a convex cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, before it. In +front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind, sweeping from +Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force, and the tree shrieked +again. Morel liked it. + +"It's music," he said. "It sends me to sleep." + +But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it became almost a +demoniacal noise. The winter of their first year in the new house their +father was very bad. The children played in the street, on the brim of +the wide, dark valley, until eight o'clock. Then they went to bed. Their +mother sat sewing below. Having such a great space in front of the house +gave the children a feeling of night, of vastness, and of terror. This +terror came in from the shrieking of the tree and the anguish of the +home discord. Often Paul would wake up, after he had been asleep a long +time, aware of thuds downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then he +heard the booming shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk, then the +sharp replies of his mother, then the bang, bang of his father's fist on +the table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher. +And then the whole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieks and +cries from the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The children lay silent in +suspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hear what their father was +doing. He might hit their mother again. There was a feeling of horror, +a kind of bristling in the darkness, and a sense of blood. They lay with +their hearts in the grip of an intense anguish. The wind came through +the tree fiercer and fiercer. All the chords of the great harp hummed, +whistled, and shrieked. And then came the horror of the sudden silence, +silence everywhere, outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it a +silence of blood? What had he done? + +The children lay and breathed the darkness. And then, at last, they +heard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairs in his +stockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last, if the wind allowed, +they heard the water of the tap drumming into the kettle, which their +mother was filling for morning, and they could go to sleep in peace. + +So they were happy in the morning--happy, very happy playing, dancing at +night round the lonely lamp-post in the midst of the darkness. But they +had one tight place of anxiety in their hearts, one darkness in their +eyes, which showed all their lives. + +Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion. + +"Make him stop drinking," he prayed every night. "Lord, let my father +die," he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit," he prayed +when, after tea, the father did not come home from work. + +That was another time when the family suffered intensely. The children +came from school and had their teas. On the hob the big black saucepan +was simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven, ready for Morel's dinner. +He was expected at five o'clock. But for months he would stop and drink +every night on his way from work. + +In the winter nights, when it was cold, and grew dark early, Mrs. Morel +would put a brass candlestick on the table, light a tallow candle to +save the gas. The children finished their bread-and-butter, or dripping, +and were ready to go out to play. But if Morel had not come they +faltered. The sense of his sitting in all his pit-dirt, drinking, after +a long day's work, not coming home and eating and washing, but sitting, +getting drunk, on an empty stomach, made Mrs. Morel unable to bear +herself. From her the feeling was transmitted to the other children. She +never suffered alone any more: the children suffered with her. + +Paul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great trough of +twilight, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were. A few last +colliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamplighter came along. No +more colliers came. Darkness shut down over the valley; work was done. +It was night. + +Then Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle still burned on +the table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone. On the hob +the saucepan steamed; the dinner-plate lay waiting on the table. All +the room was full of the sense of waiting, waiting for the man who was +sitting in his pit-dirt, dinnerless, some mile away from home, across +the darkness, drinking himself drunk. Paul stood in the doorway. + +"Has my dad come?" he asked. + +"You can see he hasn't," said Mrs. Morel, cross with the futility of the +question. + +Then the boy dawdled about near his mother. They shared the same +anxiety. Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strained the potatoes. + +"They're ruined and black," she said; "but what do I care?" + +Not many words were spoken. Paul almost hated his mother for suffering +because his father did not come home from work. + +"What do you bother yourself for?" he said. "If he wants to stop and get +drunk, why don't you let him?" + +"Let him!" flashed Mrs. Morel. "You may well say 'let him'." + +She knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is on a quick +way to ruining himself and his home. The children were yet young, and +depended on the breadwinner. William gave her the sense of relief, +providing her at last with someone to turn to if Morel failed. But the +tense atmosphere of the room on these waiting evenings was the same. + +The minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still the cloth lay on the +table, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same sense of anxiety +and expectation in the room. The boy could not stand it any longer. He +could not go out and play. So he ran in to Mrs. Inger, next door but +one, for her to talk to him. She had no children. Her husband was good +to her but was in a shop, and came home late. So, when she saw the lad +at the door, she called: + +"Come in, Paul." + +The two sat talking for some time, when suddenly the boy rose, saying: + +"Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing." + +He pretended to be perfectly cheerful, and did not tell his friend what +ailed him. Then he ran indoors. + +Morel at these times came in churlish and hateful. + +"This is a nice time to come home," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Wha's it matter to yo' what time I come whoam?" he shouted. + +And everybody in the house was still, because he was dangerous. He ate +his food in the most brutal manner possible, and, when he had done, +pushed all the pots in a heap away from him, to lay his arms on the +table. Then he went to sleep. + +Paul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head, with its black +hair slightly soiled with grey, lay on the bare arms, and the face, +dirty and inflamed, with a fleshy nose and thin, paltry brows, was +turned sideways, asleep with beer and weariness and nasty temper. If +anyone entered suddenly, or a noise were made, the man looked up and +shouted: + +"I'll lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin' thee, if tha doesna stop +that clatter! Dost hear?" + +And the two last words, shouted in a bullying fashion, usually at Annie, +made the family writhe with hate of the man. + +He was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him anything. +The children, alone with their mother, told her all about the day's +happenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in them until it +was told to their mother. But as soon as the father came in, everything +stopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth, happy machinery of the +home. And he was always aware of this fall of silence on his entry, +the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far to +alter. + +He would dearly have liked the children to talk to him, but they could +not. Sometimes Mrs. Morel would say: + +"You ought to tell your father." + +Paul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper. Everybody was +highly jubilant. + +"Now you'd better tell your father when he comes in," said Mrs. Morel. +"You know how be carries on and says he's never told anything." + +"All right," said Paul. But he would almost rather have forfeited the +prize than have to tell his father. + +"I've won a prize in a competition, dad," he said. Morel turned round to +him. + +"Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?" + +"Oh, nothing--about famous women." + +"And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?" + +"It's a book." + +"Oh, indeed!" + +"About birds." + +"Hm--hm!" + +And that was all. Conversation was impossible between the father and any +other member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God in +him. + +The only times when he entered again into the life of his own people +was when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening, he +cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Then he always +wanted several attendants, and the children enjoyed it. They united with +him in the work, in the actual doing of something, when he was his real +self again. + +He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in a good +humour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years, of +friction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again. It was +nice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron into the scullery, +crying: + +"Out of my road--out of my road!" + +Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose, and made +the shape he wanted. Or he sat absorbed for a moment, soldering. Then +the children watched with joy as the metal sank suddenly molten, and was +shoved about against the nose of the soldering-iron, while the room was +full of a scent of burnt resin and hot tin, and Morel was silent and +intent for a minute. He always sang when he mended boots because of the +jolly sound of hammering. And he was rather happy when he sat putting +great patches on his moleskin pit trousers, which he would often do, +considering them too dirty, and the stuff too hard, for his wife to +mend. + +But the best time for the young children was when he made fuses. Morel +fetched a sheaf of long sound wheat-straws from the attic. These he +cleaned with his hand, till each one gleamed like a stalk of gold, after +which he cut the straws into lengths of about six inches, leaving, if he +could, a notch at the bottom of each piece. He always had a beautifully +sharp knife that could cut a straw clean without hurting it. Then he set +in the middle of the table a heap of gunpowder, a little pile of black +grains upon the white-scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the straws +while Paul and Annie rifled and plugged them. Paul loved to see the +black grains trickle down a crack in his palm into the mouth of the +straw, peppering jollily downwards till the straw was full. Then he +bunged up the mouth with a bit of soap--which he got on his thumb-nail +from a pat in a saucer--and the straw was finished. + +"Look, dad!" he said. + +"That's right, my beauty," replied Morel, who was peculiarly lavish of +endearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse into the powder-tin, +ready for the morning, when Morel would take it to the pit, and use it +to fire a shot that would blast the coal down. + +Meantime Arthur, still fond of his father, would lean on the arm of +Morel's chair and say: + +"Tell us about down pit, daddy." + +This Morel loved to do. + +"Well, there's one little 'oss--we call 'im Taffy," he would begin. "An' +he's a fawce 'un!" + +Morel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel Taffy's +cunning. + +"He's a brown 'un," he would answer, "an' not very high. Well, he comes +i' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze. + +"'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein' some snuff?' + +"An' 'e sneezes again. Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'ead on yer, +that cadin'. + +"'What's want, Taff?' yo' say." + +"And what does he?" Arthur always asked. + +"He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie." + +This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody loved it. + +Or sometimes it was a new tale. + +"An' what dost think, my darlin'? When I went to put my coat on at +snap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse. + +"'Hey up, theer!' I shouts. + +"An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail." + +"And did you kill it?" + +"I did, for they're a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi' 'em." + +"An' what do they live on?" + +"The corn as the 'osses drops--an' they'll get in your pocket an' eat +your snap, if you'll let 'em--no matter where yo' hing your coat--the +slivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are." + +These happy evenings could not take place unless Morel had some job +to do. And then he always went to bed very early, often before the +children. There was nothing remaining for him to stay up for, when he +had finished tinkering, and had skimmed the headlines of the newspaper. + +And the children felt secure when their father was in bed. They lay and +talked softly a while. Then they started as the lights went suddenly +sprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swung in the hands of the +colliers tramping by outside, going to take the nine o'clock shift. They +listened to the voices of the men, imagined them dipping down into the +dark valley. Sometimes they went to the window and watched the three +or four lamps growing tinier and tinier, swaying down the fields in the +darkness. Then it was a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely in +the warmth. + +Paul was rather a delicate boy, subject to bronchitis. The others were +all quite strong; so this was another reason for his mother's difference +in feeling for him. One day he came home at dinner-time feeling ill. But +it was not a family to make any fuss. + +"What's the matter with YOU?" his mother asked sharply. + +"Nothing," he replied. + +But he ate no dinner. + +"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school," she said. + +"Why?" he asked. + +"That's why." + +So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cushions the +children loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That afternoon Mrs. +Morel was ironing. She listened to the small, restless noise the boy +made in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her heart the old, +almost weary feeling towards him. She had never expected him to live. +And yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would have +been a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture of +anguish in her love for him. + +He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter of the +iron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing-board. +Once roused, he opened his eyes to see his mother standing on the +hearthrug with the hot iron near her cheek, listening, as it were, to +the heat. Her still face, with the mouth closed tight from suffering and +disillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, +and her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract +with love. When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life, +but as if she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly, +this feeling about her that she had never had her life's fulfilment: +and his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense of +impotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childish +aim. + +She spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded, raced off the +dark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the sack +lining of the hearthrug vigorously. She was warm in the ruddy firelight. +Paul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one side. Her +movements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure to watch her. +Nothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, could have been found +fault with by her children. The room was warm and full of the scent of +hot linen. Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her. + +Paul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did not mind much. +What happened happened, and it was no good kicking against the pricks. +He loved the evenings, after eight o'clock, when the light was put out, +and he could watch the fire-flames spring over the darkness of the walls +and ceiling; could watch huge shadows waving and tossing, till the room +seemed full of men who battled silently. + +On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom. He was +always very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed the atmosphere +for the boy. + +"Are ter asleep, my darlin'?" Morel asked softly. + +"No; is my mother comin'?" + +"She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do you want anything?" Morel +rarely "thee'd" his son. + +"I don't want nothing. But how long will she be?" + +"Not long, my duckie." + +The father waited undecidedly on the hearthrug for a moment or two. He +felt his son did not want him. Then he went to the top of the stairs and +said to his wife: + +"This childt's axin' for thee; how long art goin' to be?" + +"Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep." + +"She says you're to go to sleep," the father repeated gently to Paul. + +"Well, I want HER to come," insisted the boy. + +"He says he can't go off till you come," Morel called downstairs. + +"Eh, dear! I shan't be long. And do stop shouting downstairs. There's +the other children--" + +Then Morel came again and crouched before the bedroom fire. He loved a +fire dearly. + +"She says she won't be long," he said. + +He loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverish with +irritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate all his sick +impatience. At last Morel, after having stood looking at his son awhile, +said softly: + +"Good-night, my darling." + +"Good-night," Paul replied, turning round in relief to be alone. + +Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect, in +spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the +security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the +other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in +its healing. Paul lay against her and slept, and got better; whilst she, +always a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep that seemed to +give her faith. + +In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy horses feeding +at the troughs in the field, scattering their hay on the trodden yellow +snow; watch the miners troop home--small, black figures trailing slowly +in gangs across the white field. Then the night came up in dark blue +vapour from the snow. + +In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes, suddenly +arriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like swallows, +then were gone, and a drop of water was crawling down the glass. The +snowflakes whirled round the corner of the house, like pigeons dashing +by. Away across the valley the little black train crawled doubtfully +over the great whiteness. + +While they were so poor, the children were delighted if they could do +anything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Arthur went out early +in the morning, in summer, looking for mushrooms, hunting through the +wet grass, from which the larks were rising, for the white-skinned, +wonderful naked bodies crouched secretly in the green. And if they got +half a pound they felt exceedingly happy: there was the joy of finding +something, the joy of accepting something straight from the hand of +Nature, and the joy of contributing to the family exchequer. + +But the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty, was the +blackberries. Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings on the Saturdays; +also she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur scoured the coppices and +woods and old quarries, so long as a blackberry was to be found, every +week-end going on their search. In that region of mining villages +blackberries became a comparative rarity. But Paul hunted far and wide. +He loved being out in the country, among the bushes. But he also could +not bear to go home to his mother empty. That, he felt, would disappoint +her, and he would have died rather. + +"Good gracious!" she would exclaim as the lads came in, late, and tired +to death, and hungry, "wherever have you been?" + +"Well," replied Paul, "there wasn't any, so we went over Misk Hills. And +look here, our mother!" + +She peeped into the basket. + +"Now, those are fine ones!" she exclaimed. + +"And there's over two pounds--isn't there over two pounds"? + +She tried the basket. + +"Yes," she answered doubtfully. + +Then Paul fished out a little spray. He always brought her one spray, +the best he could find. + +"Pretty!" she said, in a curious tone, of a woman accepting a +love-token. + +The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than own himself +beaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never realised this, +whilst he was young. She was a woman who waited for her children to grow +up. And William occupied her chiefly. + +But when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much at home, the +mother made a companion of Paul. The latter was unconsciously jealous of +his brother, and William was jealous of him. At the same time, they were +good friends. + +Mrs. Morel's intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fine, +perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule that Paul +should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers of the five +pits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. All the earnings of +each stall were put down to the chief butty, as contractor, and he +divided the wages again, either in the public-house or in his own home. +So that the children could fetch the money, school closed early on +Friday afternoons. Each of the Morel children--William, then Annie, +then Paul--had fetched the money on Friday afternoons, until they went +themselves to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three, with a +little calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, +children, and men were seen trooping to the offices. + +These offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building, almost +like a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of Greenhill +Lane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room paved with blue +brick, and having a seat all round, against the wall. Here sat the +colliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The women and +children usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. Paul always +examined the grass border, and the big grass bank, because in it grew +tiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a sound of many voices. +The women had on their Sunday hats. The girls chattered loudly. Little +dogs ran here and there. The green shrubs were silent all around. + +Then from inside came the cry "Spinney Park--Spinney Park." All the folk +for Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time for Bretty to be paid, +Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A counter +went across, dividing it into half. Behind the counter stood two +men--Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite +was large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having a +rather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silk +neckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the +open grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the +throats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom +was rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were not +witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions against +the colliers. + +The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had been +home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog. +Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind the +legs of the men, near the fire which scorched him. He knew the order of +the names--they went according to stall number. + +"Holliday," came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite. Then Mrs. +Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside. + +"Bower--John Bower." + +A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible, +glowered at him over his spectacles. + +"John Bower!" he repeated. + +"It's me," said the boy. + +"Why, you used to 'ave a different nose than that," said glossy Mr. +Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, thinking of +John Bower senior. + +"How is it your father's not come!" said Mr. Braithwaite, in a large and +magisterial voice. + +"He's badly," piped the boy. + +"You should tell him to keep off the drink," pronounced the great +cashier. + +"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer," said a mocking voice +from behind. + +All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked down at his +next sheet. + +"Fred Pilkington!" he called, quite indifferent. + +Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm. + +Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. He was +pushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning. But he did +not hope to get through the wall of men. + +"Walter Morel!" came the ringing voice. + +"Here!" piped Paul, small and inadequate. + +"Morel--Walter Morel!" the cashier repeated, his finger and thumb on the +invoice, ready to pass on. + +Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could not +or would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. Then Mr. +Winterbottom came to the rescue. + +"He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?" + +The fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He pointed at +the fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside, and disclosed the +boy. + +"Here he is!" said Mr. Winterbottom. + +Paul went to the counter. + +"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don't you shout up when +you're called?" said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the invoice a +five-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate and pretty movement, picked +up a little ten-pound column of gold, and plumped it beside the silver. +The gold slid in a bright stream over the paper. The cashier finished +counting off the money; the boy dragged the whole down the counter to +Mr. Winterbottom, to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. +Here he suffered again. + +"Sixteen an' six," said Mr. Winterbottom. + +The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some loose silver +and half a sovereign. + +"How much do you think you've given me?" asked Mr. Winterbottom. + +The boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the faintest notion. + +"Haven't you got a tongue in your head?" + +Paul bit his lip, and pushed forward some more silver. + +"Don't they teach you to count at the Board-school?" he asked. + +"Nowt but algibbra an' French," said a collier. + +"An' cheek an' impidence," said another. + +Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he got his +money into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of the damned +on these occasions. + +His relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the Mansfield +Road, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. There were +some gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple trees of an +orchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream. The boy went near +the wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men, but could not +recognise them in their dirt. And this was a new torture to him. + +When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not yet come. +Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morel's mother, +had been Mrs. Wharmby's friend. + +"Your father's not come yet," said the landlady, in the peculiar +half-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly to +grown men. "Sit you down." + +Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were +"reckoning"--sharing out their money--in a corner; others came in. They +all glanced at the boy without speaking. At last Morel came; brisk, and +with something of an air, even in his blackness. + +"Hello!" he said rather tenderly to his son. "Have you bested me? Shall +you have a drink of something?" + +Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists, and he +would have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all the men than +in having a tooth drawn. + +The landlady looked at him _de haut en bas_, rather pitying, and at +the same time, resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul went home, +glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking day, and +there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him. + +Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing: + +"I'm NOT going to the office any more," he said. + +"Why, what's the matter?" his mother asked in surprise. His sudden rages +rather amused her. + +"I'm NOT going any more," he declared. + +"Oh, very well, tell your father so." + +He chewed his bun as if he hated it. + +"I'm not--I'm not going to fetch the money." + +"Then one of Carlin's children can go; they'd be glad enough of the +sixpence," said Mrs. Morel. + +This sixpence was Paul's only income. It mostly went in buying birthday +presents; but it WAS an income, and he treasured it. But-- + +"They can have it, then!" he said. "I don't want it." + +"Oh, very well," said his mother. "But you needn't bully ME about it." + +"They're hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I'm not going +any more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his 'h's', an' Mr. Winterbottom says +'You was'." + +"And is that why you won't go any more?" smiled Mrs. Morel. + +The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes dark and +furious. His mother moved about at her work, taking no notice of him. + +"They always stan' in front of me, so's I can't get out," he said. + +"Well, my lad, you've only to ASK them," she replied. + +"An' then Alfred Winterbottom says, 'What do they teach you at the +Board-school?'" + +"They never taught HIM much," said Mrs. Morel, "that is a fact--neither +manners nor wit--and his cunning he was born with." + +So, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hypersensitiveness +made her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her, made +her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised. + +"What was the cheque?" she asked. + +"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and six stoppages," +replied the boy. "It's a good week; and only five shillings stoppages +for my father." + +So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, and could +call him to account if he gave her short money. Morel always kept to +himself the secret of the week's amount. + +Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule that Paul +should stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and draw or read; he +was very fond of drawing. Annie always "gallivanted" on Friday nights; +Arthur was enjoying himself as usual. So the boy remained alone. + +Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on the top +of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby, Ilkeston +and Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran in from +surrounding villages. The market-place was full of women, the streets +packed with men. It was amazing to see so many men everywhere in the +streets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with her lace woman, sympathised +with her fruit man--who was a gabey, but his wife was a bad 'un--laughed +with the fish man--who was a scamp but so droll--put the linoleum man +in his place, was cold with the odd-wares man, and only went to the +crockery man when she was driven--or drawn by the cornflowers on a +little dish; then she was coldly polite. + +"I wondered how much that little dish was," she said. + +"Sevenpence to you." + +"Thank you." + +She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave the +market-place without it. Again she went by where the pots lay coldly on +the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretending not to. + +She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her bonnet was +in its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie. + +"Mother!" the girl implored, "don't wear that nubbly little bonnet." + +"Then what else shall I wear," replied the mother tartly. "And I'm sure +it's right enough." + +It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was reduced to +black lace and a bit of jet. + +"It looks rather come down," said Paul. "Couldn't you give it a +pick-me-up?" + +"I'll jowl your head for impudence," said Mrs. Morel, and she tied the +strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin. + +She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, the pot man, +had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something between them. +Suddenly he shouted: + +"Do you want it for fivepence?" + +She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took up her +dish. + +"I'll have it," she said. + +"Yer'll do me the favour, like?" he said. "Yer'd better spit in it, like +yer do when y'ave something give yer." + +Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner. + +"I don't see you give it me," she said. "You wouldn't let me have it for +fivepence if you didn't want to." + +"In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky if you +can give your things away," he growled. + +"Yes; there are bad times, and good," said Mrs. Morel. + +But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare now finger +his pots. So she was happy. + +Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She was always her +best so--triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling rich in spirit. +He heard her quick, light step in the entry and looked up from his +drawing. + +"Oh!" she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway. + +"My word, you ARE loaded!" he exclaimed, putting down his brush. + +"I am!" she gasped. "That brazen Annie said she'd meet me. SUCH a +weight!" + +She dropped her string bag and her packages on the table. + +"Is the bread done?" she asked, going to the oven. + +"The last one is soaking," he replied. "You needn't look, I've not +forgotten it." + +"Oh, that pot man!" she said, closing the oven door. "You know what a +wretch I've said he was? Well, I don't think he's quite so bad." + +"Don't you?" + +The boy was attentive to her. She took off her little black bonnet. + +"No. I think he can't make any money--well, it's everybody's cry alike +nowadays--and it makes him disagreeable." + +"It would ME," said Paul. + +"Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have--how much do you think +he let me have THIS for?" + +She took the dish out of its rag of newspaper, and stood looking on it +with joy. + +"Show me!" said Paul. + +The two stood together gloating over the dish. + +"I LOVE cornflowers on things," said Paul. + +"Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me--" + +"One and three," said Paul. + +"Fivepence!" + +"It's not enough, mother." + +"No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd been +extravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't have let me have +it if he hadn't wanted to." + +"No, he needn't, need he," said Paul, and the two comforted each other +from the fear of having robbed the pot man. + +"We c'n have stewed fruit in it," said Paul. + +"Or custard, or a jelly," said his mother. + +"Or radishes and lettuce," said he. + +"Don't forget that bread," she said, her voice bright with glee. + +Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base. + +"It's done," he said, giving it to her. + +She tapped it also. + +"Yes," she replied, going to unpack her bag. "Oh, and I'm a wicked, +extravagant woman. I know I s'll come to want." + +He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance. She +unfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots of pansies +and of crimson daisies. + +"Four penn'orth!" she moaned. + +"How CHEAP!" he cried. + +"Yes, but I couldn't afford it THIS week of all weeks." + +"But lovely!" he cried. + +"Aren't they!" she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. "Paul, look at +this yellow one, isn't it--and a face just like an old man!" + +"Just!" cried Paul, stooping to sniff. "And smells that nice! But he's a +bit splashed." + +He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully washed +the pansy. + +"NOW look at him now he's wet!" he said. + +"Yes!" she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction. + +The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end where +the Morels lived there were not many young things. So the few were more +united. Boys and girls played together, the girls joining in the fights +and the rough games, the boys taking part in the dancing games and rings +and make-belief of the girls. + +Annie and Paul and Arthur loved the winter evenings, when it was not +wet. They stayed indoors till the colliers were all gone home, till it +was thick dark, and the street would be deserted. Then they tied their +scarves round their necks, for they scorned overcoats, as all the +colliers' children did, and went out. The entry was very dark, and at +the end the whole great night opened out, in a hollow, with a little +tangle of lights below where Minton pit lay, and another far away +opposite for Selby. The farthest tiny lights seemed to stretch out the +darkness for ever. The children looked anxiously down the road at the +one lamp-post, which stood at the end of the field path. If the little, +luminous space were deserted, the two boys felt genuine desolation. They +stood with their hands in their pockets under the lamp, turning their +backs on the night, quite miserable, watching the dark houses. Suddenly +a pinafore under a short coat was seen, and a long-legged girl came +flying up. + +"Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an' Eddie Dakin?" + +"I don't know." + +But it did not matter so much--there were three now. They set up a game +round the lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling. Then the play +went fast and furious. + +There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop of +darkness, as if all the night were there. In front, another wide, dark +way opened over the hill brow. Occasionally somebody came out of this +way and went into the field down the path. In a dozen yards the night +had swallowed them. The children played on. + +They were brought exceedingly close together owing to their isolation. +If a quarrel took place, the whole play was spoilt. Arthur was very +touchy, and Billy Pillins--really Philips--was worse. Then Paul had to +side with Arthur, and on Paul's side went Alice, while Billy Pillins +always had Emmie Limb and Eddie Dakin to back him up. Then the six would +fight, hate with a fury of hatred, and flee home in terror. Paul never +forgot, after one of these fierce internecine fights, seeing a big red +moon lift itself up, slowly, between the waste road over the hilltop, +steadily, like a great bird. And he thought of the Bible, that the moon +should be turned to blood. And the next day he made haste to be friends +with Billy Pillins. And then the wild, intense games went on again under +the lamp-post, surrounded by so much darkness. Mrs. Morel, going into +her parlour, would hear the children singing away: + + "My shoes are made of Spanish leather, + My socks are made of silk; + I wear a ring on every finger, + I wash myself in milk." + +They sounded so perfectly absorbed in the game as their voices came +out of the night, that they had the feel of wild creatures singing. +It stirred the mother; and she understood when they came in at eight +o'clock, ruddy, with brilliant eyes, and quick, passionate speech. + +They all loved the Scargill Street house for its openness, for the great +scallop of the world it had in view. On summer evenings the women would +stand against the field fence, gossiping, facing the west, watching the +sunsets flare quickly out, till the Derbyshire hills ridged across the +crimson far away, like the black crest of a newt. + +In this summer season the pits never turned full time, particularly the +soft coal. Mrs. Dakin, who lived next door to Mrs. Morel, going to the +field fence to shake her hearthrug, would spy men coming slowly up the +hill. She saw at once they were colliers. Then she waited, a tall, thin, +shrew-faced woman, standing on the hill brow, almost like a menace to +the poor colliers who were toiling up. It was only eleven o'clock. From +the far-off wooded hills the haze that hangs like fine black crape at +the back of a summer morning had not yet dissipated. The first man came +to the stile. "Chock-chock!" went the gate under his thrust. + +"What, han' yer knocked off?" cried Mrs. Dakin. + +"We han, missis." + +"It's a pity as they letn yer goo," she said sarcastically. + +"It is that," replied the man. + +"Nay, you know you're flig to come up again," she said. + +And the man went on. Mrs. Dakin, going up her yard, spied Mrs. Morel +taking the ashes to the ash-pit. + +"I reckon Minton's knocked off, missis," she cried. + +"Isn't it sickenin!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel in wrath. + +"Ha! But I'n just seed Jont Hutchby." + +"They might as well have saved their shoe-leather," said Mrs. Morel. And +both women went indoors disgusted. + +The colliers, their faces scarcely blackened, were trooping home again. +Morel hated to go back. He loved the sunny morning. But he had gone to +pit to work, and to be sent home again spoilt his temper. + +"Good gracious, at this time!" exclaimed his wife, as he entered. + +"Can I help it, woman?" he shouted. + +"And I've not done half enough dinner." + +"Then I'll eat my bit o' snap as I took with me," he bawled +pathetically. He felt ignominious and sore. + +And the children, coming home from school, would wonder to see their +father eating with his dinner the two thick slices of rather dry and +dirty bread-and-butter that had been to pit and back. + +"What's my dad eating his snap for now?" asked Arthur. + +"I should ha'e it holled at me if I didna," snorted Morel. + +"What a story!" exclaimed his wife. + +"An' is it goin' to be wasted?" said Morel. "I'm not such a extravagant +mortal as you lot, with your waste. If I drop a bit of bread at pit, in +all the dust an' dirt, I pick it up an' eat it." + +"The mice would eat it," said Paul. "It wouldn't be wasted." + +"Good bread-an'-butter's not for mice, either," said Morel. "Dirty or +not dirty, I'd eat it rather than it should be wasted." + +"You might leave it for the mice and pay for it out of your next pint," +said Mrs. Morel. + +"Oh, might I?" he exclaimed. + +They were very poor that autumn. William had just gone away to London, +and his mother missed his money. He sent ten shillings once or twice, +but he had many things to pay for at first. His letters came regularly +once a week. He wrote a good deal to his mother, telling her all his +life, how he made friends, and was exchanging lessons with a Frenchman, +how he enjoyed London. His mother felt again he was remaining to her +just as when he was at home. She wrote to him every week her direct, +rather witty letters. All day long, as she cleaned the house, she +thought of him. He was in London: he would do well. Almost, he was like +her knight who wore HER favour in the battle. + +He was coming at Christmas for five days. There had never been such +preparations. Paul and Arthur scoured the land for holly and evergreens. +Annie made the pretty paper hoops in the old-fashioned way. And there +was unheard-of extravagance in the larder. Mrs. Morel made a big and +magnificent cake. Then, feeling queenly, she showed Paul how to blanch +almonds. He skinned the long nuts reverently, counting them all, to see +not one was lost. It was said that eggs whisked better in a cold place. +So the boy stood in the scullery, where the temperature was nearly at +freezing-point, and whisked and whisked, and flew in excitement to his +mother as the white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy. + +"Just look, mother! Isn't it lovely?" + +And he balanced a bit on his nose, then blew it in the air. + +"Now, don't waste it," said the mother. + +Everybody was mad with excitement. William was coming on Christmas Eve. +Mrs. Morel surveyed her pantry. There was a big plum cake, and a rice +cake, jam tarts, lemon tarts, and mince-pies--two enormous dishes. She +was finishing cooking--Spanish tarts and cheese-cakes. Everywhere was +decorated. The kissing bunch of berried holly hung with bright and +glittering things, spun slowly over Mrs. Morel's head as she trimmed her +little tarts in the kitchen. A great fire roared. There was a scent of +cooked pastry. He was due at seven o'clock, but he would be late. The +three children had gone to meet him. She was alone. But at a quarter to +seven Morel came in again. Neither wife nor husband spoke. He sat in his +armchair, quite awkward with excitement, and she quietly went on with +her baking. Only by the careful way in which she did things could it be +told how much moved she was. The clock ticked on. + +"What time dost say he's coming?" Morel asked for the fifth time. + +"The train gets in at half-past six," she replied emphatically. + +"Then he'll be here at ten past seven." + +"Eh, bless you, it'll be hours late on the Midland," she said +indifferently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring him early. +Morel went down the entry to look for him. Then he came back. + +"Goodness, man!" she said. "You're like an ill-sitting hen." + +"Hadna you better be gettin' him summat t' eat ready?" asked the father. + +"There's plenty of time," she answered. + +"There's not so much as I can see on," he answered, turning crossly in +his chair. She began to clear her table. The kettle was singing. They +waited and waited. + +Meantime the three children were on the platform at Sethley Bridge, +on the Midland main line, two miles from home. They waited one hour. +A train came--he was not there. Down the line the red and green lights +shone. It was very dark and very cold. + +"Ask him if the London train's come," said Paul to Annie, when they saw +a man in a tip cap. + +"I'm not," said Annie. "You be quiet--he might send us off." + +But Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting someone by +the London train: it sounded so grand. Yet he was much too much scared +of broaching any man, let alone one in a peaked cap, to dare to ask. The +three children could scarcely go into the waiting-room for fear of being +sent away, and for fear something should happen whilst they were off the +platform. Still they waited in the dark and cold. + +"It's an hour an' a half late," said Arthur pathetically. + +"Well," said Annie, "it's Christmas Eve." + +They all grew silent. He wasn't coming. They looked down the darkness +of the railway. There was London! It seemed the utter-most of distance. +They thought anything might happen if one came from London. They were +all too troubled to talk. Cold, and unhappy, and silent, they huddled +together on the platform. + +At last, after more than two hours, they saw the lights of an engine +peering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran out. The children +drew back with beating hearts. A great train, bound for Manchester, drew +up. Two doors opened, and from one of them, William. They flew to him. +He handed parcels to them cheerily, and immediately began to explain +that this great train had stopped for HIS sake at such a small station +as Sethley Bridge: it was not booked to stop. + +Meanwhile the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, the chop +was cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel put on her black apron. +She was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to read. The +minutes were a torture to her. + +"H'm!" said Morel. "It's an hour an' a ha'ef." + +"And those children waiting!" she said. + +"Th' train canna ha' come in yet," he said. + +"I tell you, on Christmas Eve they're HOURS wrong." + +They were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with anxiety. The +ash tree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And all that space of night +from London home! Mrs. Morel suffered. The slight click of the works +inside the clock irritated her. It was getting so late; it was getting +unbearable. + +At last there was a sound of voices, and a footstep in the entry. + +"Ha's here!" cried Morel, jumping up. + +Then he stood back. The mother ran a few steps towards the door and +waited. There was a rush and a patter of feet, the door burst open. +William was there. He dropped his Gladstone bag and took his mother in +his arms. + +"Mater!" he said. + +"My boy!" she cried. + +And for two seconds, no longer, she clasped him and kissed him. Then she +withdrew and said, trying to be quite normal: + +"But how late you are!" + +"Aren't I!" he cried, turning to his father. "Well, dad!" + +The two men shook hands. + +"Well, my lad!" + +Morel's eyes were wet. + +"We thought tha'd niver be commin'," he said. + +"Oh, I'd come!" exclaimed William. + +Then the son turned round to his mother. + +"But you look well," she said proudly, laughing. + +"Well!" he exclaimed. "I should think so--coming home!" + +He was a fine fellow, big, straight, and fearless-looking. He looked +round at the evergreens and the kissing bunch, and the little tarts that +lay in their tins on the hearth. + +"By jove! mother, it's not different!" he said, as if in relief. + +Everybody was still for a second. Then he suddenly sprang forward, +picked a tart from the hearth, and pushed it whole into his mouth. + +"Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!" the father exclaimed. + +He had brought them endless presents. Every penny he had he had spent +on them. There was a sense of luxury overflowing in the house. For his +mother there was an umbrella with gold on the pale handle. She kept +it to her dying day, and would have lost anything rather than that. +Everybody had something gorgeous, and besides, there were pounds of +unknown sweets: Turkish delight, crystallised pineapple, and such-like +things which, the children thought, only the splendour of London could +provide. And Paul boasted of these sweets among his friends. + +"Real pineapple, cut off in slices, and then turned into crystal--fair +grand!" + +Everybody was mad with happiness in the family. Home was home, and they +loved it with a passion of love, whatever the suffering had been. There +were parties, there were rejoicings. People came in to see William, to +see what difference London had made to him. And they all found him "such +a gentleman, and SUCH a fine fellow, my word"! + +When he went away again the children retired to various places to weep +alone. Morel went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Morel felt as if she were +numbed by some drug, as if her feelings were paralysed. She loved him +passionately. + +He was in the office of a lawyer connected with a large shipping firm, +and at the midsummer his chief offered him a trip in the Mediterranean +on one of the boats, for quite a small cost. Mrs. Morel wrote: "Go, go, +my boy. You may never have a chance again, and I should love to think of +you cruising there in the Mediterranean almost better than to have you +at home." But William came home for his fortnight's holiday. Not even +the Mediterranean, which pulled at all his young man's desire to travel, +and at his poor man's wonder at the glamorous south, could take him away +when he might come home. That compensated his mother for much. + + + +CHAPTER V + +PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE + +MOREL was rather a heedless man, careless of danger. So he had endless +accidents. Now, when Mrs. Morel heard the rattle of an empty coal-cart +cease at her entry-end, she ran into the parlour to look, expecting +almost to see her husband seated in the waggon, his face grey under his +dirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or other. If it were he, she +would run out to help. + +About a year after William went to London, and just after Paul had left +school, before he got work, Mrs. Morel was upstairs and her son was +painting in the kitchen--he was very clever with his brush--when there +came a knock at the door. Crossly he put down his brush to go. At the +same moment his mother opened a window upstairs and looked down. + +A pit-lad in his dirt stood on the threshold. + +"Is this Walter Morel's?" he asked. + +"Yes," said Mrs. Morel. "What is it?" + +But she had guessed already. + +"Your mester's got hurt," he said. + +"Eh, dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. And +what's he done this time?" + +"I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg somewhere. They ta'ein' 'im ter +th' 'ospital." + +"Good gracious me!" she exclaimed. "Eh, dear, what a one he is! There's +not five minutes of peace, I'll be hanged if there is! His thumb's +nearly better, and now--Did you see him?" + +"I seed him at th' bottom. An' I seed 'em bring 'im up in a tub, an' +'e wor in a dead faint. But he shouted like anythink when Doctor Fraser +examined him i' th' lamp cabin--an' cossed an' swore, an' said as 'e wor +goin' to be ta'en whoam--'e worn't goin' ter th' 'ospital." + +The boy faltered to an end. + +"He WOULD want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thank +you, my lad. Eh, dear, if I'm not sick--sick and surfeited, I am!" + +She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting. + +"And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital," she +went on. "But what a CARELESS creature he is! OTHER men don't have all +these accidents. Yes, he WOULD want to put all the burden on me. Eh, +dear, just as we WERE getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away, +there's no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know I +s'll have to go trailing to Keston. I s'll have to leave that bedroom." + +"I can finish it," said Paul. + +"You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back, I should think. Oh, +my blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he'll make! And those granite +setts at Tinder Hill--he might well call them kidney pebbles--they'll +jolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can't mend them, the state +they're in, an' all the men as go across in that ambulance. You'd think +they'd have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs, +there'd be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trail +them ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It's a crying shame! +Oh, and the fuss he'll make! I know he will! I wonder who's with him. +Barker, I s'd think. Poor beggar, he'll wish himself anywhere rather. +But he'll look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'll +be stuck in that hospital--and WON'T he hate it! But if it's only his +leg it's not so bad." + +All the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off her bodice, she +crouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into her lading-can. + +"I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!" she exclaimed, +wriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms, +rather surprising on a smallish woman. + +Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table. + +"There isn't a train till four-twenty," he said. "You've time enough." + +"Oh no, I haven't!" she cried, blinking at him over the towel as she +wiped her face. + +"Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I come +with you to Keston?" + +"Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to take +him? Eh, dear! His clean shirt--and it's a blessing it IS clean. But it +had better be aired. And stockings--he won't want them--and a towel, I +suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?" + +"A comb, a knife and fork and spoon," said Paul. His father had been in +the hospital before. + +"Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in," continued Mrs. +Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, and +was touched now with grey. "He's very particular to wash himself to the +waist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose they see +plenty like it." + +Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very +thin bread and butter. + +"Here you are," he said, putting her cup of tea in her place. + +"I can't be bothered!" she exclaimed crossly. + +"Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready," he insisted. + +So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. She +was thinking. + +In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles to +Keston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulging +string bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges--a +little, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her, that she was +thrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quickly +in her anxiety, felt at the back of her her son's heart waiting on her, +felt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her. +And when she was at the hospital, she thought: "It WILL upset that lad +when I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful." And when she was +trudging home again, she felt he was coming to share her burden. + +"Is it bad?" asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house. + +"It's bad enough," she replied. + +"What?" + +She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her son watched her +face as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened hands fingering at +the bow under her chin. + +"Well," she answered, "it's not really dangerous, but the nurse says +it's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on his +leg--here--and it's a compound fracture. There are pieces of bone +sticking through--" + +"Ugh--how horrid!" exclaimed the children. + +"And," she continued, "of course he says he's going to die--it wouldn't +be him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said, looking at me. +'Don't be so silly,' I said to him. 'You're not going to die of a broken +leg, however badly it's smashed.' 'I s'll niver come out of 'ere but in +a wooden box,' he groaned. 'Well,' I said, 'if you want them to carry +you into the garden in a wooden box, when you're better, I've no doubt +they will.' 'If we think it's good for him,' said the Sister. She's an +awfully nice Sister, but rather strict." + +Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence. + +"Of course, he IS bad," she continued, "and he will be. It's a great +shock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it IS a very +dangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mend so easily. And +then there's the fever and the mortification--if it took bad ways he'd +quickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded man, with wonderful +healing flesh, and so I see no reason why it SHOULD take bad ways. Of +course there's a wound--" + +She was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children realised +that it was very bad for their father, and the house was silent, +anxious. + +"But he always gets better," said Paul after a while. + +"That's what I tell him," said the mother. + +Everybody moved about in silence. + +"And he really looked nearly done for," she said. "But the Sister says +that is the pain." + +Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet. + +"And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'll have to go now, +Walter, because of the train--and the children.' And he looked at me. It +seems hard." + +Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went outside +for some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, in her little +rocking-chair that her husband had made for her when the first baby was +coming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterly +sorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of +hearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now, when +all her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would have +slaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she would +have taken the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away inside +her, she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her +most of all, this failure to love him, even when he roused her strong +emotions. She brooded a while. + +"And there," she said suddenly, "when I'd got halfway to Keston, I found +I'd come out in my working boots--and LOOK at them." They were an old +pair of Paul's, brown and rubbed through at the toes. "I didn't know +what to do with myself, for shame," she added. + +In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Morel talked +again to her son, who was helping her with her housework. + +"I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow! +'Well,' I said to him, 'what sort of a journey did you have with him?' +'Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay,' I said, 'I know what he'd be.' +'But it WOR bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it WOR that!' he said. 'I know,' I +said. 'At ivry jolt I thought my 'eart would ha' flown clean out o' my +mouth,' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives sometimes! Missis, not for a +fortune would I go through wi' it again.' 'I can quite understand it,' +I said. 'It's a nasty job, though,' he said, 'an' one as'll be a long +while afore it's right again.' 'I'm afraid it will,' I said. I like Mr. +Barker--I DO like him. There's something so manly about him." + +Paul resumed his task silently. + +"And of course," Mrs. Morel continued, "for a man like your father, +the hospital IS hard. He CAN'T understand rules and regulations. And he +won't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed +the muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day, +WOULD he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of +course, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving +him. I'm sure, when I kissed him an' came away, it seemed a shame." + +So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud to him, +and he took it in as best he could, by sharing her trouble to lighten +it. And in the end she shared almost everything with him without +knowing. + +Morel had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical condition. +Then he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going to get better, the +whole family sighed with relief, and proceeded to live happily. + +They were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There were +fourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillings from the sick +club, and five shillings from the Disability Fund; and then every week +the butties had something for Mrs. Morel--five or seven shillings--so +that she was quite well to do. And whilst Morel was progressing +favourably in the hospital, the family was extraordinarily happy and +peaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays Mrs. Morel went to Nottingham to +see her husband. Then she always brought back some little thing: a small +tube of paints for Paul, or some thick paper; a couple of postcards for +Annie, that the whole family rejoiced over for days before the girl was +allowed to send them away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit of pretty +wood. She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon the +folk in the picture-shop knew her, and knew about Paul. The girl in +the book-shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morel was full of +information when she got home from Nottingham. The three sat round till +bed-time, listening, putting in, arguing. Then Paul often raked the +fire. + +"I'm the man in the house now," he used to say to his mother with joy. +They learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be. And they +almost regretted--though none of them would have owned to such +callousness--that their father was soon coming back. + +Paul was now fourteen, and was looking for work. He was a rather small +and rather finely-made boy, with dark brown hair and light blue eyes. +His face had already lost its youthful chubbiness, and was becoming +somewhat like William's--rough-featured, almost rugged--and it was +extraordinarily mobile. Usually he looked as if he saw things, was full +of life, and warm; then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly and +was very lovable; and then, when there was any clog in his soul's quick +running, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that +becomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels +himself held cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch of +warmth. + +He suffered very much from the first contact with anything. When he was +seven, the starting school had been a nightmare and a torture to him. +But afterwards he liked it. And now that he felt he had to go out into +life, he went through agonies of shrinking self-consciousness. He was +quite a clever painter for a boy of his years, and he knew some French +and German and mathematics that Mr. Heaton had taught him. But nothing +he had was of any commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavy +manual work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with his +hands, preferred racing about, or making excursions into the country, or +reading, or painting. + +"What do you want to be?" his mother asked. + +"Anything." + +"That is no answer," said Mrs. Morel. + +But it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His ambition, +as far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earn his thirty or +thirty-five shillings a week somewhere near home, and then, when his +father died, have a cottage with his mother, paint and go out as he +liked, and live happy ever after. That was his programme as far as doing +things went. But he was proud within himself, measuring people against +himself, and placing them, inexorably. And he thought that PERHAPS he +might also make a painter, the real thing. But that he left alone. + +"Then," said his mother, "you must look in the paper for the +advertisements." + +He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter humiliation and an anguish +to go through. But he said nothing. When he got up in the morning, his +whole being was knotted up over this one thought: + +"I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job." + +It stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing all joy and even +life, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot. + +And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to be a queer, +quiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town, he felt as +if all the folk he met said to themselves: "He's going to the Co-op. +reading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. I +suppose he's living on his mother." Then he crept up the stone stairs +behind the drapery shop at the Co-op., and peeped in the reading-room. +Usually one or two men were there, either old, useless fellows, or +colliers "on the club". So he entered, full of shrinking and suffering +when they looked up, seated himself at the table, and pretended to scan +the news. He knew they would think: "What does a lad of thirteen want in +a reading-room with a newspaper?" and he suffered. + +Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he was a prisoner +of industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over the old red wall of the +garden opposite, looking in their jolly way down on the women who +were hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn, +brightening in the sun. Two collieries, among the fields, waved their +small white plumes of steam. Far off on the hills were the woods of +Annesley, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He was +being taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley was +going now. + +The brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enormous barrels, +four a side, like beans in a burst bean-pod. The waggoner, throned +aloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so much below Paul's eye. +The man's hair, on his small, bullet head, was bleached almost white by +the sun, and on his thick red arms, rocking idly on his sack apron, the +white hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep with +sunshine. The horses, handsome and brown, went on by themselves, looking +by far the masters of the show. + +Paul wished he were stupid. "I wish," he thought to himself, "I was fat +like him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pig and a brewer's +waggoner." + +Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy an +advertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in immense +relief. His mother would scan over his copies. + +"Yes," she said, "you may try." + +William had written out a letter of application, couched in admirable +business language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy's +handwriting was execrable, so that William, who did all things well, got +into a fever of impatience. + +The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he found that he +could associate with men far above his Bestwood friends in station. Some +of the clerks in the office had studied for the law, and were more or +less going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friends +among men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon +visiting and staying in houses of men who, in Bestwood, would have +looked down on the unapproachable bank manager, and would merely have +called indifferently on the Rector. So he began to fancy himself as a +great gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised at the ease with which he +became a gentleman. + +His mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodging in +Walthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kind of fever +into the young man's letters. He was unsettled by all the change, he did +not stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spin rather giddily on the +quick current of the new life. His mother was anxious for him. She could +feel him losing himself. He had danced and gone to the theatre, boated +on the river, been out with friends; and she knew he sat up afterwards +in his cold bedroom grinding away at Latin, because he intended to get +on in his office, and in the law as much as he could. He never sent his +mother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own +life. And she did not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a +tight corner, and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. +She still dreamed of William, and of what he would do, with herself +behind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy and +anxious her heart was because of him. + +Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance, a +handsome brunette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the men were +running thick and fast. + +"I wonder if you would run, my boy," his mother wrote to him, "unless +you saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vain +enough in a crowd. But take care, and see how you feel when you find +yourself alone, and in triumph." William resented these things, and +continued the chase. He had taken the girl on the river. "If you saw +her, mother, you would know how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the +clearest of clear, transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, +and such grey eyes--bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It +is all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dresses +as well as any woman in London. I tell you, your son doesn't half put +his head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him." + +Mrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not go walking down +Piccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes, rather than with +a woman who was near to him. But she congratulated him in her doubtful +fashion. And, as she stood over the washing-tub, the mother brooded over +her son. She saw him saddled with an elegant and expensive wife, earning +little money, dragging along and getting draggled in some small, ugly +house in a suburb. "But there," she told herself, "I am very likely +a silly--meeting trouble halfway." Nevertheless, the load of anxiety +scarcely ever left her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by +himself. + +Presently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan, Manufacturer of +Surgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was all +joy. + +"There, you see!" she cried, her eyes shining. "You've only written four +letters, and the third is answered. You're lucky, my boy, as I always +said you were." + +Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elastic +stockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's notepaper, +and he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed. +And he seemed to feel the business world, with its regulated system of +values, and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemed monstrous +also that a business could be run on wooden legs. + +Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August and +blazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed up tight inside him. +He would have suffered much physical pain rather than this unreasonable +suffering at being exposed to strangers, to be accepted or rejected. Yet +he chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to her +how he suffered over these things, and she only partly guessed. She +was gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office at +Bestwood, and Paul watched her take from her purse the money for the +tickets. As he saw her hands in their old black kid gloves getting the +silver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with pain of love of +her. + +She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because she WOULD talk +aloud in presence of the other travellers. + +"Now look at that silly cow!" she said, "careering round as if it +thought it was a circus." + +"It's most likely a bottfly," he said very low. + +"A what?" she asked brightly and unashamed. + +They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of having her +opposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him--a rare, +intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out +of the window. + +The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother and son +walked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovers having an +adventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped to hang over the +parapet and look at the barges on the canal below. + +"It's just like Venice," he said, seeing the sunshine on the water that +lay between high factory walls. + +"Perhaps," she answered, smiling. + +They enjoyed the shops immensely. + +"Now you see that blouse," she would say, "wouldn't that just suit our +Annie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?" + +"And made of needlework as well," he said. + +"Yes." + +They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The town was strange +and delightful to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a knot of +apprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan. + +It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a +narrow street that led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old-fashioned, +having low dark shops and dark green house doors with brass knockers, +and yellow-ochred doorsteps projecting on to the pavement; then another +old shop whose small window looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother +and son went cautiously, looking everywhere for "Thomas Jordan and +Son". It was like hunting in some wild place. They were on tiptoe of +excitement. + +Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were names of various +firms, Thomas Jordan among them. + +"Here it is!" said Mrs. Morel. "But now WHERE is it?" + +They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory, on +the other a Commercial Hotel. + +"It's up the entry," said Paul. + +And they ventured under the archway, as into the jaws of the dragon. +They emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings all round. It +was littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine actually +caught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. But +elsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors, and two +flights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of +a staircase, loomed the ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son--Surgical +Appliances." Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I +mounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he +followed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door. + +She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In front of her +was a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks, +with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going about in an at-home +sort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemed +luminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very +homely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood +behind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore a +boy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit. + +One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face. +His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end of +the room, where was a glass office. And then he came forward. He did +not say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs. +Morel. + +"Can I see Mr. Jordan?" she asked. + +"I'll fetch him," answered the young man. + +He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old man +looked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little +man came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and wore +an alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly and +inquiringly down the room. + +"Good-morning!" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as to +whether she were a customer or not. + +"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call +this morning." + +"Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner +intended to be businesslike. + +They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered +in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers. +On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled +together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of new +wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so +much stunned that he only noticed the outside things. + +"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to a +horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the +little old man fidgeted and found a paper. + +"Did you write this letter?" he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognised +as his own notepaper in front of him. + +"Yes," he answered. + +At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guilty +for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, in +wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat, +red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen +table. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the +man held it. + +"Where did you learn to write?" said the old man crossly. + +Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer. + +"He IS a bad writer," put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed +up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common +little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil. + +"And you say you know French?" inquired the little man, still sharply. + +"Yes," said Paul. + +"What school did you go to?" + +"The Board-school." + +"And did you learn it there?" + +"No--I--" The boy went crimson and got no farther. + +"His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs. Morel, half pleading and +rather distant. + +Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he always seemed to +keep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet of paper from +his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it +to Paul. + +"Read that," he said. + +It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the +boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper. + +"'Monsieur,'" he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan. +"It's the--it's the--" + +He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer work even +sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, and +hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again. + +"'Sir,--Please send me'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'two pairs--gris +fil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can't +tell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the--" + +He wanted to say "handwriting", but the word still refused to come. +Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him. + +"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without TOES.'" + +"Well," flashed Paul, "'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--as a rule--" + +The little man looked at him. He did not know whether "doigts" meant +"fingers"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant "toes". + +"Fingers to stockings!" he snapped. + +"Well, it DOES mean fingers," the boy persisted. + +He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked +at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and +with that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the +favour of others. + +"And when could he come?" he asked. + +"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finished school +now." + +"He would live in Bestwood?" + +"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight." + +"H'm!" + +It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight +shillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word, +after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". He followed his +mother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes full +of love and joy. + +"I think you'll like it," she said. + +"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. I +couldn't read the writing." + +"Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see much +of him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them." + +"But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?" + +"I suppose he was a workman who has got on," she said. "You mustn't mind +people so much. They're not being disagreeable to YOU--it's their way. +You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don't." + +It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-place the +blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. +Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full +of colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was a +row of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun--apples and piles of +reddish oranges, small green-gage plums and bananas. There was a warm +scent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of +ignominy and of rage sank. + +"Where should we go for dinner?" asked the mother. + +It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an +eating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of +tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and +bread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to +eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance. +Paul felt rather guilty. + +They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scanned +the bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so dear. So she +ordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish. + +"We oughtn't to have come here, mother," said Paul. + +"Never mind," she said. "We won't come again." + +She insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he liked +sweets. + +"I don't want it, mother," he pleaded. + +"Yes," she insisted; "you'll have it." + +And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, and +Mrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited +for the girl's pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men. + +"Brazen hussy!" said Mrs. Morel to Paul. "Look now, she's taking that +man HIS pudding, and he came long after us." + +"It doesn't matter, mother," said Paul. + +Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too +meagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights just +then. They waited and waited. + +"Should we go, mother?" he said. + +Then Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near. + +"Will you bring one currant tart?" said Mrs. Morel clearly. + +The girl looked round insolently. + +"Directly," she said. + +"We have waited quite long enough," said Mrs. Morel. + +In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldly +for the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at his +mother's hardness. He knew that only years of battling had taught her to +insist even so little on her rights. She shrank as much as he. + +"It's the last time I go THERE for anything!" she declared, when they +were outside the place, thankful to be clear. + +"We'll go," she said, "and look at Keep's and Boot's, and one or two +places, shall we?" + +They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted to buy +him a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence he +refused. He stood in front of milliners' shops and drapers' shops almost +bored, but content for her to be interested. They wandered on. + +"Now, just look at those black grapes!" she said. "They make your mouth +water. I've wanted some of those for years, but I s'll have to wait a +bit before I get them." + +Then she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway sniffing. + +"Oh! oh! Isn't it simply lovely!" + +Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady in black +peering over the counter curiously. + +"They're looking at you," he said, trying to draw his mother away. + +"But what is it?" she exclaimed, refusing to be moved. + +"Stocks!" he answered, sniffing hastily. "Look, there's a tubful." + +"So there is--red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smell +like it!" And, to his great relief, she moved out of the doorway, but +only to stand in front of the window. + +"Paul!" she cried to him, who was trying to get out of sight of the +elegant young lady in black--the shop-girl. "Paul! Just look here!" + +He came reluctantly back. + +"Now, just look at that fuchsia!" she exclaimed, pointing. + +"H'm!" He made a curious, interested sound. "You'd think every second as +the flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an' heavy." + +"And such an abundance!" she cried. + +"And the way they drop downwards with their threads and knots!" + +"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Lovely!" + +"I wonder who'll buy it!" he said. + +"I wonder!" she answered. "Not us." + +"It would die in our parlour." + +"Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every bit of a plant you put +in, and the kitchen chokes them to death." + +They bought a few things, and set off towards the station. Looking up +the canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw the Castle +on its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock, in a positive miracle of +delicate sunshine. + +"Won't it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times?" said Paul. "I can +go all round here and see everything. I s'll love it." + +"You will," assented his mother. + +He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home in +the mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired. + +In the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticket and took it +to the station. When he got back, his mother was just beginning to wash +the floor. He sat crouched up on the sofa. + +"He says it'll be here on Saturday," he said. + +"And how much will it be?" + +"About one pound eleven," he said. + +She went on washing her floor in silence. + +"Is it a lot?" he asked. + +"It's no more than I thought," she answered. + +"An' I s'll earn eight shillings a week," he said. + +She did not answer, but went on with her work. At last she said: + +"That William promised me, when he went to London, as he'd give me a +pound a month. He has given me ten shillings--twice; and now I know +he hasn't a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want it. Only just now +you'd think he might be able to help with this ticket, which I'd never +expected." + +"He earns a lot," said Paul. + +"He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they're all alike. They're +large in promises, but it's precious little fulfilment you get." + +"He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself," said Paul. + +"And I keep this house on less than thirty," she replied; "and am +supposed to find money for extras. But they don't care about helping +you, once they've gone. He'd rather spend it on that dressed-up +creature." + +"She should have her own money if she's so grand," said Paul. + +"She should, but she hasn't. I asked him. And I know he doesn't buy her +a gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever bought ME a gold bangle." + +William was succeeding with his "Gipsy", as he called her. He asked the +girl--her name was Louisa Lily Denys Western--for a photograph to send +to his mother. The photo came--a handsome brunette, taken in profile, +smirking slightly--and, it might be, quite naked, for on the photograph +not a scrap of clothing was to be seen, only a naked bust. + +"Yes," wrote Mrs. Morel to her son, "the photograph of Louie is very +striking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you think, my +boy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young man that photo +to send to his mother--the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful, +as you say. But I hardly expected to see so much of them at the first +view." + +Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the parlour. He +came out with it between his thick thumb and finger. + +"Who dost reckon this is?" he asked of his wife. + +"It's the girl our William is going with," replied Mrs. Morel. + +"H'm! 'Er's a bright spark, from th' look on 'er, an' one as wunna do +him owermuch good neither. Who is she?" + +"Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western." + +"An' come again to-morrer!" exclaimed the miner. "An' is 'er an +actress?" + +"She is not. She's supposed to be a lady." + +"I'll bet!" he exclaimed, still staring at the photo. "A lady, is she? +An' how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o' game on?" + +"On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what +bit of money's given her." + +"H'm!" said Morel, laying down the photograph. "Then he's a fool to ha' +ta'en up wi' such a one as that." + +"Dear Mater," William replied. "I'm sorry you didn't like the +photograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you mightn't +think it decent. However, I told Gyp that it didn't quite suit your prim +and proper notions, so she's going to send you another, that I hope +will please you better. She's always being photographed; in fact, the +photographers ask her if they may take her for nothing." + +Presently the new photograph came, with a little silly note from the +girl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satin evening bodice, +cut square, with little puff sleeves, and black lace hanging down her +beautiful arms. + +"I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes," said Mrs. +Morel sarcastically. "I'm sure I ought to be impressed." + +"You are disagreeable, mother," said Paul. "I think the first one with +bare shoulders is lovely." + +"Do you?" answered his mother. "Well, I don't." + +On the Monday morning the boy got up at six to start work. He had the +season-ticket, which had cost such bitterness, in his waistcoat pocket. +He loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother packed his dinner +in a small, shut-up basket, and he set off at a quarter to seven to +catch the 7.15 train. Mrs. Morel came to the entry-end to see him off. + +It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slender green fruits +that the children call "pigeons" were twinkling gaily down on a little +breeze, into the front gardens of the houses. The valley was full of a +lustrous dark haze, through which the ripe corn shimmered, and in which +the steam from Minton pit melted swiftly. Puffs of wind came. Paul +looked over the high woods of Aldersley, where the country gleamed, and +home had never pulled at him so powerfully. + +"Good-morning, mother," he said, smiling, but feeling very unhappy. + +"Good-morning," she replied cheerfully and tenderly. + +She stood in her white apron on the open road, watching him as he +crossed the field. He had a small, compact body that looked full of +life. She felt, as she saw him trudging over the field, that where he +determined to go he would get. She thought of William. He would have +leaped the fence instead of going round the stile. He was away in +London, doing well. Paul would be working in Nottingham. Now she had +two sons in the world. She could think of two places, great centres of +industry, and feel that she had put a man into each of them, that these +men would work out what SHE wanted; they were derived from her, they +were of her, and their works also would be hers. All the morning long +she thought of Paul. + +At eight o'clock he climbed the dismal stairs of Jordan's Surgical +Appliance Factory, and stood helplessly against the first great +parcel-rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The place was still +not awake. Over the counters were great dust sheets. Two men only had +arrived, and were heard talking in a corner, as they took off their +coats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. It was ten past eight. +Evidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voices +of the two clerks. Then he heard someone cough, and saw in the office +at the end of the room an old, decaying clerk, in a round smoking-cap of +black velvet embroidered with red and green, opening letters. He waited +and waited. One of the junior clerks went to the old man, greeted him +cheerily and loudly. Evidently the old "chief" was deaf. Then the young +fellow came striding importantly down to his counter. He spied Paul. + +"Hello!" he said. "You the new lad?" + +"Yes," said Paul. + +"H'm! What's your name?" + +"Paul Morel." + +"Paul Morel? All right, you come on round here." + +Paul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The room was second +storey. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor, fenced as with a +wall of counters, and down this wide shaft the lifts went, and the light +for the bottom storey. Also there was a corresponding big, oblong hole +in the ceiling, and one could see above, over the fence of the top +floor, some machinery; and right away overhead was the glass roof, and +all light for the three storeys came downwards, getting dimmer, so that +it was always night on the ground floor and rather gloomy on the second +floor. The factory was the top floor, the warehouse the second, the +storehouse the ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place. + +Paul was led round to a very dark corner. + +"This is the 'Spiral' corner," said the clerk. "You're Spiral, with +Pappleworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't get here +till half-past eight. So you can fetch the letters, if you like, from +Mr. Melling down there." + +The young man pointed to the old clerk in the office. + +"All right," said Paul. + +"Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are your entry ledgers. Mr. +Pappleworth won't be long." + +And the thin young man stalked away with long, busy strides over the +hollow wooden floor. + +After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of the glass +office. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down over the rim of his +spectacles. + +"Good-morning," he said, kindly and impressively. "You want the letters +for the Spiral department, Thomas?" + +Paul resented being called "Thomas". But he took the letters and +returned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, where the +great parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were three doors in +the corner. He sat on a high stool and read the letters--those whose +handwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows: + +"Will you please send me at once a pair of lady's silk spiral +thigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year; length, +thigh to knee, etc." Or, "Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat his +previous order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage." + +Many of these letters, some of them in French or Norwegian, were a great +puzzle to the boy. He sat on his stool nervously awaiting the arrival +of his "boss". He suffered tortures of shyness when, at half-past eight, +the factory girls for upstairs trooped past him. + +Mr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty to +nine, when all the other men were at work. He was a thin, sallow man +with a red nose, quick, staccato, and smartly but stiffly dressed. He +was about thirty-six years old. There was something rather "doggy", +rather smart, rather 'cute and shrewd, and something warm, and something +slightly contemptible about him. + +"You my new lad?" he said. + +Paul stood up and said he was. + +"Fetched the letters?" + +Mr. Pappleworth gave a chew to his gum. + +"Yes." + +"Copied 'em?" + +"No." + +"Well, come on then, let's look slippy. Changed your coat?" + +"No." + +"You want to bring an old coat and leave it here." He pronounced the +last words with the chlorodyne gum between his side teeth. He vanished +into the darkness behind the great parcel-rack, reappeared coatless, +turning up a smart striped shirt-cuff over a thin and hairy arm. Then +he slipped into his coat. Paul noticed how thin he was, and that his +trousers were in folds behind. He seized a stool, dragged it beside the +boy's, and sat down. + +"Sit down," he said. + +Paul took a seat. + +Mr. Pappleworth was very close to him. The man seized the letters, +snatched a long entry-book out of a rack in front of him, flung it open, +seized a pen, and said: + +"Now look here. You want to copy these letters in here." He sniffed +twice, gave a quick chew at his gum, stared fixedly at a letter, +then went very still and absorbed, and wrote the entry rapidly, in a +beautiful flourishing hand. He glanced quickly at Paul. + +"See that?" + +"Yes." + +"Think you can do it all right?" + +"Yes." + +"All right then, let's see you." + +He sprang off his stool. Paul took a pen. Mr. Pappleworth disappeared. +Paul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly, laboriously, +and exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, and feeling quite +busy and happy, when Mr. Pappleworth reappeared. + +"Now then, how'r' yer getting on? Done 'em?" + +He leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of chlorodyne. + +"Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer!" he exclaimed +satirically. "Ne'er mind, how many h'yer done? Only three! I'd 'a eaten +'em. Get on, my lad, an' put numbers on 'em. Here, look! Get on!" + +Paul ground away at the letters, whilst Mr. Pappleworth fussed over +various jobs. Suddenly the boy started as a shrill whistle sounded near +his ear. Mr. Pappleworth came, took a plug out of a pipe, and said, in +an amazingly cross and bossy voice: + +"Yes?" + +Paul heard a faint voice, like a woman's, out of the mouth of the tube. +He gazed in wonder, never having seen a speaking-tube before. + +"Well," said Mr. Pappleworth disagreeably into the tube, "you'd better +get some of your back work done, then." + +Again the woman's tiny voice was heard, sounding pretty and cross. + +"I've not time to stand here while you talk," said Mr. Pappleworth, and +he pushed the plug into the tube. + +"Come, my lad," he said imploringly to Paul, "there's Polly crying out +for them orders. Can't you buck up a bit? Here, come out!" + +He took the book, to Paul's immense chagrin, and began the copying +himself. He worked quickly and well. This done, he seized some strips +of long yellow paper, about three inches wide, and made out the day's +orders for the work-girls. + +"You'd better watch me," he said to Paul, working all the while rapidly. +Paul watched the weird little drawings of legs, and thighs, and ankles, +with the strokes across and the numbers, and the few brief directions +which his chief made upon the yellow paper. Then Mr. Pappleworth +finished and jumped up. + +"Come on with me," he said, and the yellow papers flying in his hands, +he dashed through a door and down some stairs, into the basement where +the gas was burning. They crossed the cold, damp storeroom, then a +long, dreary room with a long table on trestles, into a smaller, cosy +apartment, not very high, which had been built on to the main building. +In this room a small woman with a red serge blouse, and her black hair +done on top of her head, was waiting like a proud little bantam. + +"Here y'are!" said Pappleworth. + +"I think it is 'here you are'!" exclaimed Polly. "The girls have been +here nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time wasted!" + +"YOU think of getting your work done and not talking so much," said Mr. +Pappleworth. "You could ha' been finishing off." + +"You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!" cried +Pony, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing. + +"Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!" he mocked. "Here's your new lad. Don't ruin him +as you did the last." + +"As we did the last!" repeated Polly. "Yes, WE do a lot of ruining, we +do. My word, a lad would TAKE some ruining after he'd been with you." + +"It's time for work now, not for talk," said Mr. Pappleworth severely +and coldly. + +"It was time for work some time back," said Polly, marching away with +her head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty. + +In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under the +window. Through the inner doorway was another longer room, with six more +machines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed in white aprons, stood +talking together. + +"Have you nothing else to do but talk?" said Mr. Pappleworth. + +"Only wait for you," said one handsome girl, laughing. + +"Well, get on, get on," he said. "Come on, my lad. You'll know your road +down here again." + +And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checking +and invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his execrable +handwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down from the glass +office and stood behind him, to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly a +red and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in. + +"MR. J. A. Bates, Esquire!" exclaimed the cross voice just behind his +ear. + +Paul looked at "Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire" in his own vile writing, and +wondered what was the matter now. + +"Didn't they teach you any better THAN that while they were at it? If +you put 'Mr.' you don't put Esquire'-a man can't be both at once." + +The boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of honours, +hesitated, and with trembling fingers, scratched out the "Mr." Then all +at once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice. + +"Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?" And he tore +up the blue form irritably. + +Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan watched. + +"I don't know what they DO teach in schools. You'll have to write better +than that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry +and play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?" he asked of Mr. +Pappleworth. + +"Yes; prime, isn't it?" replied Mr. Pappleworth indifferently. + +Mr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that his +master's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manufacturer, +although he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave his +men alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did not +look like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his role of +proprietor at first, to put things on a right footing. + +"Let's see, WHAT'S your name?" asked Mr. Pappleworth of the boy. + +"Paul Morel." + +It is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce their +own names. + +"Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them things there, +and then--" + +Mr. Pappleworth subsided on to a stool, and began writing. A girl came +up from out of a door just behind, put some newly-pressed elastic web +appliances on the counter, and returned. Mr. Pappleworth picked up the +whitey-blue knee-band, examined it, and its yellow order-paper quickly, +and put it on one side. Next was a flesh-pink "leg". He went through +the few things, wrote out a couple of orders, and called to Paul to +accompany him. This time they went through the door whence the girl had +emerged. There Paul found himself at the top of a little wooden flight +of steps, and below him saw a room with windows round two sides, and at +the farther end half a dozen girls sitting bending over the benches +in the light from the window, sewing. They were singing together "Two +Little Girls in Blue". Hearing the door opened, they all turned round, +to see Mr. Pappleworth and Paul looking down on them from the far end of +the room. They stopped singing. + +"Can't you make a bit less row?" said Mr. Pappleworth. "Folk'll think we +keep cats." + +A hunchback woman on a high stool turned her long, rather heavy face +towards Mr. Pappleworth, and said, in a contralto voice: + +"They're all tom-cats then." + +In vain Mr. Pappleworth tried to be impressive for Paul's benefit. +He descended the steps into the finishing-off room, and went to the +hunchback Fanny. She had such a short body on her high stool that her +head, with its great bands of bright brown hair, seemed over large, as +did her pale, heavy face. She wore a dress of green-black cashmere, and +her wrists, coming out of the narrow cuffs, were thin and flat, as she +put down her work nervously. He showed her something that was wrong with +a knee-cap. + +"Well," she said, "you needn't come blaming it on to me. It's not my +fault." Her colour mounted to her cheek. + +"I never said it WAS your fault. Will you do as I tell you?" replied Mr. +Pappleworth shortly. + +"You don't say it's my fault, but you'd like to make out as it was," the +hunchback woman cried, almost in tears. Then she snatched the knee-cap +from her "boss", saying: "Yes, I'll do it for you, but you needn't be +snappy." + +"Here's your new lad," said Mr. Pappleworth. + +Fanny turned, smiling very gently on Paul. + +"Oh!" she said. + +"Yes; don't make a softy of him between you." + +"It's not us as 'ud make a softy of him," she said indignantly. + +"Come on then, Paul," said Mr. Pappleworth. + +"Au revoy, Paul," said one of the girls. + +There was a titter of laughter. Paul went out, blushing deeply, not +having spoken a word. + +The day was very long. All morning the work-people were coming to speak +to Mr. Pappleworth. Paul was writing or learning to make up parcels, +ready for the midday post. At one o'clock, or, rather, at a quarter to +one, Mr. Pappleworth disappeared to catch his train: he lived in the +suburbs. At one o'clock, Paul, feeling very lost, took his dinner-basket +down into the stockroom in the basement, that had the long table on +trestles, and ate his meal hurriedly, alone in that cellar of gloom and +desolation. Then he went out of doors. The brightness and the freedom of +the streets made him feel adventurous and happy. But at two o'clock +he was back in the corner of the big room. Soon the work-girls went +trooping past, making remarks. It was the commoner girls who worked +upstairs at the heavy tasks of truss-making and the finishing of +artificial limbs. He waited for Mr. Pappleworth, not knowing what to do, +sitting scribbling on the yellow order-paper. Mr. Pappleworth came at +twenty minutes to three. Then he sat and gossiped with Paul, treating +the boy entirely as an equal, even in age. + +In the afternoon there was never very much to do, unless it were near +the week-end, and the accounts had to be made up. At five o'clock all +the men went down into the dungeon with the table on trestles, and there +they had tea, eating bread-and-butter on the bare, dirty boards, talking +with the same kind of ugly haste and slovenliness with which they ate +their meal. And yet upstairs the atmosphere among them was always jolly +and clear. The cellar and the trestles affected them. + +After tea, when all the gases were lighted, WORK went more briskly. +There was the big evening post to get off. The hose came up warm and +newly pressed from the workrooms. Paul had made out the invoices. Now he +had the packing up and addressing to do, then he had to weigh his stock +of parcels on the scales. Everywhere voices were calling weights, there +was the chink of metal, the rapid snapping of string, the hurrying to +old Mr. Melling for stamps. And at last the postman came with his sack, +laughing and jolly. Then everything slacked off, and Paul took his +dinner-basket and ran to the station to catch the eight-twenty train. +The day in the factory was just twelve hours long. + +His mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had to walk from +Keston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And he left the +house before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morel was rather anxious about +his health. But she herself had had to put up with so much that she +expected her children to take the same odds. They must go through with +what came. And Paul stayed at Jordan's, although all the time he was +there his health suffered from the darkness and lack of air and the long +hours. + +He came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She saw he was +rather pleased, and her anxiety all went. + +"Well, and how was it?" she asked. + +"Ever so funny, mother," he replied. "You don't have to work a bit hard, +and they're nice with you." + +"And did you get on all right?" + +"Yes: they only say my writing's bad. But Mr. Pappleworth--he's my +man--said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm Spiral, mother; you +must come and see. It's ever so nice." + +Soon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Pappleworth, who had a certain "saloon bar" +flavour about him, was always natural, and treated him as if he had been +a comrade. Sometimes the "Spiral boss" was irritable, and chewed more +lozenges than ever. Even then, however, he was not offensive, but one +of those people who hurt themselves by their own irritability more than +they hurt other people. + +"Haven't you done that YET?" he would cry. "Go on, be a month of +Sundays." + +Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular and in +high spirits. + +"I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow," he said +jubilantly to Paul. + +"What's a Yorkshire terrier?" + +"DON'T know what a Yorkshire terrier is? DON'T KNOW A YORKSHIRE--" Mr. +Pappleworth was aghast. + +"Is it a little silky one--colours of iron and rusty silver?" + +"THAT'S it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds' worth of pups +already, and she's worth over seven pounds herself; and she doesn't +weigh twenty ounces." + +The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Paul +did not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag that would never +dry. Then a man called for her, and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr. +Pappleworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy, and the talk +went on _sotto voce_. + +Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and then the only +fault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the counter. + +"Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen in your +ear!" And one day he said to the lad: "Why don't you hold your shoulders +straighter? Come down here," when he took him into the glass office and +fitted him with special braces for keeping the shoulders square. + +But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and rather dull. +He liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly, the little brisk +overseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar, asked him if she +could cook him anything on her little stove. Next day his mother gave +him a dish that could be heated up. He took it into the pleasant, clean +room to Polly. And very soon it grew to be an established custom that he +should have dinner with her. When he came in at eight in the morning he +took his basket to her, and when he came down at one o'clock she had his +dinner ready. + +He was not very tall, and pale, with thick chestnut hair, irregular +features, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He often +called her a "robinet". Though naturally rather quiet, he would sit and +chatter with her for hours telling her about his home. The girls all +liked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a little circle while he +sat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. Some of them regarded +him as a curious little creature, so serious, yet so bright and jolly, +and always so delicate in his way with them. They all liked him, and he +adored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane of +red hair, her face of apple-blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady in +her shabby black frock, appealed to his romantic side. + +"When you sit winding," he said, "it looks as if you were spinning at +a spinning-wheel--it looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in the +'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could." + +And she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he had a sketch +he prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool before the wheel, her +flowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, her red mouth shut +and serious, running the scarlet thread off the hank on to the reel. + +With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrust her hip at +him, he usually joked. + +Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But to condescend +to him made her happy, and he did not mind. + +"How do you put needles in?" he asked. + +"Go away and don't bother." + +"But I ought to know how to put needles in." + +She ground at her machine all the while steadily. + +"There are many things you ought to know," she replied. + +"Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine." + +"Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, THIS is how you do it." + +He watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped. Then Polly +appeared, and said in a clear voice: + +"Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you're going to be down +here playing with the girls, Paul." + +Paul flew upstairs, calling "Good-bye!" and Emma drew herself up. + +"It wasn't ME who wanted him to play with the machine," she said. + +As a rule, when all the girls came back at two o'clock, he ran upstairs +to Fanny, the hunchback, in the finishing-off room. Mr. Pappleworth +did not appear till twenty to three, and he often found his boy sitting +beside Fanny, talking, or drawing, or singing with the girls. + +Often, after a minute's hesitation, Fanny would begin to sing. She had a +fine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus, and it went well. +Paul was not at all embarrassed, after a while, sitting in the room with +the half a dozen work-girls. + +At the end of the song Fanny would say: + +"I know you've been laughing at me." + +"Don't be so soft, Fanny!" cried one of the girls. + +Once there was mention of Connie's red hair. + +"Fanny's is better, to my fancy," said Emma. + +"You needn't try to make a fool of me," said Fanny, flushing deeply. + +"No, but she has, Paul; she's got beautiful hair." + +"It's a treat of a colour," said he. "That coldish colour like earth, +and yet shiny. It's like bog-water." + +"Goodness me!" exclaimed one girl, laughing. + +"How I do but get criticised," said Fanny. + +"But you should see it down, Paul," cried Emma earnestly. "It's simply +beautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants something to paint." + +Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to. + +"Then I'll take it down myself," said the lad. + +"Well, you can if you like," said Fanny. + +And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush of hair, of +uniform dark brown, slid over the humped back. + +"What a lovely lot!" he exclaimed. + +The girls watched. There was silence. The youth shook the hair loose +from the coil. + +"It's splendid!" he said, smelling its perfume. "I'll bet it's worth +pounds." + +"I'll leave it you when I die, Paul," said Fanny, half joking. + +"You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair," said one +of the girls to the long-legged hunchback. + +Poor Fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults. Polly was +curt and businesslike. The two departments were for ever at war, and +Paul was always finding Fanny in tears. Then he was made the recipient +of all her woes, and he had to plead her case with Polly. + +So the time went along happily enough. The factory had a homely feel. +No one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyed it when the work got +faster, towards post-time, and all the men united in labour. He liked to +watch his fellow-clerks at work. The man was the work and the work was +the man, one thing, for the time being. It was different with the girls. +The real woman never seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out, +waiting. + +From the train going home at night he used to watch the lights of the +town, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blaze in the +valleys. He felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off, there was +a patch of lights at Bulwell like myriad petals shaken to the ground +from the shed stars; and beyond was the red glare of the furnaces, +playing like hot breath on the clouds. + +He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home, up two long hills, +down two short hills. He was often tired, and he counted the lamps +climbing the hill above him, how many more to pass. And from the +hilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round on the villages five +or six miles away, that shone like swarms of glittering living things, +almost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered the +far-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally the black valley +space between was traced, violated by a great train rushing south to +London or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles level +on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with +their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages +glittered in silence. + +And then he came to the corner at home, which faced the other side +of the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose with +gladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly on the table. + +"It'll help, mother?" he asked wistfully. + +"There's precious little left," she answered, "after your ticket and +dinners and such are taken off." + +Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story, like an Arabian +Nights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost as if it +were her own life. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +DEATH IN THE FAMILY + +ARTHUR MOREL was growing up. He was a quick, careless, impulsive boy, a +good deal like his father. He hated study, made a great moan if he had +to work, and escaped as soon as possible to his sport again. + +In appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well made, +graceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh colouring, and +his exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with his +generous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite. But as he grew +older his temper became uncertain. He flew into rages over nothing, +seemed unbearably raw and irritable. + +His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He thought only of +himself. When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way he +hated, even if it were she. When he was in trouble he moaned to her +ceaselessly. + +"Goodness, boy!" she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said, +hated him, "if you don't like it, alter it, and if you can't alter it, +put up with it." + +And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he came +to detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body, which +had been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem to +ripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable. There came +over him a look of meanness and of paltriness. And when the mean-looking +elderly man bullied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was furious. +Moreover, Morel's manners got worse and worse, his habits somewhat +disgusting. When the children were growing up and in the crucial stage +of adolescence, the father was like some ugly irritant to their souls. +His manners in the house were the same as he used among the colliers +down pit. + +"Dirty nuisance!" Arthur would cry, jumping up and going straight out +of the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel persisted the more +because his children hated it. He seemed to take a kind of satisfaction +in disgusting them, and driving them nearly mad, while they were so +irritably sensitive at the age of fourteen or fifteen. So that Arthur, +who was growing up when his father was degenerate and elderly, hated him +worst of all. + +Then, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptuous hatred +of his children. + +"There's not a man tries harder for his family!" he would shout. "He +does his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I'm not +going to stand it, I tell you!" + +But for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as he +imagined, they would have felt sorry. As it was, the battle now went on +nearly all between father and children, he persisting in his dirty and +disgusting ways, just to assert his independence. They loathed him. + +Arthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won a +scholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother decided +to let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only come home at +week-ends. + +Annie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning about four +shillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since she +had passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in the +house. + +Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But still +he stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everything +he did was for her. She waited for his coming home in the evening, and +then she unburdened herself of all she had pondered, or of all that +had occurred to her during the day. He sat and listened with his +earnestness. The two shared lives. + +William was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her an +engagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped at such a +fabulous price. + +"Eight guineas!" said Morel. "More fool him! If he'd gen me some on't, +it 'ud ha' looked better on 'im." + +"Given YOU some of it!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Why give YOU some of it!" + +She remembered HE had bought no engagement ring at all, and she +preferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But now the +young man talked only of the dances to which he went with his betrothed, +and the different resplendent clothes she wore; or he told his mother +with glee how they went to the theatre like great swells. + +He wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should come at the +Christmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but with no presents. +Mrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing footsteps, she rose and went to +the door. William entered. + +"Hello, mother!" He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to present a +tall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black-and-white +check, and furs. + +"Here's Gyp!" + +Miss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a small smile. + +"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!" she exclaimed. + +"I am afraid you will be hungry," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?" + +William Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly. + +"How should I?" he said. + +"Then I've lost them. Don't be cross with me." + +A frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced round +the kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glittering +kissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden chairs and +little deal table. At that moment Morel came in. + +"Hello, dad!" + +"Hello, my son! Tha's let on me!" + +The two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She gave the same +smile that showed her teeth. + +"How do you do, Mr. Morel?" + +Morel bowed obsequiously. + +"I'm very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself very +welcome." + +"Oh, thank you," she replied, rather amused. + +"You will like to go upstairs," said Mrs. Morel. + +"If you don't mind; but not if it is any trouble to you." + +"It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box." + +"And don't be an hour dressing yourself up," said William to his +betrothed. + +Annie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, preceded +the young lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. and Mrs. Morel had +vacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by candlelight. The +colliers' wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case of extreme illness. + +"Shall I unstrap the box?" asked Annie. + +"Oh, thank you very much!" + +Annie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot water. + +"I think she's rather tired, mother," said William. "It's a beastly +journey, and we had such a rush." + +"Is there anything I can give her?" asked Mrs. Morel. + +"Oh no, she'll be all right." + +But there was a chill in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss Western +came down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, very fine for the +collier's kitchen. + +"I told you you'd no need to change," said William to her. + +"Oh, Chubby!" Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel. +"Don't you think he's always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?" + +"Is he?" said Mrs. Morel. "That's not very nice of him." + +"It isn't, really!" + +"You are cold," said the mother. "Won't you come near the fire?" + +Morel jumped out of his armchair. + +"Come and sit you here!" he cried. "Come and sit you here!" + +"No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp," said William. + +"No, no!" cried Morel. "This cheer's warmest. Come and sit here, Miss +Wesson." + +"Thank you so much," said the girl, seating herself in the collier's +armchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of the +kitchen penetrate her. + +"Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!" she said, putting up her mouth to him, +and using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made the +rest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The young +lady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures to +her for the present. William winced. + +In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a lady +condescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainly +clownish--in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself? + +"I'll go," said Annie. + +Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when the +girl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: "Oh, thank +you!" in a gracious way. + +She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been so +poor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, and +chattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twist +tobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as he +puffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answered +quietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence and +admiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best was +got out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth, +the best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand. +She felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how to +treat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable. + +At about ten o'clock he said to her: + +"Aren't you tired, Gyp?" + +"Rather, Chubby," she answered, at once in the intimate tones and +putting her head slightly on one side. + +"I'll light her the candle, mother," he said. + +"Very well," replied the mother. + +Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel. + +"Good-night, Mrs. Morel," she said. + +Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stone +beer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet, and +kissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the lady, +because the house was full. + +"You wait a minute," said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursing +the hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to everybody's +discomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In five minutes +he was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did not know why. +He talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but himself and +his mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old attitude on +the hearthrug, and said hesitatingly: + +"Well, mother?" + +"Well, my son?" + +She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, for +his sake. + +"Do you like her?" + +"Yes," came the slow answer. + +"She's shy yet, mother. She's not used to it. It's different from her +aunt's house, you know." + +"Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult." + +"She does." Then he frowned swiftly. "If only she wouldn't put on her +BLESSED airs!" + +"It's only her first awkwardness, my boy. She'll be all right." + +"That's it, mother," he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy. +"You know, she's not like you, mother. She's not serious, and she can't +think." + +"She's young, my boy." + +"Yes; and she's had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a +child. Since then she's lived with her aunt, whom she can't bear. And +her father was a rake. She's had no love." + +"No! Well, you must make up to her." + +"And so--you have to forgive her a lot of things." + +"WHAT do you have to forgive her, my boy?" + +"I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she's never had +anybody to bring her deeper side out. And she's FEARFULLY fond of me." + +"Anybody can see that." + +"But you know, mother--she's--she's different from us. Those sort of +people, like those she lives amongst, they don't seem to have the same +principles." + +"You mustn't judge too hastily," said Mrs. Morel. + +But he seemed uneasy within himself. + +In the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house. + +"Hello!" he called, sitting on the stairs. "Are you getting up?" + +"Yes," her voice called faintly. + +"Merry Christmas!" he shouted to her. + +Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did not +come down in half an hour. + +"Was she REALLY getting up when she said she was?" he asked of Annie. + +"Yes, she was," replied Annie. + +He waited a while, then went to the stairs again. + +"Happy New Year," he called. + +"Thank you, Chubby dear!" came the laughing voice, far away. + +"Buck up!" he implored. + +It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, who +always rose before six, looked at the clock. + +"Well, it's a winder!" he exclaimed. + +The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of the +stairs. + +"Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?" he called, rather +crossly. She only laughed. The family expected, after that time of +preparation, something like magic. At last she came, looking very nice +in a blouse and skirt. + +"Have you REALLY been all this time getting ready?" he asked. + +"Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. Morel?" + +She played the grand lady at first. When she went with William +to chapel, he in his frock-coat and silk hat, she in her furs and +London-made costume, Paul and Arthur and Annie expected everybody to bow +to the ground in admiration. And Morel, standing in his Sunday suit +at the end of the road, watching the gallant pair go, felt he was the +father of princes and princesses. + +And yet she was not so grand. For a year now she had been a sort of +secretary or clerk in a London office. But while she was with the Morels +she queened it. She sat and let Annie or Paul wait on her as if they +were her servants. She treated Mrs. Morel with a certain glibness and +Morel with patronage. But after a day or so she began to change her +tune. + +William always wanted Paul or Annie to go along with them on their +walks. It was so much more interesting. And Paul really DID admire +"Gipsy" wholeheartedly; in fact, his mother scarcely forgave the boy for +the adulation with which he treated the girl. + +On the second day, when Lily said: "Oh, Annie, do you know where I left +my muff?" William replied: + +"You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie?" + +And Lily went upstairs with a cross, shut mouth. But it angered the +young man that she made a servant of his sister. + +On the third evening William and Lily were sitting together in the +parlour by the fire in the dark. At a quarter to eleven Mrs. Morel was +heard raking the fire. William came out to the kitchen, followed by his +beloved. + +"Is it as late as that, mother?" he said. She had been sitting alone. + +"It is not LATE, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up." + +"Won't you go to bed, then?" he asked. + +"And leave you two? No, my boy, I don't believe in it." + +"Can't you trust us, mother?" + +"Whether I can or not, I won't do it. You can stay till eleven if you +like, and I can read." + +"Go to bed, Gyp," he said to his girl. "We won't keep mater waiting." + +"Annie has left the candle burning, Lily," said Mrs. Morel; "I think you +will see." + +"Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel." + +William kissed his sweetheart at the foot of the stairs, and she went. +He returned to the kitchen. + +"Can't you trust us, mother?" he repeated, rather offended. + +"My boy, I tell you I don't BELIEVE in leaving two young things like you +alone downstairs when everyone else is in bed." + +And he was forced to take this answer. He kissed his mother good-night. + +At Easter he came over alone. And then he discussed his sweetheart +endlessly with his mother. + +"You know, mother, when I'm away from her I don't care for her a bit. I +shouldn't care if I never saw her again. But, then, when I'm with her in +the evenings I am awfully fond of her." + +"It's a queer sort of love to marry on," said Mrs. Morel, "if she holds +you no more than that!" + +"It IS funny!" he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him. "But +yet--there's so much between us now I couldn't give her up." + +"You know best," said Mrs. Morel. "But if it is as you say, I wouldn't +call it LOVE--at any rate, it doesn't look much like it." + +"Oh, I don't know, mother. She's an orphan, and--" + +They never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled and rather +fretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength and money went +in keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford to take his mother to +Nottingham when he came over. + +Paul's wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings, to his great +joy. He was quite happy at Jordan's, but his health suffered from the +long hours and the confinement. His mother, to whom he became more and +more significant, thought how to help. + +His half-day holiday was on Monday afternoon. On a Monday morning in +May, as the two sat alone at breakfast, she said: + +"I think it will be a fine day." + +He looked up in surprise. This meant something. + +"You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, he asked me +last week if I wouldn't go and see Mrs. Leivers, and I promised to bring +you on Monday if it's fine. Shall we go?" + +"I say, little woman, how lovely!" he cried. "And we'll go this +afternoon?" + +Paul hurried off to the station jubilant. Down Derby Road was a +cherry-tree that glistened. The old brick wall by the Statutes ground +burned scarlet, spring was a very flame of green. And the steep swoop +of highroad lay, in its cool morning dust, splendid with patterns of +sunshine and shadow, perfectly still. The trees sloped their great green +shoulders proudly; and inside the warehouse all the morning, the boy had +a vision of spring outside. + +When he came home at dinner-time his mother was rather excited. + +"Are we going?" he asked. + +"When I'm ready," she replied. + +Presently he got up. + +"Go and get dressed while I wash up," he said. + +She did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took her boots. +They were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those naturally exquisite +people who can walk in mud without dirtying their shoes. But Paul had to +clean them for her. They were kid boots at eight shillings a pair. He, +however, thought them the most dainty boots in the world, and he cleaned +them with as much reverence as if they had been flowers. + +Suddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She had got a +new cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward. + +"Oh, my stars!" he exclaimed. "What a bobby-dazzler!" + +She sniffed in a little haughty way, and put her head up. + +"It's not a bobby-dazzler at all!" she replied. "It's very quiet." + +She walked forward, whilst he hovered round her. + +"Well," she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and mighty, "do +you like it?" + +"Awfully! You ARE a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!" + +He went and surveyed her from the back. + +"Well," he said, "if I was walking down the street behind you, I should +say: 'Doesn't THAT little person fancy herself!"' + +"Well, she doesn't," replied Mrs. Morel. "She's not sure it suits her." + +"Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped in +burnt paper. It DOES suit you, and I say you look nice." + +She sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know better. + +"Well," she said, "it's cost me just three shillings. You couldn't have +got it ready-made for that price, could you?" + +"I should think you couldn't," he replied. + +"And, you know, it's good stuff." + +"Awfully pretty," he said. + +The blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black. + +"Too young for me, though, I'm afraid," she said. + +"Too young for you!" he exclaimed in disgust. "Why don't you buy some +false white hair and stick it on your head." + +"I s'll soon have no need," she replied. "I'm going white fast enough." + +"Well, you've no business to," he said. "What do I want with a +white-haired mother?" + +"I'm afraid you'll have to put up with one, my lad," she said rather +strangely. + +They set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William had given +her, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller than she, though +he was not big. He fancied himself. + +On the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit waved its +plumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely. + +"Now look at that!" said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood on the road to +watch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hill crawled a little group +in silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small truck, and a man. They +climbed the incline against the heavens. At the end the man tipped the +wagon. There was an undue rattle as the waste fell down the sheer slope +of the enormous bank. + +"You sit a minute, mother," he said, and she took a seat on a bank, +whilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, looking +round at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among their greenness. + +"The world is a wonderful place," she said, "and wonderfully beautiful." + +"And so's the pit," he said. "Look how it heaps together, like something +alive almost--a big creature that you don't know." + +"Yes," she said. "Perhaps!" + +"And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to be +fed," he said. + +"And very thankful I am they ARE standing," she said, "for that means +they'll turn middling time this week." + +"But I like the feel of MEN on things, while they're alive. There's a +feel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands, +all of them." + +"Yes," said Mrs. Morel. + +They went along under the trees of the highroad. He was constantly +informing her, but she was interested. They passed the end of +Nethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly in +its lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepidation +approached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman came out to see. + +"Is this the way to Willey Farm?" Mrs. Morel asked. + +Paul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman was +amiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through the wheat +and oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Peewits, with their +white breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed about them. The lake was +still and blue. High overhead a heron floated. Opposite, the wood heaped +on the hill, green and still. + +"It's a wild road, mother," said Paul. "Just like Canada." + +"Isn't it beautiful!" said Mrs. Morel, looking round. + +"See that heron--see--see her legs?" + +He directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And she was +quite content. + +"But now," she said, "which way? He told me through the wood." + +The wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left. + +"I can feel a bit of a path this road," said Paul. "You've got town +feet, somehow or other, you have." + +They found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley of the +wood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an old oak glade +dipping down on the other. And among the oaks the bluebells stood in +pools of azure, under the new green hazels, upon a pale fawn floor of +oak-leaves. He found flowers for her. + +"Here's a bit of new-mown hay," he said; then, again, he brought her +forget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand, +used with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She was +perfectly happy. + +But at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in a +second. + +"Come," he said, "let me help you." + +"No, go away. I will do it in my own way." + +He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbed +cautiously. + +"What a way to climb!" he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely to +earth again. + +"Hateful stiles!" she cried. + +"Duffer of a little woman," he replied, "who can't get over 'em." + +In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farm +buildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the apple +orchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deep +under a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade. +The farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced the +sunshine towards the wood. It was very still. + +Mother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scent +of red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out to +cool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenly +appeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, had +a rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, and +dark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, she +disappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman, +rosy, with great dark brown eyes. + +"Oh!" she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, "you've come, then. I +AM glad to see you." Her voice was intimate and rather sad. + +The two women shook hands. + +"Now are you sure we're not a bother to you?" said Mrs. Morel. "I know +what a farming life is." + +"Oh no! We're only too thankful to see a new face, it's so lost up +here." + +"I suppose so," said Mrs. Morel. + +They were taken through into the parlour--a long, low room, with a great +bunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilst +Paul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling the +gillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly to +the heap of coal which stood by the fence. + +"I suppose these are cabbage-roses?" he said to her, pointing to the +bushes along the fence. + +She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes. + +"I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?" he said. + +"I don't know," she faltered. "They're white with pink middles." + +"Then they're maiden-blush." + +Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring. + +"I don't know," she said. + +"You don't have MUCH in your garden," he said. + +"This is our first year here," she answered, in a distant, rather +superior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, but +went his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and they +went through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted. + +"And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?" +said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers. + +"No," replied the little woman. "I can't find time to look after cattle, +and I'm not used to it. It's as much as I can do to keep going in the +house." + +"Well, I suppose it is," said Mrs. Morel. + +Presently the girl came out. + +"Tea is ready, mother," she said in a musical, quiet voice. + +"Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we'll come," replied her mother, almost +ingratiatingly. "Would you CARE to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?" + +"Of course," said Mrs. Morel. "Whenever it's ready." + +Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then they +went out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while fumy +forget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were in ecstasy +together. + +When they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the eldest +son, were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then Geoffrey and +Maurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in from school. Mr. +Leivers was a good-looking man in the prime of life, with a golden-brown +moustache, and blue eyes screwed up against the weather. + +The boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. They went +round for eggs, scrambling into all sorts of places. As they were +feeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no notice of her. One +hen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. Maurice took his hand full +of corn and let the hen peck from it. + +"Durst you do it?" he asked of Paul. + +"Let's see," said Paul. + +He had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam watched. +He held the corn to the hen. The bird eyed it with her hard, bright eye, +and suddenly made a peck into his hand. He started, and laughed. "Rap, +rap, rap!" went the bird's beak in his palm. He laughed again, and the +other boys joined. + +"She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts," said Paul, when the +last corn had gone. "Now, Miriam," said Maurice, "you come an 'ave a +go." + +"No," she cried, shrinking back. + +"Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!" said her brothers. + +"It doesn't hurt a bit," said Paul. "It only just nips rather nicely." + +"No," she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking. + +"She dursn't," said Geoffrey. "She niver durst do anything except recite +poitry." + +"Dursn't jump off a gate, dursn't tweedle, dursn't go on a slide, +dursn't stop a girl hittin' her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin' +herself somebody. 'The Lady of the Lake.' Yah!" cried Maurice. + +Miriam was crimson with shame and misery. + +"I dare do more than you," she cried. "You're never anything but cowards +and bullies." + +"Oh, cowards and bullies!" they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech. + + "Not such a clown shall anger me, + A boor is answered silently," + +he quoted against her, shouting with laughter. + +She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where they +had rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was more +agile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossom +that hung low on a swinging bough. + +"I wouldn't get the apple-blossom," said Edgar, the eldest brother. +"There'll be no apples next year." + +"I wasn't going to get it," replied Paul, going away. + +The boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their own +pursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his mother. As he +went round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in front of the hen-coop, +some maize in her hand, biting her lip, and crouching in an intense +attitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. Very gingerly she put forward +her hand. The hen bobbed for her. She drew back quickly with a cry, half +of fear, half of chagrin. + +"It won't hurt you," said Paul. + +She flushed crimson and started up. + +"I only wanted to try," she said in a low voice. + +"See, it doesn't hurt," he said, and, putting only two corns in his +palm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. "It only makes +you laugh," he said. + +She put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and started +back with a cry. He frowned. + +"Why, I'd let her take corn from my face," said Paul, "only she bumps a +bit. She's ever so neat. If she wasn't, look how much ground she'd peck +up every day." + +He waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird peck from +her hand. She gave a little cry--fear, and pain because of fear--rather +pathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again. + +"There, you see," said the boy. "It doesn't hurt, does it?" + +She looked at him with dilated dark eyes. + +"No," she laughed, trembling. + +Then she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some way resentful +of the boy. + +"He thinks I'm only a common girl," she thought, and she wanted to prove +she was a grand person like the "Lady of the Lake". + +Paul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her son. He took +the great bunch of flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Leivers walked down the fields +with them. The hills were golden with evening; deep in the woods showed +the darkening purple of bluebells. It was everywhere perfectly stiff, +save for the rustling of leaves and birds. + +"But it is a beautiful place," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Yes," answered Mr. Leivers; "it's a nice little place, if only it +weren't for the rabbits. The pasture's bitten down to nothing. I dunno +if ever I s'll get the rent off it." + +He clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near the woods, +brown rabbits hopping everywhere. + +"Would you believe it!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel. + +She and Paul went on alone together. + +"Wasn't it lovely, mother?" he said quietly. + +A thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness till it +hurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted to cry with +happiness. + +"Now WOULDN'T I help that man!" she said. "WOULDN'T I see to the fowls +and the young stock! And I'D learn to milk, and I'D talk with him, and +I'D plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the farm would be run, +I know! But there, she hasn't the strength--she simply hasn't the +strength. She ought never to have been burdened like it, you know. I'm +sorry for her, and I'm sorry for him too. My word, if I'D had him, I +shouldn't have thought him a bad husband! Not that she does either; and +she's very lovable." + +William came home again with his sweetheart at the Whitsuntide. He had +one week of his holidays then. It was beautiful weather. As a rule, +William and Lily and Paul went out in the morning together for a walk. +William did not talk to his beloved much, except to tell her things from +his boyhood. Paul talked endlessly to both of them. They lay down, all +three, in a meadow by Minton Church. On one side, by the Castle Farm, +was a beautiful quivering screen of poplars. Hawthorn was dropping +from the hedges; penny daisies and ragged robin were in the field, like +laughter. William, a big fellow of twenty-three, thinner now and even a +bit gaunt, lay back in the sunshine and dreamed, while she fingered with +his hair. Paul went gathering the big daisies. She had taken off her +hat; her hair was black as a horse's mane. Paul came back and threaded +daisies in her jet-black hair--big spangles of white and yellow, and +just a pink touch of ragged robin. + +"Now you look like a young witch-woman," the boy said to her. "Doesn't +she, William?" + +Lily laughed. William opened his eyes and looked at her. In his gaze was +a certain baffled look of misery and fierce appreciation. + +"Has he made a sight of me?" she asked, laughing down on her lover. + +"That he has!" said William, smiling. + +He looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glanced at her +flower-decked head and frowned. + +"You look nice enough, if that's what you want to know," he said. + +And she walked without her hat. In a little while William recovered, and +was rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he carved her initials and +his in a heart. + +L. L. W. + +W. M. + +She watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glistening hairs and +freckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it. + +All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and a certain +tenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were at home. But often +he got irritable. She had brought, for an eight-days' stay, five dresses +and six blouses. + +"Oh, would you mind," she said to Annie, "washing me these two blouses, +and these things?" + +And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next morning. +Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching a glimpse +of his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister, hated her. + +On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard, silky +and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and in a large cream hat +covered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough. +But in the evening, when she was going out, she asked again: + +"Chubby, have you got my gloves?" + +"Which?" asked William. + +"My new black SUEDE." + +"No." + +There was a hunt. She had lost them. + +"Look here, mother," said William, "that's the fourth pair she's lost +since Christmas--at five shillings a pair!" + +"You only gave me TWO of them," she remonstrated. + +And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst she +sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had +left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a +book. After supper William wanted to write a letter. + +"Here is your book, Lily," said Mrs. Morel. "Would you care to go on +with it for a few minutes?" + +"No, thank you," said the girl. "I will sit still." + +"But it is so dull." + +William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope +he said: + +"Read a book! Why, she's never read a book in her life." + +"Oh, go along!" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration, + +"It's true, mother--she hasn't," he cried, jumping up and taking his old +position on the hearthrug. "She's never read a book in her life." + +"'Er's like me," chimed in Morel. "'Er canna see what there is i' books, +ter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I." + +"But you shouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel to her son. + +"But it's true, mother--she CAN'T read. What did you give her?" + +"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants to read +dry stuff on Sunday afternoon." + +"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it." + +"You are mistaken," said his mother. + +All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly. + +"DID you read any?" he asked. + +"Yes, I did," she replied. + +"How much?" + +"I don't know how many pages." + +"Tell me ONE THING you read." + +She could not. + +She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a +quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but love-making +and chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughts sifted through +his mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and was asked in +reply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed. + +"You know, mother," he said, when he was alone with her at night, "she's +no idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When she's paid, she'll +suddenly buy such rot as marrons glaces, and then I have to buy her +season ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to +get married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year. +But at this rate--" + +"A fine mess of a marriage it would be," replied his mother. "I should +consider it again, my boy." + +"Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now," he said, "and so I shall +get married as soon as I can." + +"Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there's no stopping you; +but I tell you, I can't sleep when I think about it." + +"Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage." + +"And she lets you buy her underclothing?" asked the mother. + +"Well," he began apologetically, "she didn't ask me; but one +morning--and it WAS cold--I found her on the station shivering, not able +to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: 'I +think so.' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings on?' And she +said: 'No, they were cotton.' I asked her why on earth she hadn't got +something thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she HAD +nothing. And there she is--a bronchial subject! I HAD to take her and +get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn't mind the money if we +had any. And, you know, she OUGHT to keep enough to pay for her +season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find +the money." + +"It's a poor lookout," said Mrs. Morel bitterly. + +He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly careless +and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair. + +"But I can't give her up now; it's gone too far," he said. "And, +besides, for SOME things I couldn't do without her." + +"My boy, remember you're taking your life in your hands," said Mrs. +Morel. "NOTHING is as bad as a marriage that's a hopeless failure. Mine +was bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but it +might have been worse by a long chalk." + +He leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece, his hands +in his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who looked as if he would +go to the world's end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on his +face. + +"I couldn't give her up now," he said. + +"Well," she said, "remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an +engagement." + +"I can't give her up NOW," he said. + +The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflict +between them; but he would say no more. At last she said: + +"Well, go to bed, my son. You'll feel better in the morning, and perhaps +you'll know better." + +He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy now +as it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to be +breaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. Now +her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck. + +And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed. +On the last evening at home he was railing against her. + +"Well," he said, "if you don't believe me, what she's like, would you +believe she has been confirmed three times?" + +"Nonsense!" laughed Mrs. Morel. + +"Nonsense or not, she HAS! That's what confirmation means for her--a bit +of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure." + +"I haven't, Mrs. Morel!" cried the girl--"I haven't! it is not true!" + +"What!" he cried, flashing round on her. "Once in Bromley, once in +Beckenham, and once somewhere else." + +"Nowhere else!" she said, in tears--"nowhere else!" + +"It WAS! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed TWICE?" + +"Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel," she pleaded, tears in her eyes. + +"Yes," said Mrs. Morel; "I can quite understand it, child. Take no +notice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things." + +"But it's true. She's religious--she had blue velvet Prayer-Books--and +she's not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that +table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, and +that's how she is in EVERYTHING--EVERYTHING!" + +The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong. + +"As for LOVE!" he cried, "you might as well ask a fly to love you! It'll +love settling on you--" + +"Now, say no more," commanded Mrs. Morel. "If you want to say these +things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, +William! Why don't you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with +a girl, and then pretend you're engaged to her!" + +Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation. + +William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted the +girl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her. + +When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as +Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station. + +"You know, mother," he said to her, "Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deep +with her." + +"William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel, very +uncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her. + +"But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now, but if I +died she'd have forgotten me in three months." + +Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the quiet +bitterness of her son's last speech. + +"How do you know?" she replied. "You DON'T know, and therefore you've no +right to say such a thing." + +"He's always saying these things!" cried the girl. + +"In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else, and I +should be forgotten," he said. "And that's your love!" + +Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she returned +home. + +"There's one comfort," she said to Paul--"he'll never have any money to +marry on, that I AM sure of. And so she'll save him that way." + +So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly +believed William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, and she kept +Paul near to her. + +All summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemed +unnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly, usually he +was flat and bitter in his letter. + +"Ah," his mother said, "I'm afraid he's ruining himself against that +creature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no more than a rag doll." + +He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; it was a long +while to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, saying he could come +for Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the first week in October. + +"You are not well, my boy," said his mother, when she saw him. She was +almost in tears at having him to herself again. + +"No, I've not been well," he said. "I've seemed to have a dragging cold +all the last month, but it's going, I think." + +It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboy +escaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than +ever, and there was a haggard look in his eyes. + +"You are doing too much," said his mother to him. + +He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on, he said. +He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night; then he was sad +and tender about his beloved. + +"And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd be +broken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. You'd +see, she'd never come home here to look at my grave, not even once." + +"Why, William," said his mother, "you're not going to die, so why talk +about it?" + +"But whether or not--" he replied. + +"And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you choose her--well, +you can't grumble," said his mother. + +On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on: + +"Look," he said to his mother, holding up his chin, "what a rash my +collar's made under my chin!" + +Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation. + +"It ought not to do that," said his mother. "Here, put a bit of this +soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars." + +He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solid for his +two days at home. + +On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs. +Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram, +called a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign, put +on her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught an express for +London in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottingham nearly an hour. A +small figure in her black bonnet, she was anxiously asking the porters +if they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She +sat in her corner in a kind of stupor, never moving. At King's Cross +still no one could tell her how to get to Elmers End. Carrying her +string bag, that contained her nightdress, a comb and brush, she went +from person to person. At last they sent her underground to Cannon +Street. + +It was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The blinds +were not down. + +"How is he?" she asked. + +"No better," said the landlady. + +She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with bloodshot +eyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were tossed about, there +was no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood on the stand at his +bedside. No one had been with him. + +"Why, my son!" said the mother bravely. + +He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then he began +to say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dictation: "Owing +to a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and become +converted into rock. It needed hacking--" + +He was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine some such +cargo of sugar in the Port of London. + +"How long has he been like this?" the mother asked the landlady. + +"He got home at six o'clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleep +all day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning he +asked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor." + +"Will you have a fire made?" + +Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still. + +The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar erysipelas, +which had started under the chin where the collar chafed, and was +spreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain. + +Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, prayed that he +would recognise her. But the young man's face grew more discoloured. +In the night she struggled with him. He raved, and raved, and would not +come to consciousness. At two o'clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died. + +Mrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom; then +she roused the household. + +At six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; then +she went round the dreary London village to the registrar and the +doctor. + +At nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire: + +"William died last night. Let father come, bring money." + +Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone to work. The +three children said not a word. Annie began to whimper with fear; Paul +set off for his father. + +It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly in +the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkled +high up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busy +noise. + +"I want my father; he's got to go to London," said the boy to the first +man he met on the bank. + +"Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an' tell Joe Ward." + +Paul went into the little top office. + +"I want my father; he's got to go to London." + +"Thy feyther? Is he down? What's his name?" + +"Mr. Morel." + +"What, Walter? Is owt amiss?" + +"He's got to go to London." + +The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office. + +"Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat's amiss; there's his lad +here." + +Then he turned round to Paul. + +"He'll be up in a few minutes," he said. + +Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up, with its +wagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest, a full carfle +was hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, a bell ting'ed +somewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone. + +Paul did not realise William was dead; it was impossible, with such +a bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to the +turn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curving +lines. + +"And William is dead, and my mother's in London, and what will she be +doing?" the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum. + +He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last, +standing beside a wagon, a man's form! the chair sank on its rests, +Morel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident. + +"Is it thee, Paul? Is 'e worse?" + +"You've got to go to London." + +The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. As +they came out and went along the railway, with the sunny autumn field on +one side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a frightened +voice: + +"'E's niver gone, child?" + +"Yes." + +"When wor't?" + +"Last night. We had a telegram from my mother." + +Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a truck-side, +his hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round, +waiting. On the weighing machine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saw +everything, except his father leaning against the truck as if he were +tired. + +Morel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared and +peaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children were left +alone in the house. Paul went to work, Arthur went to school, and Annie +had in a friend to be with her. + +On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, coming home from +Keston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to Sethley Bridge +Station. They were walking in silence in the dark, tired, straggling +apart. The boy waited. + +"Mother!" he said, in the darkness. + +Mrs. Morel's small figure seemed not to observe. He spoke again. + +"Paul!" she said, uninterestedly. + +She let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him. + +In the house she was the same--small, white, and mute. She noticed +nothing, she said nothing, only: + +"The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You'd better see about some +help." Then, turning to the children: "We're bringing him home." + +Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space, her hands +folded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he could not breathe. The +house was dead silent. + +"I went to work, mother," he said plaintively. + +"Did you?" she answered, dully. + +After half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again. + +"Wheer s'll we ha'e him when he DOES come?" he asked his wife. + +"In the front-room." + +"Then I'd better shift th' table?" + +"Yes." + +"An' ha'e him across th' chairs?" + +"You know there--Yes, I suppose so." + +Morel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There was no gas +there. The father unscrewed the top of the big mahogany oval table, and +cleared the middle of the room; then he arranged six chairs opposite +each other, so that the coffin could stand on their beds. + +"You niver seed such a length as he is!" said the miner, and watching +anxiously as he worked. + +Paul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-tree stood monstrous +and black in front of the wide darkness. It was a faintly luminous +night. Paul went back to his mother. + +At ten o'clock Morel called: + +"He's here!" + +Everyone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlocking the front +door, which opened straight from the night into the room. + +"Bring another candle," called Morel. + +Annie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He stood with his +arm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down the middle of the cleared +room waited six chairs, face to face. In the window, against the lace +curtains, Arthur held up one candle, and by the open door, against the +night, Annie stood leaning forward, her brass candlestick glittering. + +There was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of the street +below Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, and a few +pale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves, seemed to +struggle in the obscurity. Presently two men appeared, bowed beneath a +great weight. It was Morel and his neighbour. + +"Steady!" called Morel, out of breath. + +He and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved into the +candlelight with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other men were seen +struggling behind. Morel and Burns, in front, staggered; the great dark +weight swayed. + +"Steady, steady!" cried Morel, as if in pain. + +All the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding the great +coffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door. The yellow lamp +of the carriage shone alone down the black road. + +"Now then!" said Morel. + +The coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with their +load. Annie's candle flickered, and she whimpered as the first men +appeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men struggled to climb +into the room, bearing the coffin that rode like sorrow on their living +flesh. + +"Oh, my son--my son!" Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each time the coffin +swung to the unequal climbing of the men: "Oh, my son--my son--my son!" + +"Mother!" Paul whimpered, his hand round her waist. + +She did not hear. + +"Oh, my son--my son!" she repeated. + +Paul saw drops of sweat fall from his father's brow. Six men were in +the room--six coatless men, with yielding, struggling limbs, filling +the room and knocking against the furniture. The coffin veered, and was +gently lowered on to the chairs. The sweat fell from Morel's face on its +boards. + +"My word, he's a weight!" said a man, and the five miners sighed, bowed, +and, trembling with the struggle, descended the steps again, closing the +door behind them. + +The family was alone in the parlour with the great polished box. +William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like a monument +lay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought it would never be +got out of the room again. His mother was stroking the polished wood. + +They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the hillside +that looks over the fields at the big church and the houses. It was +sunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves in the warmth. + +Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take her old +bright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way home in the +train she had said to herself: "If only it could have been me!" + +When Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting, her day's work +done, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse apron. She always +used to have changed her dress and put on a black apron, before. Now +Annie set his supper, and his mother sat looking blankly in front of +her, her mouth shut tight. Then he beat his brains for news to tell her. + +"Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of a +colliery at work was beautiful." + +But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself to +tell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost insane +to have her thus. At last: + +"What's a-matter, mother?" he asked. + +She did not hear. + +"What's a-matter?" he persisted. "Mother, what's a-matter?" + +"You know what's the matter," she said irritably, turning away. + +The lad--he was sixteen years old--went to bed drearily. He was cut off +and wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried, +but she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son; +he had been let to die so cruelly. + +At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in his +pocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and her +heart stood still. + +"What's the matter?" she asked. + +"I'm badly, mother!" he replied. "Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for +a Christmas-box!" + +He handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the table. + +"You aren't glad!" he reproached her; but he trembled violently. + +"Where hurts you?" she said, unbuttoning his overcoat. + +It was the old question. + +"I feel badly, mother." + +She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, the +doctor said. + +"Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not let him go to +Nottingham?" was one of the first things she asked. + +"He might not have been so bad," said the doctor. + +Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground. + +"I should have watched the living, not the dead," she told herself. + +Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they could +not afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One +night he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of +dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritability +to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle, +like madness. + +"I s'll die, mother!" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow. + +She lifted him up, crying in a small voice: + +"Oh, my son--my son!" + +That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up and +arrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for +love. + +"For some things," said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paul was ill that +Christmas. I believe it saved his mother." + +Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His father +had bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame in +the window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his +mother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's life +now rooted itself in Paul. + +William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a letter +from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a letter at the New +Year. + +"I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I +enjoyed myself thoroughly," said the letter. "I had every dance--did not +sit out one." + +Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her. + +Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after the +death of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyed +and blank across the room. Then he got up suddenly and hurried out to +the Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his life +would he go for a walk up Shepstone, past the office where his son had +worked, and he always avoided the cemetery. + + + +PART TWO + +CHAPTER VII + +LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE + +PAUL had been many times up to Willey Farm during the autumn. He +was friends with the two youngest boys. Edgar the eldest, would not +condescend at first. And Miriam also refused to be approached. She was +afraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers. The girl was +romantic in her soul. Everywhere was a Walter Scott heroine being +loved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps. She herself was +something of a princess turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination. +And she was afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked something +like a Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knew +what algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every day, might +consider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to perceive the princess +beneath; so she held aloof. + +Her great companion was her mother. They were both brown-eyed, and +inclined to be mystical, such women as treasure religion inside them, +breathe it in their nostrils, and see the whole of life in a mist +thereof. So to Miriam, Christ and God made one great figure, which she +loved tremblingly and passionately when a tremendous sunset burned +out the western sky, and Ediths, and Lucys, and Rowenas, Brian de Bois +Guilberts, Rob Roys, and Guy Mannerings, rustled the sunny leaves in the +morning, or sat in her bedroom aloft, alone, when it snowed. That was +life to her. For the rest, she drudged in the house, which work she +would not have minded had not her clean red floor been mucked up +immediately by the trampling farm-boots of her brothers. She madly +wanted her little brother of four to let her swathe him and stifle +him in her love; she went to church reverently, with bowed head, and +quivered in anguish from the vulgarity of the other choir-girls and from +the common-sounding voice of the curate; she fought with her brothers, +whom she considered brutal louts; and she held not her father in too +high esteem because he did not carry any mystical ideals cherished in +his heart, but only wanted to have as easy a time as he could, and his +meals when he was ready for them. + +She hated her position as swine-girl. She wanted to be considered. She +wanted to learn, thinking that if she could read, as Paul said he could +read, "Colomba", or the "Voyage autour de ma Chambre", the world would +have a different face for her and a deepened respect. She could not be +princess by wealth or standing. So she was mad to have learning whereon +to pride herself. For she was different from other folk, and must not +be scooped up among the common fry. Learning was the only distinction to +which she thought to aspire. + +Her beauty--that of a shy, wild, quiveringly sensitive thing--seemed +nothing to her. Even her soul, so strong for rhapsody, was not enough. +She must have something to reinforce her pride, because she felt +different from other people. Paul she eyed rather wistfully. On the +whole, she scorned the male sex. But here was a new specimen, quick, +light, graceful, who could be gentle and who could be sad, and who was +clever, and who knew a lot, and who had a death in the family. The boy's +poor morsel of learning exalted him almost sky-high in her esteem. +Yet she tried hard to scorn him, because he would not see in her the +princess but only the swine-girl. And he scarcely observed her. + +Then he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak. Then she would be +stronger than he. Then she could love him. If she could be mistress of +him in his weakness, take care of him, if he could depend on her, if she +could, as it were, have him in her arms, how she would love him! + +As soon as the skies brightened and plum-blossom was out, Paul drove off +in the milkman's heavy float up to Willey Farm. Mr. Leivers shouted in a +kindly fashion at the boy, then clicked to the horse as they climbed the +hill slowly, in the freshness of the morning. White clouds went on +their way, crowding to the back of the hills that were rousing in the +springtime. The water of Nethermere lay below, very blue against the +seared meadows and the thorn-trees. + +It was four and a half miles' drive. Tiny buds on the hedges, vivid +as copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes called, and +blackbirds shrieked and scolded. It was a new, glamorous world. + +Miriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse walk through +the big white gate into the farmyard that was backed by the oak-wood, +still bare. Then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbed down. He put up +his hands for the whip and the rug that the good-looking, ruddy farmer +handed down to him. + +Miriam appeared in the doorway. She was nearly sixteen, very beautiful, +with her warm colouring, her gravity, her eyes dilating suddenly like an +ecstasy. + +"I say," said Paul, turning shyly aside, "your daffodils are nearly out. +Isn't it early? But don't they look cold?" + +"Cold!" said Miriam, in her musical, caressing voice. + +"The green on their buds--" and he faltered into silence timidly. + +"Let me take the rug," said Miriam over-gently. + +"I can carry it," he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it to her. + +Then Mrs. Leivers appeared. + +"I'm sure you're tired and cold," she said. "Let me take your coat. It +IS heavy. You mustn't walk far in it." + +She helped him off with his coat. He was quite unused to such attention. +She was almost smothered under its weight. + +"Why, mother," laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen, +swinging the great milk-churns, "you've got almost more than you can +manage there." + +She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth. + +The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originally +a labourer's cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paul +loved it--loved the sack-bag that formed the hearthrug, and the funny +little corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner, +through which, bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the back +garden and the lovely round hills beyond. + +"Won't you lie down?" said Mrs. Leivers. + +"Oh no; I'm not tired," he said. "Isn't it lovely coming out, don't you +think? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I'm glad +it's sunny." + +"Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?" + +"No, thank you." + +"How's your mother?" + +"I think she's tired now. I think she's had too much to do. Perhaps in a +little while she'll go to Skegness with me. Then she'll be able to rest. +I s'll be glad if she can." + +"Yes," replied Mrs. Leivers. "It's a wonder she isn't ill herself." + +Miriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched everything that +happened. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were quick and bright +with life as ever. He watched the strange, almost rhapsodic way in which +the girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or looking +in the saucepan. The atmosphere was different from that of his own home, +where everything seemed so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudly +outside to the horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushes +in the garden, the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as if +something had come breaking in on her world. There was a sense of +silence inside the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, +a maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical. +And her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots seemed only +like the romantic rags of King Cophetua's beggar-maid. + +She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her all +in. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. She +resented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was not +pulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwards +her hands trembled slightly at her work. She nearly dropped all she +handled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered with +trepidation. She resented that he saw so much. + +Mrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she was +needed at her work. She was too polite to leave him. Presently she +excused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tin +saucepan. + +"Oh DEAR, Miriam," she cried, "these potatoes have boiled dry!" + +Miriam started as if she had been stung. + +"HAVE they, mother?" she cried. + +"I shouldn't care, Miriam," said the mother, "if I hadn't trusted them +to you." She peered into the pan. + +The girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; she +remained standing in the same spot. + +"Well," she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, "I'm sure I +looked at them five minutes since." + +"Yes," said the mother, "I know it's easily done." + +"They're not much burned," said Paul. "It doesn't matter, does it?" + +Mrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes. + +"It wouldn't matter but for the boys," she said to him. "Only Miriam +knows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are 'caught'." + +"Then," thought Paul to himself, "you shouldn't let them make a +trouble." + +After a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots were +covered with earth. He was rather small, rather formal, for a farmer. He +glanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said: + +"Dinner ready?" + +"Nearly, Edgar," replied the mother apologetically. + +"I'm ready for mine," said the young man, taking up the newspaper and +reading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. Dinner was served. +The meal went rather brutally. The over-gentleness and apologetic tone +of the mother brought out all the brutality of manners in the sons. +Edgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouth quickly like a rabbit, looked +indignantly at his mother, and said: + +"These potatoes are burnt, mother." + +"Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you'll have bread if +you can't eat them." + +Edgar looked in anger across at Miriam. + +"What was Miriam doing that she couldn't attend to them?" he said. + +Miriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and winced, but +she said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her shame, bowing her dark +head. + +"I'm sure she was trying hard," said the mother. + +"She hasn't got sense even to boil the potatoes," said Edgar. "What is +she kept at home for?" + +"On'y for eating everything that's left in th' pantry," said Maurice. + +"They don't forget that potato-pie against our Miriam," laughed the +father. + +She was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, like +some saint out of place at the brutal board. + +It puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feeling +went running because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother exalted +everything--even a bit of housework--to the plane of a religious trust. +The sons resented this; they felt themselves cut away underneath, and +they answered with brutality and also with a sneering superciliousness. + +Paul was just opening out from childhood into manhood. This atmosphere, +where everything took a religious value, came with a subtle fascination +to him. There was something in the air. His own mother was logical. Here +there was something different, something he loved, something that at +times he hated. + +Miriam quarrelled with her brothers fiercely. Later in the afternoon, +when they had gone away again, her mother said: + +"You disappointed me at dinner-time, Miriam." + +The girl dropped her head. + +"They are such BRUTES!" she suddenly cried, looking up with flashing +eyes. + +"But hadn't you promised not to answer them?" said the mother. "And I +believed in you. I CAN'T stand it when you wrangle." + +"But they're so hateful!" cried Miriam, "and--and LOW." + +"Yes, dear. But how often have I asked you not to answer Edgar back? +Can't you let him say what he likes?" + +"But why should he say what he likes?" + +"Aren't you strong enough to bear it, Miriam, if even for my sake? Are +you so weak that you must wrangle with them?" + +Mrs. Leivers stuck unflinchingly to this doctrine of "the other cheek". +She could not instil it at all into the boys. With the girls she +succeeded better, and Miriam was the child of her heart. The boys +loathed the other cheek when it was presented to them. Miriam was often +sufficiently lofty to turn it. Then they spat on her and hated her. But +she walked in her proud humility, living within herself. + +There was always this feeling of jangle and discord in the Leivers +family. Although the boys resented so bitterly this eternal appeal to +their deeper feelings of resignation and proud humility, yet it had +its effect on them. They could not establish between themselves and an +outsider just the ordinary human feeling and unexaggerated friendship; +they were always restless for the something deeper. Ordinary folk +seemed shallow to them, trivial and inconsiderable. And so they were +unaccustomed, painfully uncouth in the simplest social intercourse, +suffering, and yet insolent in their superiority. Then beneath was the +yearning for the soul-intimacy to which they could not attain because +they were too dumb, and every approach to close connection was blocked +by their clumsy contempt of other people. They wanted genuine intimacy, +but they could not get even normally near to anyone, because they +scorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which forms +common human intercourse. + +Paul fell under Mrs. Leivers's spell. Everything had a religious +and intensified meaning when he was with her. His soul, hurt, highly +developed, sought her as if for nourishment. Together they seemed to +sift the vital fact from an experience. + +Miriam was her mother's daughter. In the sunshine of the afternoon +mother and daughter went down the fields with him. They looked for +nests. There was a jenny wren's in the hedge by the orchard. + +"I DO want you to see this," said Mrs. Leivers. + +He crouched down and carefully put his finger through the thorns into +the round door of the nest. + +"It's almost as if you were feeling inside the live body of the bird," +he said, "it's so warm. They say a bird makes its nest round like a cup +with pressing its breast on it. Then how did it make the ceiling round, +I wonder?" + +The nest seemed to start into life for the two women. After that, Miriam +came to see it every day. It seemed so close to her. Again, going +down the hedgeside with the girl, he noticed the celandines, scalloped +splashes of gold, on the side of the ditch. + +"I like them," he said, "when their petals go flat back with the +sunshine. They seemed to be pressing themselves at the sun." + +And then the celandines ever after drew her with a little spell. +Anthropomorphic as she was, she stimulated him into appreciating things +thus, and then they lived for her. She seemed to need things kindling in +her imagination or in her soul before she felt she had them. And she +was cut off from ordinary life by her religious intensity which made +the world for her either a nunnery garden or a paradise, where sin and +knowledge were not, or else an ugly, cruel thing. + +So it was in this atmosphere of subtle intimacy, this meeting in their +common feeling for something in Nature, that their love started. + +Personally, he was a long time before he realized her. For ten months he +had to stay at home after his illness. For a while he went to Skegness +with his mother, and was perfectly happy. But even from the seaside he +wrote long letters to Mrs. Leivers about the shore and the sea. And he +brought back his beloved sketches of the flat Lincoln coast, anxious +for them to see. Almost they would interest the Leivers more than they +interested his mother. It was not his art Mrs. Morel cared about; it +was himself and his achievement. But Mrs. Leivers and her children were +almost his disciples. They kindled him and made him glow to his work, +whereas his mother's influence was to make him quietly determined, +patient, dogged, unwearied. + +He soon was friends with the boys, whose rudeness was only superficial. +They had all, when they could trust themselves, a strange gentleness and +lovableness. + +"Will you come with me on to the fallow?" asked Edgar, rather +hesitatingly. + +Paul went joyfully, and spent the afternoon helping to hoe or to single +turnips with his friend. He used to lie with the three brothers in +the hay piled up in the barn and tell them about Nottingham and about +Jordan's. In return, they taught him to milk, and let him do little +jobs--chopping hay or pulping turnips--just as much as he liked. At +midsummer he worked all through hay-harvest with them, and then he loved +them. The family was so cut off from the world actually. They seemed, +somehow, like "_les derniers fils d'une race epuisee_". Though the lads +were strong and healthy, yet they had all that over-sensitiveness and +hanging-back which made them so lonely, yet also such close, delicate +friends once their intimacy was won. Paul loved them dearly, and they +him. + +Miriam came later. But he had come into her life before she made any +mark on his. One dull afternoon, when the men were on the land and the +rest at school, only Miriam and her mother at home, the girl said to +him, after having hesitated for some time: + +"Have you seen the swing?" + +"No," he answered. "Where?" + +"In the cowshed," she replied. + +She always hesitated to offer or to show him anything. Men have such +different standards of worth from women, and her dear things--the +valuable things to her--her brothers had so often mocked or flouted. + +"Come on, then," he replied, jumping up. + +There were two cowsheds, one on either side of the barn. In the lower, +darker shed there was standing for four cows. Hens flew scolding over +the manger-wall as the youth and girl went forward for the great thick +rope which hung from the beam in the darkness overhead, and was pushed +back over a peg in the wall. + +"It's something like a rope!" he exclaimed appreciatively; and he sat +down on it, anxious to try it. Then immediately he rose. + +"Come on, then, and have first go," he said to the girl. + +"See," she answered, going into the barn, "we put some bags on the +seat"; and she made the swing comfortable for him. That gave her +pleasure. He held the rope. + +"Come on, then," he said to her. + +"No, I won't go first," she answered. + +She stood aside in her still, aloof fashion. + +"Why?" + +"You go," she pleaded. + +Almost for the first time in her life she had the pleasure of giving up +to a man, of spoiling him. Paul looked at her. + +"All right," he said, sitting down. "Mind out!" + +He set off with a spring, and in a moment was flying through the air, +almost out of the door of the shed, the upper half of which was open, +showing outside the drizzling rain, the filthy yard, the cattle standing +disconsolate against the black cartshed, and at the back of all +the grey-green wall of the wood. She stood below in her crimson +tam-o'-shanter and watched. He looked down at her, and she saw his blue +eyes sparkling. + +"It's a treat of a swing," he said. + +"Yes." + +He was swinging through the air, every bit of him swinging, like a bird +that swoops for joy of movement. And he looked down at her. Her crimson +cap hung over her dark curls, her beautiful warm face, so still in a +kind of brooding, was lifted towards him. It was dark and rather cold in +the shed. Suddenly a swallow came down from the high roof and darted out +of the door. + +"I didn't know a bird was watching," he called. + +He swung negligently. She could feel him falling and lifting through the +air, as if he were lying on some force. + +"Now I'll die," he said, in a detached, dreamy voice, as though he were +the dying motion of the swing. She watched him, fascinated. Suddenly he +put on the brake and jumped out. + +"I've had a long turn," he said. "But it's a treat of a swing--it's a +real treat of a swing!" + +Miriam was amused that he took a swing so seriously and felt so warmly +over it. + +"No; you go on," she said. + +"Why, don't you want one?" he asked, astonished. + +"Well, not much. I'll have just a little." + +She sat down, whilst he kept the bags in place for her. + +"It's so ripping!" he said, setting her in motion. "Keep your heels up, +or they'll bang the manger wall." + +She felt the accuracy with which he caught her, exactly at the right +moment, and the exactly proportionate strength of his thrust, and she +was afraid. Down to her bowels went the hot wave of fear. She was in his +hands. Again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at the right moment. +She gripped the rope, almost swooning. + +"Ha!" she laughed in fear. "No higher!" + +"But you're not a BIT high," he remonstrated. + +"But no higher." + +He heard the fear in her voice, and desisted. Her heart melted in hot +pain when the moment came for him to thrust her forward again. But he +left her alone. She began to breathe. + +"Won't you really go any farther?" he asked. "Should I keep you there?" + +"No; let me go by myself," she answered. + +He moved aside and watched her. + +"Why, you're scarcely moving," he said. + +She laughed slightly with shame, and in a moment got down. + +"They say if you can swing you won't be sea-sick," he said, as he +mounted again. "I don't believe I should ever be sea-sick." + +Away he went. There was something fascinating to her in him. For the +moment he was nothing but a piece of swinging stuff; not a particle of +him that did not swing. She could never lose herself so, nor could her +brothers. It roused a warmth in her. It was almost as if he were a flame +that had lit a warmth in her whilst he swung in the middle air. + +And gradually the intimacy with the family concentrated for Paul on +three persons--the mother, Edgar, and Miriam. 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 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?" + +"Because you're not; because you're different inside, like a pine-tree, +and then you flare up; but you're not just like an ordinary tree, with +fidgety leaves and jolly--" + +He got tangled up in his own speech; but she brooded on it, and he had a +strange, roused sensation, as if his feelings were new. She got so near +him. It was a strange stimulant. + +Then sometimes he hated her. Her youngest brother was only five. He was +a frail lad, with immense brown eyes in his quaint fragile face--one of +Reynolds's "Choir of Angels", with a touch of elf. Often Miriam kneeled +to the child and drew him to her. + +"Eh, my Hubert!" she sang, in a voice heavy and surcharged with love. +"Eh, my Hubert!" + +And, folding him in her arms, she swayed slightly from side to side with +love, her face half lifted, her eyes half closed, her voice drenched +with love. + +"Don't!" said the child, uneasy--"don't, Miriam!" + +"Yes; you love me, don't you?" she murmured deep in her throat, almost +as if she were in a trance, and swaying also as if she were swooned in +an ecstasy of love. + +"Don't!" repeated the child, a frown on his clear brow. + +"You love me, don't you?" she murmured. + +"What do you make such a FUSS for?" cried Paul, all in suffering because +of her extreme emotion. "Why can't you be ordinary with him?" + +She let the child go, and rose, and said nothing. Her intensity, which +would leave no emotion on a normal plane, irritated the youth into +a frenzy. And this fearful, naked contact of her on small occasions +shocked him. He was used to his mother's reserve. And on such occasions +he was thankful in his heart and soul that he had his mother, so sane +and wholesome. + +All the life of Miriam's body was in her eyes, which were usually dark +as a dark church, but could flame with light like a conflagration. Her +face scarcely ever altered from its look of brooding. She might have +been one of the women who went with Mary when Jesus was dead. Her body +was not flexible and living. She walked with a swing, rather heavily, +her head bowed forward, pondering. She was not clumsy, and yet none of +her movements seemed quite THE movement. Often, when wiping the dishes, +she would stand in bewilderment and chagrin because she had pulled +in two halves a cup or a tumbler. It was as if, in her fear and +self-mistrust, she put too much strength into the effort. There was +no looseness or abandon about her. Everything was gripped stiff with +intensity, and her effort, overcharged, closed in on itself. + +She rarely varied from her swinging, forward, intense walk. Occasionally +she ran with Paul down the fields. Then her eyes blazed naked in a kind +of ecstasy that frightened him. But she was physically afraid. If +she were getting over a stile, she gripped his hands in a little hard +anguish, and began to lose her presence of mind. And he could not +persuade her to jump from even a small height. Her eyes dilated, became +exposed and palpitating. + +"No!" she cried, half laughing in terror--"no!" + +"You shall!" he cried once, and, jerking her forward, he brought her +falling from the fence. But her wild "Ah!" of pain, as if she were +losing consciousness, cut him. She landed on her feet safely, and +afterwards had courage in this respect. + +She was very much dissatisfied with her lot. + +"Don't you like being at home?" Paul asked her, surprised. + +"Who would?" she answered, low and intense. "What is it? I'm all day +cleaning what the boys make just as bad in five minutes. I don't WANT to +be at home." + +"What do you want, then?" + +"I want to do something. I want a chance like anybody else. Why should +I, because I'm a girl, be kept at home and not allowed to be anything? +What chance HAVE I?" + +"Chance of what?" + +"Of knowing anything--of learning, of doing anything. It's not fair, +because I'm a woman." + +She seemed very bitter. Paul wondered. In his own home Annie was almost +glad to be a girl. She had not so much responsibility; things were +lighter for her. She never wanted to be other than a girl. But Miriam +almost fiercely wished she were a man. And yet she hated men at the same +time. + +"But it's as well to be a woman as a man," he said, frowning. + +"Ha! Is it? Men have everything." + +"I should think women ought to be as glad to be women as men are to be +men," he answered. + +"No!"--she shook her head--"no! Everything the men have." + +"But what do you want?" he asked. + +"I want to learn. Why SHOULD it be that I know nothing?" + +"What! such as mathematics and French?" + +"Why SHOULDN'T I know mathematics? Yes!" she cried, her eye expanding in +a kind of defiance. + +"Well, you can learn as much as I know," he said. "I'll teach you, if +you like." + +Her eyes dilated. She mistrusted him as teacher. + +"Would you?" he asked. + +Her head had dropped, and she was sucking her finger broodingly. + +"Yes," she said hesitatingly. + +He used to tell his mother all these things. + +"I'm going to teach Miriam algebra," he said. + +"Well," replied Mrs. Morel, "I hope she'll get fat on it." + +When he went up to the farm on the Monday evening, it was drawing +twilight. Miriam was just sweeping up the kitchen, and was kneeling at +the hearth when he entered. Everyone was out but her. She looked round +at him, flushed, her dark eyes shining, her fine hair falling about her +face. + +"Hello!" she said, soft and musical. "I knew it was you." + +"How?" + +"I knew your step. Nobody treads so quick and firm." + +He sat down, sighing. + +"Ready to do some algebra?" he asked, drawing a little book from his +pocket. + +"But--" + +He could feel her backing away. + +"You said you wanted," he insisted. + +"To-night, though?" she faltered. + +"But I came on purpose. And if you want to learn it, you must begin." + +She took up her ashes in the dustpan and looked at him, half +tremulously, laughing. + +"Yes, but to-night! You see, I haven't thought of it." + +"Well, my goodness! Take the ashes and come." + +He went and sat on the stone bench in the back-yard, where the big +milk-cans were standing, tipped up, to air. The men were in the +cowsheds. He could hear the little sing-song of the milk spurting into +the pails. Presently she came, bringing some big greenish apples. + +"You know you like them," she said. + +He took a bite. + +"Sit down," he said, with his mouth full. + +She was short-sighted, and peered over his shoulder. It irritated him. +He gave her the book quickly. + +"Here," he said. "It's only letters for figures. You put down 'a' +instead of '2' or '6'." + +They worked, he talking, she with her head down on the book. He was +quick and hasty. She never answered. Occasionally, when he demanded +of her, "Do you see?" she looked up at him, her eyes wide with the +half-laugh that comes of fear. "Don't you?" he cried. + +He had been too fast. But she said nothing. He questioned her more, then +got hot. It made his blood rouse to see her there, as it were, at his +mercy, her mouth open, her eyes dilated with laughter that was afraid, +apologetic, ashamed. Then Edgar came along with two buckets of milk. + +"Hello!" he said. "What are you doing?" + +"Algebra," replied Paul. + +"Algebra!" repeated Edgar curiously. Then he passed on with a laugh. +Paul took a bite at his forgotten apple, looked at the miserable +cabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls, and he wanted to +pull them up. Then he glanced at Miriam. She was poring over the book, +seemed absorbed in it, yet trembling lest she could not get at it. It +made him cross. She was ruddy and beautiful. Yet her soul seemed to be +intensely supplicating. The algebra-book she closed, shrinking, knowing +he was angered; and at the same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurt +because she did not understand. + +But things came slowly to her. And when she held herself in a grip, +seemed so utterly humble before the lesson, it made his blood rouse. +He stormed at her, got ashamed, continued the lesson, and grew furious +again, abusing her. She listened in silence. Occasionally, very rarely, +she defended herself. Her liquid dark eyes blazed at him. + +"You don't give me time to learn it," she said. + +"All right," he answered, throwing the book on the table and lighting +a cigarette. Then, after a while, he went back to her repentant. So the +lessons went. He was always either in a rage or very gentle. + +"What do you tremble your SOUL before it for?" he cried. "You don't +learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you look at it with your +clear simple wits?" + +Often, when he went again into the kitchen, Mrs. Leivers would look at +him reproachfully, saying: + +"Paul, don't be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick, but I'm sure +she tries." + +"I can't help it," he said rather pitiably. "I go off like it." + +"You don't mind me, Miriam, do you?" he asked of the girl later. + +"No," she reassured him in her beautiful deep tones--"no, I don't mind." + +"Don't mind me; it's my fault." + +But, in spite of himself, his blood began to boil with her. It was +strange that no one else made him in such fury. He flared against her. +Once he threw the pencil in her face. There was a silence. She turned +her face slightly aside. + +"I didn't--" he began, but got no farther, feeling weak in all his +bones. She never reproached him or was angry with him. He was often +cruelly ashamed. But still again his anger burst like a bubble +surcharged; and still, when he saw her eager, silent, as it were, blind +face, he felt he wanted to throw the pencil in it; and still, when he +saw her hand trembling and her mouth parted with suffering, his heart +was scalded with pain for her. And because of the intensity to which she +roused him, he sought her. + +Then he often avoided her and went with Edgar. Miriam and her brother +were naturally antagonistic. Edgar was a rationalist, who was curious, +and had a sort of scientific interest in life. It was a great bitterness +to Miriam to see herself deserted by Paul for Edgar, who seemed so much +lower. But the youth was very happy with her elder brother. The two men +spent afternoons together on the land or in the loft doing carpentry, +when it rained. And they talked together, or Paul taught Edgar the songs +he himself had learned from Annie at the piano. And often all the men, +Mr. Leivers as well, had bitter debates on the nationalizing of the land +and similar problems. Paul had already heard his mother's views, and as +these were as yet his own, he argued for her. Miriam attended and +took part, but was all the time waiting until it should be over and a +personal communication might begin. + +"After all," she said within herself, "if the land were nationalized, +Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same." So she waited for the +youth to come back to her. + +He was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home, alone with +his mother, at night, working and working. She sewed or read. Then, +looking up from his task, he would rest his eyes for a moment on her +face, that was bright with living warmth, and he returned gladly to his +work. + +"I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking-chair, +mother," he said. + +"I'm sure!" she exclaimed, sniffing with mock scepticism. But she felt +it was so, and her heart quivered with brightness. For many hours she +sat still, slightly conscious of him labouring away, whilst she worked +or read her book. And he, with all his soul's intensity directing his +pencil, could feel her warmth inside him like strength. They were both +very happy so, and both unconscious of it. These times, that meant so +much, and which were real living, they almost ignored. + +He was conscious only when stimulated. A sketch finished, he always +wanted to take it to Miriam. Then he was stimulated into knowledge of +the work he had produced unconsciously. In contact with Miriam he +gained insight; his vision went deeper. From his mother he drew the +life-warmth, the strength to produce; Miriam urged this warmth into +intensity like a white light. + +When he returned to the factory the conditions of work were better. +He had Wednesday afternoon off to go to the Art School--Miss Jordan's +provision--returning in the evening. Then the factory closed at six +instead of eight on Thursday and Friday evenings. + +One evening in the summer Miriam and he went over the fields by Herod's +Farm on their way from the library home. So it was only three miles +to Willey Farm. There was a yellow glow over the mowing-grass, and the +sorrel-heads burned crimson. Gradually, as they walked along the high +land, the gold in the west sank down to red, the red to crimson, and +then the chill blue crept up against the glow. + +They came out upon the high road to Alfreton, which ran white between +the darkening fields. There Paul hesitated. It was two miles home for +him, one mile forward for Miriam. They both looked up the road that ran +in shadow right under the glow of the north-west sky. On the crest of +the hill, Selby, with its stark houses and the up-pricked headstocks of +the pit, stood in black silhouette small against the sky. + +He looked at his watch. + +"Nine o'clock!" he said. + +The pair stood, loth to part, hugging their books. + +"The wood is so lovely now," she said. "I wanted you to see it." + +He followed her slowly across the road to the white gate. + +"They grumble so if I'm late," he said. + +"But you're not doing anything wrong," she answered impatiently. + +He followed her across the nibbled pasture in the dusk. There was a +coolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honeysuckle, and a twilight. +The two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully there, among the +throng of dark tree-trunks. He looked round, expectant. + +She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had discovered. She +knew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, she felt it had +not come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She was +dissatisfied. + +Dew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mist was rising, and +he hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a strand of fog or +only campion-flowers pallid in a cloud. + +By the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting very eager +and very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not be able to find +it; and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately she wanted to be +with him when he stood before the flowers. They were going to have a +communion together--something that thrilled her, something holy. He was +walking beside her in silence. They were very near to each other. She +trembled, and he listened, vaguely anxious. + +Coming to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front, like +mother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on the outermost +branches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent. + +"Where?" he asked. + +"Down the middle path," she murmured, quivering. + +When they turned the corner of the path she stood still. In the wide +walk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could distinguish +nothing for some moments; the greying light robbed things of their +colour. Then she saw her bush. + +"Ah!" she cried, hastening forward. + +It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown its +briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, right +down to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great spilt +stars, pure white. In bosses of ivory and in large splashed stars the +roses gleamed on the darkness of foliage and stems and grass. Paul and +Miriam stood close together, silent, and watched. Point after point the +steady roses shone out to them, seeming to kindle something in their +souls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out the +roses. + +Paul looked into Miriam's eyes. She was pale and expectant with wonder, +her lips were parted, and her dark eyes lay open to him. His look seemed +to travel down into her. Her soul quivered. It was the communion she +wanted. He turned aside, as if pained. He turned to the bush. + +"They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake themselves," he +said. + +She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, others +expanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her +hand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them in +worship. + +"Let us go," he said. + +There was a cool scent of ivory roses--a white, virgin scent. Something +made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked in silence. + +"Till Sunday," he said quietly, and left her; and she walked home +slowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of the night. He +stumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood, in the +free open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to run as fast as +he could. It was like a delicious delirium in his veins. + +Always when he went with Miriam, and it grew rather late, he knew his +mother was fretting and getting angry about him--why, he could not +understand. As he went into the house, flinging down his cap, his mother +looked up at the clock. She had been sitting thinking, because a chill +to her eyes prevented her reading. She could feel Paul being drawn away +by this girl. And she did not care for Miriam. "She is one of those who +will want to suck a man's soul out till he has none of his own left," +she said to herself; "and he is just such a gaby as to let himself be +absorbed. She will never let him become a man; she never will." So, +while he was away with Miriam, Mrs. Morel grew more and more worked up. + +She glanced at the clock and said, coldly and rather tired: + +"You have been far enough to-night." + +His soul, warm and exposed from contact with the girl, shrank. + +"You must have been right home with her," his mother continued. + +He would not answer. Mrs. Morel, looking at him quickly, saw his hair +was damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowning in his heavy +fashion, resentfully. + +"She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can't get away from her, +but must go trailing eight miles at this time of night." + +He was hurt between the past glamour with Miriam and the knowledge +that his mother fretted. He had meant not to say anything, to refuse to +answer. But he could not harden his heart to ignore his mother. + +"I DO like to talk to her," he answered irritably. + +"Is there nobody else to talk to?" + +"You wouldn't say anything if I went with Edgar." + +"You know I should. You know, whoever you went with, I should say it +was too far for you to go trailing, late at night, when you've been +to Nottingham. Besides"--her voice suddenly flashed into anger and +contempt--"it is disgusting--bits of lads and girls courting." + +"It is NOT courting," he cried. + +"I don't know what else you call it." + +"It's not! Do you think we SPOON and do? We only talk." + +"Till goodness knows what time and distance," was the sarcastic +rejoinder. + +Paul snapped at the laces of his boots angrily. + +"What are you so mad about?" he asked. "Because you don't like her." + +"I don't say I don't like her. But I don't hold with children keeping +company, and never did." + +"But you don't mind our Annie going out with Jim Inger." + +"They've more sense than you two." + +"Why?" + +"Our Annie's not one of the deep sort." + +He failed to see the meaning of this remark. But his mother looked +tired. She was never so strong after William's death; and her eyes hurt +her. + +"Well," he said, "it's so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleath asked about +you. He said he'd missed you. Are you a bit better?" + +"I ought to have been in bed a long time ago," she replied. + +"Why, mother, you know you wouldn't have gone before quarter-past ten." + +"Oh, yes, I should!" + +"Oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeable with me, +wouldn't you?" + +He kissed her forehead that he knew so well: the deep marks between the +brows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, and the proud setting +of the temples. His hand lingered on her shoulder after his kiss. Then +he went slowly to bed. He had forgotten Miriam; he only saw how his +mother's hair was lifted back from her warm, broad brow. And somehow, +she was hurt. + +Then the next time he saw Miriam he said to her: + +"Don't let me be late to-night--not later than ten o'clock. My mother +gets so upset." + +Miriam dropped her bead, brooding. + +"Why does she get upset?" she asked. + +"Because she says I oughtn't to be out late when I have to get up +early." + +"Very well!" said Miriam, rather quietly, with just a touch of a sneer. + +He resented that. And he was usually late again. + +That there was any love growing between him and Miriam neither of +them would have acknowledged. He thought he was too sane for such +sentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. They both were late +in coming to maturity, and psychical ripeness was much behind even the +physical. Miriam was exceedingly sensitive, as her mother had always +been. The slightest grossness made her recoil almost in anguish. Her +brothers were brutal, but never coarse in speech. The men did all +the discussing of farm matters outside. But, perhaps, because of the +continual business of birth and of begetting which goes on upon every +farm, Miriam was the more hypersensitive to the matter, and her blood +was chastened almost to disgust of the faintest suggestion of such +intercourse. Paul took his pitch from her, and their intimacy went on in +an utterly blanched and chaste fashion. It could never be mentioned that +the mare was in foal. + +When he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a week, but +he was happy. His painting went well, and life went well enough. On the +Good Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock Stone. There were three +lads of his own age, then Annie and Arthur, Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur, +apprenticed as an electrician in Nottingham, was home for the holiday. +Morel, as usual, was up early, whistling and sawing in the yard. At +seven o'clock the family heard him buy threepennyworth of hot-cross +buns; he talked with gusto to the little girl who brought them, calling +her "my darling". He turned away several boys who came with more buns, +telling them they had been "kested" by a little lass. Then Mrs. Morel +got up, and the family straggled down. It was an immense luxury to +everybody, this lying in bed just beyond the ordinary time on a weekday. +And Paul and Arthur read before breakfast, and had the meal unwashed, +sitting in their shirt-sleeves. This was another holiday luxury. The +room was warm. Everything felt free of care and anxiety. There was a +sense of plenty in the house. + +While the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. They were +now in another house, an old one, near the Scargill Street home, which +had been left soon after William had died. Directly came an excited cry +from the garden: + +"Paul! Paul! come and look!" + +It was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went out. There +was a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold day, with a +sharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields away Bestwood began, +with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of which rose the church +tower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel. And beyond went woods +and hills, right away to the pale grey heights of the Pennine Chain. + +Paul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appeared among the +young currant-bushes. + +"Come here!" she cried. + +"What for?" he answered. + +"Come and see." + +She had been looking at the buds on the currant trees. Paul went up. + +"To think," she said, "that here I might never have seen them!" + +Her son went to her side. Under the fence, in a little bed, was a ravel +of poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature bulbs, and three +scyllas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep blue flowers. + + +"Now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "I was looking at the currant +bushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's something very blue; is it +a bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories of +the snow, and such beauties! But where on earth did they come from?" + +"I don't know," said Paul. + +"Well, that's a marvel, now! I THOUGHT I knew every weed and blade in +this garden. But HAVEN'T they done well? You see, that gooseberry-bush +just shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!" + +He crouched down and turned up the bells of the little blue flowers. + +"They're a glorious colour!" he said. + +"Aren't they!" she cried. "I guess they come from Switzerland, where +they say they have such lovely things. Fancy them against the snow! But +where have they come from? They can't have BLOWN here, can they?" + +Then he remembered having set here a lot of little trash of bulbs to +mature. + +"And you never told me," she said. + +"No! I thought I'd leave it till they might flower." + +"And now, you see! I might have missed them. And I've never had a glory +of the snow in my garden in my life." + +She was full of excitement and elation. The garden was an endless joy to +her. Paul was thankful for her sake at last to be in a house with a long +garden that went down to a field. Every morning after breakfast she went +out and was happy pottering about in it. And it was true, she knew every +weed and blade. + +Everybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and they set off, +a merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of the mill-race, +dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunnel and watched it +shoot out on the other. They stood on the foot-bridge over Boathouse +Station and looked at the metals gleaming coldly. + +"You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six!" said +Leonard, whose father was a signalman. "Lad, but she doesn't half buzz!" +and the little party looked up the lines one way, to London, and the +other way, to Scotland, and they felt the touch of these two magical +places. + +In Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for the public-houses to +open. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton Gate the iron +foundry blazed. Over everything there were great discussions. At Trowell +they crossed again from Derbyshire into Nottinghamshire. They came to +the Hemlock Stone at dinner-time. Its field was crowded with folk from +Nottingham and Ilkeston. + +They had expected a venerable and dignified monument. They found +a little, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like a decayed +mushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. Leonard and +Dick immediately proceeded to carve their initials, "L. W." and "R. P.", +in the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted, because he had read in the +newspaper satirical remarks about initial-carvers, who could find no +other road to immortality. Then all the lads climbed to the top of the +rock to look round. + +Everywhere in the field below, factory girls and lads were eating +lunch or sporting about. Beyond was the garden of an old manor. It had +yew-hedges and thick clumps and borders of yellow crocuses round the +lawn. + +"See," said Paul to Miriam, "what a quiet garden!" + +She saw the dark yews and the golden crocuses, then she looked +gratefully. He had not seemed to belong to her among all these others; +he was different then--not her Paul, who understood the slightest quiver +of her innermost soul, but something else, speaking another language +than hers. How it hurt her, and deadened her very perceptions. Only when +he came right back to her, leaving his other, his lesser self, as she +thought, would she feel alive again. And now he asked her to look at +this garden, wanting the contact with her again. Impatient of the set +in the field, she turned to the quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves of +shut-up crocuses. A feeling of stillness, almost of ecstasy, came over +her. It felt almost as if she were alone with him in this garden. + +Then he left her again and joined the others. Soon they started home. +Miriam loitered behind, alone. She did not fit in with the others; she +could very rarely get into human relations with anyone: so her friend, +her companion, her lover, was Nature. She saw the sun declining wanly. +In the dusky, cold hedgerows were some red leaves. She lingered to +gather them, tenderly, passionately. The love in her finger-tips +caressed the leaves; the passion in her heart came to a glow upon the +leaves. + +Suddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road, and she hurried +forward. Turning a corner in the lane, she came upon Paul, who stood +bent over something, his mind fixed on it, working away steadily, +patiently, a little hopelessly. She hesitated in her approach, to watch. + +He remained concentrated in the middle of the road. Beyond, one rift of +rich gold in that colourless grey evening seemed to make him stand out +in dark relief. She saw him, slender and firm, as if the setting sun had +given him to her. A deep pain took hold of her, and she knew she +must love him. And she had discovered him, discovered in him a +rare potentiality, discovered his loneliness. Quivering as at some +"annunciation", she went slowly forward. + +At last he looked up. + +"Why," he exclaimed gratefully, "have you waited for me!" + +She saw a deep shadow in his eyes. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +"The spring broken here;" and he showed her where his umbrella was +injured. + +Instantly, with some shame, she knew he had not done the damage himself, +but that Geoffrey was responsible. + +"It is only an old umbrella, isn't it?" she asked. + +She wondered why he, who did not usually trouble over trifles, made such +a mountain of this molehill. + +"But it was William's an' my mother can't help but know," he said +quietly, still patiently working at the umbrella. + +The words went through Miriam like a blade. This, then, was the +confirmation of her vision of him! She looked at him. But there was +about him a certain reserve, and she dared not comfort him, not even +speak softly to him. + +"Come on," he said. "I can't do it;" and they went in silence along the +road. + +That same evening they were walking along under the trees by Nether +Green. He was talking to her fretfully, seemed to be struggling to +convince himself. + +"You know," he said, with an effort, "if one person loves, the other +does." + +"Ah!" she answered. "Like mother said to me when I was little, 'Love +begets love.'" + +"Yes, something like that, I think it MUST be." + +"I hope so, because, if it were not, love might be a very terrible +thing," she said. + +"Yes, but it IS--at least with most people," he answered. + +And Miriam, thinking he had assured himself, felt strong in herself. She +always regarded that sudden coming upon him in the lane as a revelation. +And this conversation remained graven in her mind as one of the letters +of the law. + +Now she stood with him and for him. When, about this time, he outraged +the family feeling at Willey Farm by some overbearing insult, she stuck +to him, and believed he was right. And at this time she dreamed +dreams of him, vivid, unforgettable. These dreams came again later on, +developed to a more subtle psychological stage. + +On the Easter Monday the same party took an excursion to Wingfield +Manor. It was great excitement to Miriam to catch a train at Sethley +Bridge, amid all the bustle of the Bank Holiday crowd. They left the +train at Alfreton. Paul was interested in the street and in the colliers +with their dogs. Here was a new race of miners. Miriam did not live till +they came to the church. They were all rather timid of entering, with +their bags of food, for fear of being turned out. Leonard, a comic, thin +fellow, went first; Paul, who would have died rather than be sent back, +went last. The place was decorated for Easter. In the font hundreds of +white narcissi seemed to be growing. The air was dim and coloured from +the windows and thrilled with a subtle scent of lilies and narcissi. In +that atmosphere Miriam's soul came into a glow. Paul was afraid of the +things he mustn't do; and he was sensitive to the feel of the place. +Miriam turned to him. He answered. They were together. He would not go +beyond the Communion-rail. She loved him for that. Her soul expanded +into prayer beside him. He felt the strange fascination of shadowy +religious places. All his latent mysticism quivered into life. She was +drawn to him. He was a prayer along with her. + +Miriam very rarely talked to the other lads. They at once became awkward +in conversation with her. So usually she was silent. + +It was past midday when they climbed the steep path to the manor. +All things shone softly in the sun, which was wonderfully warm and +enlivening. Celandines and violets were out. Everybody was tip-top full +with happiness. The glitter of the ivy, the soft, atmospheric grey +of the castle walls, the gentleness of everything near the ruin, was +perfect. + +The manor is of hard, pale grey stone, and the other walls are blank and +calm. The young folk were in raptures. They went in trepidation, almost +afraid that the delight of exploring this ruin might be denied them. In +the first courtyard, within the high broken walls, were farm-carts, with +their shafts lying idle on the ground, the tyres of the wheels brilliant +with gold-red rust. It was very still. + +All eagerly paid their sixpences, and went timidly through the fine +clean arch of the inner courtyard. They were shy. Here on the pavement, +where the hall had been, an old thorn tree was budding. All kinds of +strange openings and broken rooms were in the shadow around them. + +After lunch they set off once more to explore the ruin. This time the +girls went with the boys, who could act as guides and expositors. There +was one tall tower in a corner, rather tottering, where they say Mary +Queen of Scots was imprisoned. + +"Think of the Queen going up here!" said Miriam in a low voice, as she +climbed the hollow stairs. + +"If she could get up," said Paul, "for she had rheumatism like anything. +I reckon they treated her rottenly." + +"You don't think she deserved it?" asked Miriam. + +"No, I don't. She was only lively." + +They continued to mount the winding staircase. A high wind, blowing +through the loopholes, went rushing up the shaft, and filled the girl's +skirts like a balloon, so that she was ashamed, until he took the hem +of her dress and held it down for her. He did it perfectly simply, as he +would have picked up her glove. She remembered this always. + +Round the broken top of the tower the ivy bushed out, old and handsome. +Also, there were a few chill gillivers, in pale cold bud. Miriam wanted +to lean over for some ivy, but he would not let her. Instead, she had to +wait behind him, and take from him each spray as he gathered it and held +it to her, each one separately, in the purest manner of chivalry. The +tower seemed to rock in the wind. They looked over miles and miles of +wooded country, and country with gleams of pasture. + +The crypt underneath the manor was beautiful, and in perfect +preservation. Paul made a drawing: Miriam stayed with him. She was +thinking of Mary Queen of Scots looking with her strained, hopeless +eyes, that could not understand misery, over the hills whence no help +came, or sitting in this crypt, being told of a God as cold as the place +she sat in. + +They set off again gaily, looking round on their beloved manor that +stood so clean and big on its hill. + +"Supposing you could have THAT farm," said Paul to Miriam. + +"Yes!" + +"Wouldn't it be lovely to come and see you!" + +They were now in the bare country of stone walls, which he loved, and +which, though only ten miles from home, seemed so foreign to Miriam. The +party was straggling. As they were crossing a large meadow that +sloped away from the sun, along a path embedded with innumerable tiny +glittering points, Paul, walking alongside, laced his fingers in the +strings of the bag Miriam was carrying, and instantly she felt Annie +behind, watchful and jealous. But the meadow was bathed in a glory of +sunshine, and the path was jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave her +any sign. She held her fingers very still among the strings of the bag, +his fingers touching; and the place was golden as a vision. + +At last they came into the straggling grey village of Crich, that lies +high. Beyond the village was the famous Crich Stand that Paul could see +from the garden at home. The party pushed on. Great expanse of country +spread around and below. The lads were eager to get to the top of the +hill. It was capped by a round knoll, half of which was by now cut away, +and on the top of which stood an ancient monument, sturdy and squat, for +signalling in old days far down into the level lands of Nottinghamshire +and Leicestershire. + +It was blowing so hard, high up there in the exposed place, that the +only way to be safe was to stand nailed by the wind to the wan of the +tower. At their feet fell the precipice where the limestone was quarried +away. Below was a jumble of hills and tiny villages--Mattock, Ambergate, +Stoney Middleton. The lads were eager to spy out the church of Bestwood, +far away among the rather crowded country on the left. They were +disgusted that it seemed to stand on a plain. They saw the hills of +Derbyshire fall into the monotony of the Midlands that swept away South. + +Miriam was somewhat scared by the wind, but the lads enjoyed it. They +went on, miles and miles, to Whatstandwell. All the food was eaten, +everybody was hungry, and there was very little money to get home with. +But they managed to procure a loaf and a currant-loaf, which they hacked +to pieces with shut-knives, and ate sitting on the wall near the bridge, +watching the bright Derwent rushing by, and the brakes from Matlock +pulling up at the inn. + +Paul was now pale with weariness. He had been responsible for the party +all day, and now he was done. Miriam understood, and kept close to him, +and he left himself in her hands. + +They had an hour to wait at Ambergate Station. Trains came, crowded with +excursionists returning to Manchester, Birmingham, and London. + +"We might be going there--folk easily might think we're going that far," +said Paul. + +They got back rather late. Miriam, walking home with Geoffrey, watched +the moon rise big and red and misty. She felt something was fulfilled in +her. + +She had an elder sister, Agatha, who was a school-teacher. Between the +two girls was a feud. Miriam considered Agatha worldly. And she wanted +herself to be a school-teacher. + +One Saturday afternoon Agatha and Miriam were upstairs dressing. Their +bedroom was over the stable. It was a low room, not very large, and +bare. Miriam had nailed on the wall a reproduction of Veronese's "St. +Catherine". She loved the woman who sat in the window, dreaming. Her +own windows were too small to sit in. But the front one was dripped over +with honeysuckle and virginia creeper, and looked upon the tree-tops of +the oak-wood across the yard, while the little back window, no bigger +than a handkerchief, was a loophole to the east, to the dawn beating up +against the beloved round hills. + +The two sisters did not talk much to each other. Agatha, who was fair +and small and determined, had rebelled against the home atmosphere, +against the doctrine of "the other cheek". She was out in the world now, +in a fair way to be independent. And she insisted on worldly values, +on appearance, on manners, on position, which Miriam would fain have +ignored. + +Both girls liked to be upstairs, out of the way, when Paul came. They +preferred to come running down, open the stair-foot door, and see him +watching, expectant of them. Miriam stood painfully pulling over her +head a rosary he had given her. It caught in the fine mesh of her hair. +But at last she had it on, and the red-brown wooden beads looked well +against her cool brown neck. She was a well-developed girl, and very +handsome. But in the little looking-glass nailed against the whitewashed +wall she could only see a fragment of herself at a time. Agatha had +bought a little mirror of her own, which she propped up to suit herself. +Miriam was near the window. Suddenly she heard the well-known click of +the chain, and she saw Paul fling open the gate, push his bicycle into +the yard. She saw him look at the house, and she shrank away. He walked +in a nonchalant fashion, and his bicycle went with him as if it were a +live thing. + +"Paul's come!" she exclaimed. + +"Aren't you glad?" said Agatha cuttingly. + +Miriam stood still in amazement and bewilderment. + +"Well, aren't you?" she asked. + +"Yes, but I'm not going to let him see it, and think I wanted him." + +Miriam was startled. She heard him putting his bicycle in 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 armchair, holding +forth with much vehemence to Agatha, who was scorning a little painting +he had brought to show her. Miriam glanced at the two, and avoided their +levity. She went into the parlour to be alone. + +It was tea-time before she was able to speak to Paul, and then her +manner was so distant he thought he had offended her. + +Miriam discontinued her practice of going each Thursday evening to the +library in Bestwood. After calling for Paul regularly during the whole +spring, a number of trifling incidents and tiny insults from his family +awakened her to their attitude towards her, and she decided to go no +more. So she announced to Paul one evening she would not call at his +house again for him on Thursday nights. + +"Why?" he asked, very short. + +"Nothing. Only I'd rather not." + +"Very well." + +"But," she faltered, "if you'd care to meet me, we could still go +together." + +"Meet you where?" + +"Somewhere--where you like." + +"I shan't meet you anywhere. I don't see why you shouldn't keep calling +for me. But if you won't, I don't want to meet you." + +So the Thursday evenings which had been so precious to her, and to him, +were dropped. He worked instead. Mrs. Morel sniffed with satisfaction at +this arrangement. + +He would not have it that they were lovers. The intimacy between them +had been kept so abstract, such a matter of the soul, all thought and +weary struggle into consciousness, that he saw it only as a platonic +friendship. He stoutly denied there was anything else between them. +Miriam was silent, or else she very quietly agreed. He was a fool who +did not know what was happening to himself. By tacit agreement they +ignored the remarks and insinuations of their acquaintances. + +"We aren't lovers, we are friends," he said to her. "WE know it. Let +them talk. What does it matter what they say." + +Sometimes, as they were walking together, she slipped her arm timidly +into his. But he always resented it, and she knew it. It caused a +violent conflict in him. With Miriam he was always on the high plane of +abstraction, when his natural fire of love was transmitted into the fine +stream of thought. She would have it so. If he were jolly and, as she +put it, flippant, she waited till he came back to her, till the change +had taken place in him again, and he was wrestling with his own soul, +frowning, passionate in his desire for understanding. And in this +passion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to +herself. But he must be made abstract first. + +Then, if she put her arm in his, it caused him almost torture. His +consciousness seemed to split. The place where she was touching him ran +hot with friction. He was one internecine battle, and he became cruel to +her because of it. + +One evening in midsummer Miriam called at the house, warm from climbing. +Paul was alone in the kitchen; his mother could be heard moving about +upstairs. + +"Come and look at the sweet-peas," he said to the girl. + +They went into the garden. The sky behind the townlet and the church was +orange-red; the flower-garden was flooded with a strange warm light that +lifted every leaf into significance. Paul passed along a fine row of +sweet-peas, gathering a blossom here and there, all cream and pale blue. +Miriam followed, breathing the fragrance. To her, flowers appealed with +such strength she felt she must make them part of herself. When she bent +and breathed a flower, it was as if she and the flower were loving each +other. Paul hated her for it. There seemed a sort of exposure about the +action, something too intimate. + + +When he had got a fair bunch, they returned to the house. He listened +for a moment to his mother's quiet movement upstairs, then he said: + +"Come here, and let me pin them in for you." He arranged them two or +three at a time in the bosom of her dress, stepping back now and then to +see the effect. "You know," he said, taking the pin out of his mouth, "a +woman ought always to arrange her flowers before her glass." + +Miriam laughed. She thought flowers ought to be pinned in one's dress +without any care. That Paul should take pains to fix her flowers for her +was his whim. + +He was rather offended at her laughter. + +"Some women do--those who look decent," he said. + +Miriam laughed again, but mirthlessly, to hear him thus mix her up with +women in a general way. From most men she would have ignored it. But +from him it hurt her. + +He had nearly finished arranging the flowers when he heard his mother's +footstep on the stairs. Hurriedly he pushed in the last pin and turned +away. + +"Don't let mater know," he said. + +Miriam picked up her books and stood in the doorway looking with chagrin +at the beautiful sunset. She would call for Paul no more, she said. + +"Good-evening, Mrs. Morel," she said, in a deferential way. She sounded +as if she felt she had no right to be there. + +"Oh, is it you, Miriam?" replied Mrs. Morel coolly. + +But Paul insisted on everybody's accepting his friendship with the girl, +and Mrs. Morel was too wise to have any open rupture. + +It was not till he was twenty years old that the family could ever +afford to go away for a holiday. Mrs. Morel had never been away for a +holiday, except to see her sister, since she had been married. Now at +last Paul had saved enough money, and they were all going. There was to +be a party: some of Annie's friends, one friend of Paul's, a young man +in the same office where William had previously been, and Miriam. + +It was great excitement writing for rooms. Paul and his mother debated +it endlessly between them. They wanted a furnished cottage for two +weeks. She thought one week would be enough, but he insisted on two. + +At last they got an answer from Mablethorpe, a cottage such as they +wished for thirty shillings a week. There was immense jubilation. Paul +was wild with joy for his mother's sake. She would have a real holiday +now. He and she sat at evening picturing what it would be like. Annie +came in, and Leonard, and Alice, and Kitty. There was wild rejoicing and +anticipation. Paul told Miriam. She seemed to brood with joy over it. +But the Morel's house rang with excitement. + +They were to go on Saturday morning by the seven train. Paul suggested +that Miriam should sleep at his house, because it was so far for her +to walk. She came down for supper. Everybody was so excited that even +Miriam was accepted with warmth. But almost as soon as she entered the +feeling in the family became close and tight. He had discovered a poem +by Jean Ingelow which mentioned Mablethorpe, and so he must read it +to Miriam. He would never have got so far in the direction of +sentimentality as to read poetry to his own family. But now they +condescended to listen. Miriam sat on the sofa absorbed in him. She +always seemed absorbed in him, and by him, when he was present. Mrs. +Morel sat jealously in her own chair. She was going to hear also. And +even Annie and the father attended, Morel with his head cocked on one +side, like somebody listening to a sermon and feeling conscious of +the fact. Paul ducked his head over the book. He had got now all the +audience he cared for. And Mrs. Morel and Annie almost contested with +Miriam who should listen best and win his favour. He was in very high +feather. + +"But," interrupted Mrs. Morel, "what IS the 'Bride of Enderby' that the +bells are supposed to ring?" + +"It's an old tune they used to play on the bells for a warning against +water. I suppose the Bride of Enderby was drowned in a flood," he +replied. He had not the faintest knowledge what it really was, but he +would never have sunk so low as to confess that to his womenfolk. They +listened and believed him. He believed himself. + +"And the people knew what that tune meant?" said his mother. + +"Yes--just like the Scotch when they heard 'The Flowers o' the +Forest'--and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm." + +"How?" said Annie. "A bell sounds the same whether it's rung backwards +or forwards." + +"But," he said, "if you start with the deep bell and ring up to the high +one--der--der--der--der--der--der--der--der!" + +He ran up the scale. Everybody thought it clever. He thought so too. +Then, waiting a minute, he continued the poem. + +"Hm!" said Mrs. Morel curiously, when he finished. "But I wish +everything that's written weren't so sad." + +"I canna see what they want drownin' theirselves for," said Morel. + +There was a pause. Annie got up to clear the table. + +Miriam rose to help with the pots. + +"Let ME help to wash up," she said. + +"Certainly not," cried Annie. "You sit down again. There aren't many." + +And Miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat down again to look +at the book with Paul. + +He was master of the party; his father was no good. And great tortures +he suffered lest the tin box should be put out at Firsby instead of at +Mablethorpe. And he wasn't equal to getting a carriage. His bold little +mother did that. + +"Here!" she cried to a man. "Here!" + +Paul and Annie got behind the rest, convulsed with shamed laughter. + +"How much will it be to drive to Brook Cottage?" said Mrs. Morel. + +"Two shillings." + +"Why, how far is it?" + +"A good way." + +"I don't believe it," she said. + +But she scrambled in. There were eight crowded in one old seaside +carriage. + +"You see," said Mrs. Morel, "it's only threepence each, and if it were a +tramcar--" + +They drove along. Each cottage they came to, Mrs. Morel cried: + +"Is it this? Now, this is it!" + +Everybody sat breathless. They drove past. There was a universal sigh. + +"I'm thankful it wasn't that brute," said Mrs. Morel. "I WAS +frightened." They drove on and on. + +At last they descended at a house that stood alone over the dyke by the +highroad. There was wild excitement because they had to cross a little +bridge to get into the front garden. But they loved the house that lay +so solitary, with a sea-meadow on one side, and immense expanse of land +patched in white barley, yellow oats, red wheat, and green root-crops, +flat and stretching level to the sky. + +Paul kept accounts. He and his mother ran the show. The total +expenses--lodging, food, everything--was sixteen shillings a week per +person. He and Leonard went bathing in the mornings. Morel was wandering +abroad quite early. + +"You, Paul," his mother called from the bedroom, "eat a piece of +bread-and-butter." + +"All right," he answered. + +And when he got back he saw his mother presiding in state at the +breakfast-table. The woman of the house was young. Her husband was +blind, and she did laundry work. So Mrs. Morel always washed the pots in +the kitchen and made the beds. + +"But you said you'd have a real holiday," said Paul, "and now you work." + +"Work!" she exclaimed. "What are you talking about!" + +He loved to go with her across the fields to the village and the sea. +She was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused her for being a baby. +On the whole he stuck to her as if he were HER man. + +Miriam did not get much of him, except, perhaps, when all the others +went to the "Coons". Coons were insufferably stupid to Miriam, so he +thought they were to himself also, and he preached priggishly to Annie +about the fatuity of listening to them. Yet he, too, knew all their +songs, and sang them along the roads roisterously. And if he found +himself listening, the stupidity pleased him very much. Yet to Annie he +said: + +"Such rot! there isn't a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody with more +gumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and listen." And to Miriam +he said, with much scorn of Annie and the others: "I suppose they're at +the 'Coons'." + +It was queer to see Miriam singing coon songs. She had a straight chin +that went in a perpendicular line from the lower lip to the turn. She +always reminded Paul of some sad Botticelli angel when she sang, even +when it was: + + "Come down lover's lane + For a walk with me, talk with me." + +Only when he sketched, or at evening when the others were at the +"Coons", she had him to herself. He talked to her endlessly about his +love of horizontals: how they, the great levels of sky and land in +Lincolnshire, meant to him the eternality of the will, just as the bowed +Norman arches of the church, repeating themselves, meant the dogged +leaping forward of the persistent human soul, on and on, nobody knows +where; in contradiction to the perpendicular lines and to the Gothic +arch, which, he said, leapt up at heaven and touched the ecstasy and +lost itself in the divine. Himself, he said, was Norman, Miriam was +Gothic. She bowed in consent even to that. + +One evening he and she went up the great sweeping shore of sand towards +Theddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ran in a hiss of foam along +the coast. It was a warm evening. There was not a figure but themselves +on the far reaches of sand, no noise but the sound of the sea. Paul +loved to see it clanging at the land. He loved to feel himself between +the noise of it and the silence of the sandy shore. Miriam was with him. +Everything grew very intense. It was quite dark when they turned again. +The way home was through a gap in the sandhills, and then along a raised +grass road between two dykes. The country was black and still. From +behind the sandhills came the whisper of the sea. Paul and Miriam walked +in silence. Suddenly he started. The whole of his blood seemed to burst +into flame, and he could scarcely breathe. An enormous orange moon was +staring at them from the rim of the sandhills. He stood still, looking +at it. + +"Ah!" cried Miriam, when she saw it. + +He remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddy moon, the +only thing in the far-reaching darkness of the level. His heart beat +heavily, the muscles of his arms contracted. + +"What is it?" murmured Miriam, waiting for him. + +He turned and looked at her. She stood beside him, for ever in shadow. +Her face, covered with the darkness of her hat, was watching him +unseen. But she was brooding. She was slightly afraid--deeply moved +and religious. That was her best state. He was impotent against it. His +blood was concentrated like a flame in his chest. But he could not get +across to her. There were flashes in his blood. But somehow she ignored +them. She was expecting some religious state in him. Still yearning, she +was half aware of his passion, and gazed at him, troubled. + +"What is it?" she murmured again. + +"It's the moon," he answered, frowning. + +"Yes," she assented. "Isn't it wonderful?" She was curious about him. +The crisis was past. + +He did not know himself what was the matter. He was naturally so young, +and their intimacy was so abstract, he did not know he wanted to crush +her on to his breast to ease the ache there. He was afraid of her. +The fact that he might want her as a man wants a woman had in him +been suppressed into a shame. When she shrank in her convulsed, coiled +torture from the thought of such a thing, he had winced to the depths of +his soul. And now this "purity" prevented even their first love-kiss. +It was as if she could scarcely stand the shock of physical love, even a +passionate kiss, and then he was too shrinking and sensitive to give it. + +As they walked along the dark fen-meadow he watched the moon and did not +speak. She plodded beside him. He hated her, for she seemed in some way +to make him despise himself. Looking ahead--he saw the one light in the +darkness, the window of their lamp-lit cottage. + +He loved to think of his mother, and the other jolly people. + +"Well, everybody else has been in long ago!" said his mother as they +entered. + +"What does that matter!" he cried irritably. "I can go a walk if I like, +can't I?" + +"And I should have thought you could get in to supper with the rest," +said Mrs. Morel. + +"I shall please myself," he retorted. "It's not LATE. I shall do as I +like." + +"Very well," said his mother cuttingly, "then DO as you like." And she +took no further notice of him that evening. Which he pretended neither +to notice nor to care about, but sat reading. Miriam read also, +obliterating herself. Mrs. Morel hated her for making her son like this. +She watched Paul growing irritable, priggish, and melancholic. For this +she put the blame on Miriam. Annie and all her friends joined against +the girl. Miriam had no friend of her own, only Paul. But she did not +suffer so much, because she despised the triviality of these other +people. + +And Paul hated her because, somehow, she spoilt his ease and +naturalness. And he writhed himself with a feeling of humiliation. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +STRIFE IN LOVE + +ARTHUR finished his apprenticeship, and got a job on the electrical +plant at Minton Pit. He earned very little, but had a good chance of +getting on. But he was wild and restless. He did not drink nor gamble. +Yet he somehow contrived to get into endless scrapes, always through +some hot-headed thoughtlessness. Either he went rabbiting in the woods, +like a poacher, or he stayed in Nottingham all night instead of coming +home, or he miscalculated his dive into the canal at Bestwood, and +scored his chest into one mass of wounds on the raw stones and tins at +the bottom. + +He had not been at his work many months when again he did not come home +one night. + +"Do you know where Arthur is?" asked Paul at breakfast. + +"I do not," replied his mother. + +"He is a fool," said Paul. "And if he DID anything I shouldn't mind. But +no, he simply can't come away from a game of whist, or else he must see +a girl home from the skating-rink--quite proprietously--and so can't get +home. He's a fool." + +"I don't know that it would make it any better if he did something to +make us all ashamed," said Mrs. Morel. + +"Well, I should respect him more," said Paul. + +"I very much doubt it," said his mother coldly. + +They went on with breakfast. + +"Are you fearfully fond of him?" Paul asked his mother. + +"What do you ask that for?" + +"Because they say a woman always like the youngest best." + +"She may do--but I don't. No, he wearies me." + +"And you'd actually rather he was good?" + +"I'd rather he showed some of a man's common sense." + +Paul was raw and irritable. He also wearied his mother very often. She +saw the sunshine going out of him, and she resented it. + +As they were finishing breakfast came the postman with a letter from +Derby. Mrs. Morel screwed up her eyes to look at the address. + +"Give it here, blind eye!" exclaimed her son, snatching it away from +her. + +She started, and almost boxed his ears. + +"It's from your son, Arthur," he said. + +"What now--!" cried Mrs. Morel. + +"'My dearest Mother,'" Paul read, "'I don't know what made me such a +fool. I want you to come and fetch me back from here. I came with Jack +Bredon yesterday, instead of going to work, and enlisted. He said he was +sick of wearing the seat of a stool out, and, like the idiot you know I +am, I came away with him. + +"'I have taken the King's shilling, but perhaps if you came for me they +would let me go back with you. I was a fool when I did it. I don't want +to be in the army. My dear mother, I am nothing but a trouble to you. +But if you get me out of this, I promise I will have more sense and +consideration. . . .'" + +Mrs. Morel sat down in her rocking-chair. + +"Well, NOW," she cried, "let him stop!" + +"Yes," said Paul, "let him stop." + +There was silence. The mother sat with her hands folded in her apron, +her face set, thinking. + +"If I'm not SICK!" she cried suddenly. "Sick!" + +"Now," said Paul, beginning to frown, "you're not going to worry your +soul out about this, do you hear." + +"I suppose I'm to take it as a blessing," she flashed, turning on her +son. + +"You're not going to mount it up to a tragedy, so there," he retorted. + +"The FOOL!--the young fool!" she cried. + +"He'll look well in uniform," said Paul irritatingly. + +His mother turned on him like a fury. + +"Oh, will he!" she cried. "Not in my eyes!" + +"He should get in a cavalry regiment; he'll have the time of his life, +and will look an awful swell." + +"Swell!--SWELL!--a mighty swell idea indeed!--a common soldier!" + +"Well," said Paul, "what am I but a common clerk?" + +"A good deal, my boy!" cried his mother, stung. + +"What?" + +"At any rate, a MAN, and not a thing in a red coat." + +"I shouldn't mind being in a red coat--or dark blue, that would suit me +better--if they didn't boss me about too much." + +But his mother had ceased to listen. + +"Just as he was getting on, or might have been getting on, at his job--a +young nuisance--here he goes and ruins himself for life. What good will +he be, do you think, after THIS?" + +"It may lick him into shape beautifully," said Paul. + +"Lick him into shape!--lick what marrow there WAS out of his bones. A +SOLDIER!--a common SOLDIER!--nothing but a body that makes movements +when it hears a shout! It's a fine thing!" + +"I can't understand why it upsets you," said Paul. + +"No, perhaps you can't. But I understand"; and she sat back in her +chair, her chin in one hand, holding her elbow with the other, brimmed +up with wrath and chagrin. + +"And shall you go to Derby?" asked Paul. + +"Yes." + +"It's no good." + +"I'll see for myself." + +"And why on earth don't you let him stop. It's just what he wants." + +"Of course," cried the mother, "YOU know what he wants!" + +She got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where she saw her +son and the sergeant. It was, however, no good. + +When Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she said suddenly: + +"I've had to go to Derby to-day." + +The miner turned up his eyes, showing the whites in his black face. + +"Has ter, lass. What took thee there?" + +"That Arthur!" + +"Oh--an' what's agate now?" + +"He's only enlisted." + +Morel put down his knife and leaned back in his chair. + +"Nay," he said, "that he niver 'as!" + +"And is going down to Aldershot tomorrow." + +"Well!" exclaimed the miner. "That's a winder." He considered it a +moment, said "H'm!" and proceeded with his dinner. Suddenly his face +contracted with wrath. "I hope he may never set foot i' my house again," +he said. + +"The idea!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Saying such a thing!" + +"I do," repeated Morel. "A fool as runs away for a soldier, let 'im look +after 'issen; I s'll do no more for 'im." + +"A fat sight you have done as it is," she said. + +And Morel was almost ashamed to go to his public-house that evening. + +"Well, did you go?" said Paul to his mother when he came home. + +"I did." + +"And could you see him?" + +"Yes." + +"And what did he say?" + +"He blubbered when I came away." + +"H'm!" + +"And so did I, so you needn't 'h'm'!" + +Mrs. Morel fretted after her son. She knew he would not like the army. +He did not. The discipline was intolerable to him. + +"But the doctor," she said with some pride to Paul, "said he was +perfectly proportioned--almost exactly; all his measurements were +correct. He IS good-looking, you know." + +"He's awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girls like William, +does he?" + +"No; it's a different character. He's a good deal like his father, +irresponsible." + +To console his mother, Paul did not go much to Willey Farm at this time. +And in the autumn exhibition of students' work in the Castle he had two +studies, a landscape in water-colour and a still life in oil, both of +which had first-prize awards. He was highly excited. + +"What do you think I've got for my pictures, mother?" he asked, coming +home one evening. She saw by his eyes he was glad. Her face flushed. + +"Now, how should I know, my boy!" + +"A first prize for those glass jars--" + +"H'm!" + +"And a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm." + +"Both first?" + +"Yes." + +"H'm!" + +There was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said nothing. + +"It's nice," he said, "isn't it?" + +"It is." + +"Why don't you praise me up to the skies?" + +She laughed. + +"I should have the trouble of dragging you down again," she said. + +But she was full of joy, nevertheless. William had brought her his +sporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive his +death. Arthur was handsome--at least, a good specimen--and warm and +generous, and probably would do well in the end. But Paul was going to +distinguish himself. She had a great belief in him, the more because +he was unaware of his own powers. There was so much to come out of him. +Life for her was rich with promise. She was to see herself fulfilled. +Not for nothing had been her struggle. + +Several times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the Castle +unknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room looking at the other +exhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not in them a certain +something which she demanded for her satisfaction. Some made her +jealous, they were so good. She looked at them a long time trying to +find fault with them. Then suddenly she had a shock that made her heart +beat. There hung Paul's picture! She knew it as if it were printed on +her heart. + +"Name--Paul Morel--First Prize." + +It looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castle +gallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And she +glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front of the +same sketch. + +But she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies going home +to the Park, she thought to herself: + +"Yes, you look very well--but I wonder if YOUR son has two first prizes +in the Castle." + +And she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Nottingham. And +Paul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle. All his work +was hers. + +One day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He had seen her +on the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in town. She was walking +with a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullen expression, and a +defiant carriage. It was strange how Miriam, in her bowed, meditative +bearing, looked dwarfed beside this woman with the handsome shoulders. +Miriam watched Paul searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, who +ignored him. The girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head. + +"Hello!" he said, "you didn't tell me you were coming to town." + +"No," replied Miriam, half apologetically. "I drove in to Cattle Market +with father." + +He looked at her companion. + +"I've told you about Mrs. Dawes," said Miriam huskily; she was nervous. +"Clara, do you know Paul?" + +"I think I've seen him before," replied Mrs. Dawes indifferently, as +she shook hands with him. She had scornful grey eyes, a skin like white +honey, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upper lip that did not +know whether it was raised in scorn of all men or out of eagerness to be +kissed, but which believed the former. She carried her head back, as if +she had drawn away in contempt, perhaps from men also. She wore a large, +dowdy hat of black beaver, and a sort of slightly affected simple dress +that made her look rather sack-like. She was evidently poor, and had not +much taste. Miriam usually looked nice. + +"Where have you seen me?" Paul asked of the woman. + +She looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then: + +"Walking with Louie Travers," she said. + +Louie was one of the "Spiral" girls. + +"Why, do you know her?" he asked. + +She did not answer. He turned to Miriam. + +"Where are you going?" he asked. + +"To the Castle." + +"What train are you going home by?" + +"I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time are you +free?" + +"You know not till eight to-night, damn it!" + +And directly the two women moved on. + +Paul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend of +Mrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because she had once been Spiral +overseer at Jordan's, and because her husband, Baxter Dawes, was smith +for the factory, making the irons for cripple instruments, and so on. +Through her Miriam felt she got into direct contact with Jordan's, and +could estimate better Paul's position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated from +her husband, and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to be +clever. It interested Paul. + +Baxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of thirty-one or +thirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul's corner--a big, well-set +man, also striking to look at, and handsome. There was a peculiar +similarity between himself and his wife. He had the same white skin, +with a clear, golden tinge. His hair was of soft brown, his moustache +was golden. And he had a similar defiance in his bearing and manner. But +then came the difference. His eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, were +dissolute. They protruded very slightly, and his eyelids hung over them +in a way that was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His whole +manner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybody +down who disapproved of him--perhaps because he really disapproved of +himself. + +From the first day he had hated Paul. Finding the lad's impersonal, +deliberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got into a fury. + +"What are yer lookin' at?" he sneered, bullying. + +The boy glanced away. But the smith used to stand behind the counter +and talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with a kind of +rottenness. Again he found the youth with his cool, critical gaze fixed +on his face. The smith started round as if he had been stung. + +"What'r yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?" he snarled. + +The boy shrugged his shoulders slightly. + +"Why yer--!" shouted Dawes. + +"Leave him alone," said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuating voice which +means, "He's only one of your good little sops who can't help it." + +Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came +through with the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the +smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence. + +Clara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband the home had +been broken up, and she had gone to live with her mother. Dawes lodged +with his sister. In the same house was a sister-in-law, and somehow Paul +knew that this girl, Louie Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She was a +handsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if he +walked along to the station with her as she went home. + +The next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. She had +a fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him. The others, except her +father and mother and the young children, had gone out, so the two had +the parlour together. It was a long, low, warm room. There were three of +Paul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the mantelpiece. +On the table and on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured +leaves. He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his +feet. The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled +there like a devotee. + +"What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?" she asked quietly. + +"She doesn't look very amiable," he replied. + +"No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?" she said, in a deep tone, + +"Yes--in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some +things. IS she disagreeable?" + +"I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied." + +"What with?" + +"Well--how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?" + +"Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?" + +"Ay, why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly. + +"And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him," he +said. + +Miriam bowed her head. + +"Ay?" she queried satirically. "What makes you think so?" + +"Look at her mouth--made for passion--and the very setback of her +throat--" He threw his head back in Clara's defiant manner. + +Miriam bowed a little lower. + +"Yes," she said. + +There was a silence for some moments, while he thought of Clara. + +"And what were the things you liked about her?" she asked. + +"I don't know--her skin and the texture of her--and her--I don't +know--there's a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciate her as +an artist, that's all." + +"Yes." + +He wondered why Miriam crouched there brooding in that strange way. It +irritated him. + +"You don't really like her, do you?" he asked the girl. + +She looked at him with her great, dazzled dark eyes. + +"I do," she said. + +"You don't--you can't--not really." + +"Then what?" she asked slowly. + +"Eh, I don't know--perhaps you like her because she's got a grudge +against men." + +That was more probably one of his own reasons for liking Mrs. Dawes, +but this did not occur to him. They were silent. There had come into his +forehead a knitting of the brows which was becoming habitual with him, +particularly when he was with Miriam. She longed to smooth it away, and +she was afraid of it. It seemed the stamp of a man who was not her man +in Paul Morel. + +There were some crimson berries among the leaves in the bowl. He reached +over and pulled out a bunch. + +"If you put red berries in your hair," he said, "why would you look like +some witch or priestess, and never like a reveller?" + +She laughed with a naked, painful sound. + +"I don't know," she said. + +His vigorous warm hands were playing excitedly with the berries. + +"Why can't you laugh?" he said. "You never laugh laughter. You only +laugh when something is odd or incongruous, and then it almost seems to +hurt you." + +She bowed her head as if he were scolding her. + +"I wish you could laugh at me just for one minute--just for one minute. +I feel as if it would set something free." + +"But"--and she looked up at him with eyes frightened and struggling--"I +do laugh at you--I DO." + +"Never! There's always a kind of intensity. When you laugh I could +always cry; it seems as if it shows up your suffering. Oh, you make me +knit the brows of my very soul and cogitate." + +Slowly she shook her head despairingly. + +"I'm sure I don't want to," she said. + +"I'm so damned spiritual with YOU always!" he cried. + +She remained silent, thinking, "Then why don't you be otherwise." But he +saw her crouching, brooding figure, and it seemed to tear him in two. + +"But, there, it's autumn," he said, "and everybody feels like a +disembodied spirit then." + +There was still another silence. This peculiar sadness between them +thrilled her soul. He seemed so beautiful with his eyes gone dark, and +looking as if they were deep as the deepest well. + +"You make me so spiritual!" he lamented. "And I don't want to be +spiritual." + +She took her finger from her mouth with a little pop, and looked up at +him almost challenging. But still her soul was naked in her great dark +eyes, and there was the same yearning appeal upon her. If he could have +kissed her in abstract purity he would have done so. But he could not +kiss her thus--and she seemed to leave no other way. And she yearned to +him. + +He gave a brief laugh. + +"Well," he said, "get that French and we'll do some--some Verlaine." + +"Yes," she said in a deep tone, almost of resignation. And she rose and +got the books. And her rather red, nervous hands looked so pitiful, he +was mad to comfort her and kiss her. But then be dared not--or could +not. There was something prevented him. His kisses were wrong for her. +They continued the reading till ten o'clock, when they went into the +kitchen, and Paul was natural and jolly again with the father and +mother. His eyes were dark and shining; there was a kind of fascination +about him. + +When he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the front wheel +punctured. + +"Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl," he said to her. "I shall be late, +and then I s'll catch it." + +He lighted the hurricane lamp, took off his coat, turned up the bicycle, +and set speedily to work. Miriam came with the bowl of water and stood +close to him, watching. She loved to see his hands doing things. He +was slim and vigorous, with a kind of easiness even in his most hasty +movements. And busy at his work he seemed to forget her. She loved +him absorbedly. She wanted to run her hands down his sides. She always +wanted to embrace him, so long as he did not want her. + +"There!" he said, rising suddenly. "Now, could you have done it +quicker?" + +"No!" she laughed. + +He straightened himself. His back was towards her. She put her two hands +on his sides, and ran them quickly down. + +"You are so FINE!" she said. + +He laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a wave of flame +by her hands. She did not seem to realise HIM in all this. He might have +been an object. She never realised the male he was. + +He lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the barn floor to +see that the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat. + +"That's all right!" he said. + +She was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken. + +"Did you have them mended?" she asked. + +"No!" + +"But why didn't you?" + +"The back one goes on a bit." + +"But it's not safe." + +"I can use my toe." + +"I wish you'd had them mended," she murmured. + +"Don't worry--come to tea tomorrow, with Edgar." + +"Shall we?" + +"Do--about four. I'll come to meet you." + +"Very well." + +She was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. Looking +across, he saw through the uncurtained window of the kitchen the heads +of Mr. and Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow. It looked very cosy. The road, +with pine trees, was quite black in front. + +"Till tomorrow," he said, jumping on his bicycle. + +"You'll take care, won't you?" she pleaded. + +"Yes." + +His voice already came out of the darkness. She stood a moment watching +the light from his lamp race into obscurity along the ground. She +turned very slowly indoors. Orion was wheeling up over the wood, his dog +twinkling after him, half smothered. For the rest the world was full of +darkness, and silent, save for the breathing of cattle in their stalls. +She prayed earnestly for his safety that night. When he left her, she +often lay in anxiety, wondering if he had got home safely. + +He dropped down the hills on his bicycle. The roads were greasy, so he +had to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plunged over the +second, steeper drop in the hill. "Here goes!" he said. It was risky, +because of the curve in the darkness at the bottom, and because of the +brewers' waggons with drunken waggoners asleep. His bicycle seemed +to fall beneath him, and he loved it. Recklessness is almost a man's +revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk +destroying himself to deprive her altogether. + +The stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers, silver upon the +blackness, as he spun past. Then there was the long climb home. + +"See, mother!" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaves on to the +table. + +"H'm!" she said, glancing at them, then away again. She sat reading, +alone, as she always did. + +"Aren't they pretty?" + +"Yes." + +He knew she was cross with him. After a few minutes he said: + +"Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea tomorrow." + +She did not answer. + +"You don't mind?" + +Still she did not answer. + +"Do you?" he asked. + +"You know whether I mind or not." + +"I don't see why you should. I have plenty of meals there." + +"You do." + +"Then why do you begrudge them tea?" + +"I begrudge whom tea?" + +"What are you so horrid for?" + +"Oh, say no more! You've asked her to tea, it's quite sufficient. She'll +come." + +He was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merely Miriam she +objected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed. + +Paul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was glad to see +them coming. They arrived home at about four o'clock. Everywhere was +clean and still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Morel sat in her black dress +and black apron. She rose to meet the visitors. With Edgar she was +cordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging. Yet Paul thought the +girl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock. + +He helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would have gladly +proffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. There was +about it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The chairs were only +wooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrug and cushions were +cosy; the pictures were prints in good taste; there was a simplicity in +everything, and plenty of books. He was never ashamed in the least of +his home, nor was Miriam of hers, because both were what they should be, +and warm. And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty, the +cloth was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were not silver nor +the knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managed +wonderfully while her children were growing up, so that nothing was out +of place. + +Miriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But Mrs. +Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar. + +At first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew. Morel never +went to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs. Morel, like a little +champion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul at the other end; and at +first Miriam sat next to him. Then the chapel was like home. It was a +pretty place, with dark pews and slim, elegant pillars, and flowers. And +the same people had sat in the same places ever since he was a boy. It +was wonderfully sweet and soothing to sit there for an hour and a half, +next to Miriam, and near to his mother, uniting his two loves under the +spell of the place of worship. Then he felt warm and happy and religious +at once. And after chapel he walked home with Miriam, whilst Mrs. Morel +spent the rest of the evening with her old friend, Mrs. Burns. He was +keenly alive on his walks on Sunday nights with Edgar and Miriam. He +never went past the pits at night, by the lighted lamp-house, the tall +black headstocks and lines of trucks, past the fans spinning slowly like +shadows, without the feeling of Miriam returning to him, keen and almost +unbearable. + +She did not very long occupy the Morels' pew. Her father took one for +themselves once more. It was under the little gallery, opposite the +Morels'. When Paul and his mother came in the chapel the Leivers's pew +was always empty. He was anxious for fear she would not come: it was so +far, and there were so many rainy Sundays. Then, often very late indeed, +she came in, with her long stride, her head bowed, her face hidden under +her hat of dark green velvet. Her face, as she sat opposite, was always +in shadow. But it gave him a very keen feeling, as if all his soul +stirred within him, to see her there. It was not the same glow, +happiness, and pride, that he felt in having his mother in charge: +something more wonderful, less human, and tinged to intensity by a pain, +as if there were something he could not get to. + +At this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed. He was +twenty-one, and she was twenty. She was beginning to dread the spring: +he became so wild, and hurt her so much. All the way he went cruelly +smashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. He was by nature critical and +rather dispassionate. But Miriam suffered exquisite pain, as, with an +intellect like a knife, the man she loved examined her religion in which +she lived and moved and had her being. But he did not spare her. He was +cruel. And when they went alone he was even more fierce, as if he would +kill her soul. He bled her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness. + +"She exults--she exults as she carries him off from me," Mrs. Morel +cried in her heart when Paul had gone. "She's not like an ordinary +woman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She +wants to draw him out and absorb him till there is nothing left of him, +even for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet--she will suck +him up." So the mother sat, and battled and brooded bitterly. + +And he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, 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 suffer? 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 suffering, 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 humility! + +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 intense and cruel. +So he decided to stay away from her. Then came the hours when he knew +Miriam was expecting him. His mother watched him growing restless. +He could not go on with his work. He could do nothing. It was as if +something were drawing his soul out towards Willey Farm. Then he put on +his hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. And +as soon as he was on the way he sighed with relief. And when he was with +her he was cruel again. + +One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriam sitting +beside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, so +brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stole along on the water. The +clear spaces in the sky were of clean, cold blue. Paul lay on his back +in the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. She +seemed to want him, and he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted +now to give her passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that +she wanted the soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and +energy she drew into herself through some channel which united them. She +did not want to meet him, so that there were two of them, man and woman +together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an +intensity like madness, which fascinated him, as drug-taking might. + +He was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she were +fingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life, as +she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the end it +frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search, +and his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was, almost +inhuman, as if in a trance. + +"Don't talk any more," she pleaded softly, laying her hand on his +forehead. + +He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body was somewhere +discarded. + +"Why not? Are you tired?" + +"Yes, and it wears you out." + +He laughed shortly, realising. + +"Yet you always make me like it," he said. + +"I don't wish to," she said, very low. + +"Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it. But your +unconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose I want it." + +He went on, in his dead fashion: + +"If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel off for you!" + + +"I!" she cried bitterly--"I! Why, when would you let me take you?" + +"Then it's my fault," he said, and, gathering himself together, he got +up and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague way +he hated her for it. And he knew he was as much to blame himself. This, +however, did not prevent his hating her. + +One evening about this time he had walked along the home road with her. +They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood, unable to part. As +the stars came out the clouds closed. They had glimpses of their own +constellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a +moment, his dog ran low, struggling with difficulty through the spume of +cloud. + +Orion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. They +had gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling, until +they seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This evening +Paul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed just an ordinary +constellation to him. He had fought against his glamour and fascination. +Miriam was watching her lover's mood carefully. But he said nothing +that gave him away, till the moment came to part, when he stood frowning +gloomily at the gathered clouds, behind which the great constellation +must be striding still. + +There was to be a little party at his house the next day, at which she +was to attend. + +"I shan't come and meet you," he said. + +"Oh, very well; it's not very nice out," she replied slowly. + +"It's not that--only they don't like me to. They say I care more for +you than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's only +friendship." + +Miriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him an effort. She +left him, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blew +in her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down; and +she despised him for being blown about by any wind of authority. And in +her heart of hearts, unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to get +away from her. This she would never have acknowledged. She pitied him. + +At this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's warehouse. Mr. +Pappleworth left to set up a business of his own, and Paul remained with +Mr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages were to be raised to thirty +shillings at the year-end, if things went well. + +Still on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French lesson. Paul +did not go so frequently to Willey Farm, and she grieved at the thought +of her education's coming to end; moreover, they both loved to +be together, in spite of discords. So they read Balzac, and did +compositions, and felt highly cultured. + +Friday night was reckoning night for the miners. Morel +"reckoned"--shared up the money of the stall--either in the New Inn +at Bretty or in his own house, according as his fellow-butties wished. +Barker had turned a non-drinker, so now the men reckoned at Morel's +house. + +Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still a +tomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design. + +Morel was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless the week's +earnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner, prepared +to get washed. It was decorum for the women to absent themselves while +the men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spy into such a masculine +privacy as the butties' reckoning, nor were they to know the exact +amount of the week's earnings. So, whilst her father was spluttering +in the scullery, Annie went out to spend an hour with a neighbour. Mrs. +Morel attended to her baking. + +"Shut that doo-er!" bawled Morel furiously. + +Annie banged it behind her, and was gone. + +"If tha oppens it again while I'm weshin' me, I'll ma'e thy jaw rattle," +he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Paul and the mother +frowned to hear him. + +Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy water +dripping from him, dithering with cold. + +"Oh, my sirs!" he said. "Wheer's my towel?" + +It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise he would +have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before the hot +baking-fire to dry himself. + +"F-ff-f!" he went, pretending to shudder with cold. + +"Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!" said Mrs. Morel. "It's NOT cold." + +"Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery," said +the miner, as he rubbed his hair; "nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!" + +"And I shouldn't make that fuss," replied his wife. + +"No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi' thy nesh sides." + +"Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?" asked Paul, curious. + +"Eh, I dunno; that's what they say," replied his father. "But there's +that much draught i' yon scullery, as it blows through your ribs like +through a five-barred gate." + +"It would have some difficulty in blowing through yours," said Mrs. +Morel. + +Morel looked down ruefully at his sides. + +"Me!" he exclaimed. "I'm nowt b'r a skinned rabbit. My bones fair juts +out on me." + +"I should like to know where," retorted his wife. + +"Iv'ry-wheer! I'm nobbut a sack o' faggots." + +Mrs. Morel laughed. He had still a wonderfully young body, muscular, +without any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It might have been the +body of a man of twenty-eight, except that there were, perhaps, too many +blue scars, like tattoo-marks, where the coal-dust remained under the +skin, and that his chest was too hairy. But he put his hand on his side +ruefully. It was his fixed belief that, because he did not get fat, +he was as thin as a starved rat. Paul looked at his father's thick, +brownish hands all scarred, with broken nails, rubbing the fine +smoothness of his sides, and the incongruity struck him. It seemed +strange they were the same flesh. + +"I suppose," he said to his father, "you had a good figure once." + +"Eh!" exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid, like a +child. + +"He had," exclaimed Mrs. Morel, "if he didn't hurtle himself up as if he +was trying to get in the smallest space he could." + +"Me!" exclaimed Morel--"me a good figure! I wor niver much more n'r a +skeleton." + +"Man!" cried his wife, "don't be such a pulamiter!" + +"'Strewth!" he said. "Tha's niver knowed me but what I looked as if I +wor goin' off in a rapid decline." + +She sat and laughed. + +"You've had a constitution like iron," she said; "and never a man had a +better start, if it was body that counted. You should have seen him as +a young man," she cried suddenly to Paul, drawing herself up to imitate +her husband's once handsome bearing. + +Morel watched her shyly. He saw again the passion she had had for him. +It blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy, rather scared, and humble. +Yet again he felt his old glow. And then immediately he felt the ruin he +had made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away from +it. + +"Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh," he asked her. + +His wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped it on his shoulders. +He gave a jump. + +"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!" he cried. "Cowd as death!" + +"You ought to have been a salamander," she laughed, washing his back. It +was very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The children +did those things. + +"The next world won't be half hot enough for you," she added. + +"No," he said; "tha'lt see as it's draughty for me." + +But she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion, and went +upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. When he was +dried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair on +end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood +warming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled +them inside out, he scorched them. + +"Goodness, man!" cried Mrs. Morel, "get dressed!" + +"Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o' +water?" he said. + +At last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black. He did all +this on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiar +friends had been present. + +Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red earthenware +panchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of +paste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As she +was doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little +man, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hair +was cropped short, his head was bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but +healthy and taut. + +"Evenin', missis," he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seated himself with a +sigh. + +"Good-evening," she replied cordially. + +"Tha's made thy heels crack," said Morel. + +"I dunno as I have," said Barker. + +He sat, as the men always did in Morel's kitchen, effacing himself +rather. + +"How's missis?" she asked of him. + +He had told her some time back: + +"We're expectin' us third just now, you see." + +"Well," he answered, rubbing his head, "she keeps pretty middlin', I +think." + +"Let's see--when?" asked Mrs. Morel. + +"Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now." + +"Ah! And she's kept fairly?" + +"Yes, tidy." + +"That's a blessing, for she's none too strong." + +"No. An' I've done another silly trick." + +"What's that?" + +Mrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly. + +"I'm come be-out th' market-bag." + +"You can have mine." + +"Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself." + +"I shan't. I take a string bag always." + +She saw the determined little collier buying in the week's groceries and +meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. "Barker's little, but +he's ten times the man you are," she said to her husband. + +Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a +boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven +children. But his wife was a passionate woman. + +"I see you've kested me," he said, smiling rather vapidly. + +"Yes," replied Barker. + +The newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muffler. His nose was +pointed and red. + +"I'm afraid you're cold, Mr. Wesson," said Mrs. Morel. + +"It's a bit nippy," he replied. + +"Then come to the fire." + +"Nay, I s'll do where I am." + +Both colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to the +hearth. The hearth is sacred to the family. + +"Go thy ways i' th' armchair," cried Morel cheerily. + +"Nay, thank yer; I'm very nicely here." + +"Yes, come, of course," insisted Mrs. Morel. + +He rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morel's armchair awkwardly. It was +too great a familiarity. But the fire made him blissfully happy. + +"And how's that chest of yours?" demanded Mrs. Morel. + +He smiled again, with his blue eyes rather sunny. + +"Oh, it's very middlin'," he said. + +"Wi' a rattle in it like a kettle-drum," said Barker shortly. + +"T-t-t-t!" went Mrs. Morel rapidly with her tongue. "Did you have that +flannel singlet made?" + +"Not yet," he smiled. + +"Then, why didn't you?" she cried. + +"It'll come," he smiled. + +"Ah, an' Doomsday!" exclaimed Barker. + +Barker and Morel were both impatient of Wesson. But, then, they were +both as hard as nails, physically. + +When Morel was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to Paul. + +"Count it, boy," he asked humbly. + +Paul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the bag upside +down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns and +loose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks--the written +papers giving amount of coal--put the money in order. Then Barker +glanced at the checks. + +Mrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. Morel, as +master of the house, sat in his armchair, with his back to the hot fire. +The two butties had cooler seats. None of them counted the money. + +"What did we say Simpson's was?" asked Morel; and the butties cavilled +for a minute over the dayman's earnings. Then the amount was put aside. + +"An' Bill Naylor's?" + +This money also was taken from the pack. + +Then, because Wesson lived in one of the company's houses, and his rent +had been deducted, Morel and Barker took four-and-six each. And because +Morel's coals had come, and the leading was stopped, Barker and Wesson +took four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morel gave each of +them a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns; each half a crown +till there were no more half-crowns; each a shilling till there were no +more shillings. If there was anything at the end that wouldn't split, +Morel took it and stood drinks. + +Then the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the house before +his wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She looked +hastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing on the table, she saw +her money lying. Paul had been working all the time. But now he felt his +mother counting the week's money, and her wrath rising, + +"T-t-t-t-t!" went her tongue. + +He frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted again. + +"A measly twenty-five shillings!" she exclaimed. "How much was the +cheque?" + +"Ten pounds eleven," said Paul irritably. He dreaded what was coming. + +"And he gives me a scrattlin' twenty-five, an' his club this week! But I +know him. He thinks because YOU'RE earning he needn't keep the house any +longer. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I'll +show him!" + +"Oh, mother, don't!" cried Paul. + +"Don't what, I should like to know?" she exclaimed. + +"Don't carry on again. I can't work." + +She went very quiet. + +"Yes, it's all very well," she said; "but how do you think I'm going to +manage?" + +"Well, it won't make it any better to whittle about it." + +"I should like to know what you'd do if you had it to put up with." + +"It won't be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell." + +He went back to his work, and she tied her bonnet-strings grimly. When +she was fretted he could not bear it. But now he began to insist on her +recognizing him. + +"The two loaves at the top," she said, "will be done in twenty minutes. +Don't forget them." + +"All right," he answered; and she went to market. + +He remained alone working. But his usual intense concentration became +unsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past seven came a +low knock, and Miriam entered. + +"All alone?" she said. + +"Yes." + +As if at home, she took off her tam-o'-shanter and her long coat, +hanging them up. It gave him a thrill. This might be their own house, +his and hers. Then she came back and peered over his work. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +"Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery." + +She bent short-sightedly over the drawings. + +It irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his, +searching him out. He went into the parlour and returned with a bundle +of brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on the floor. It +proved to be a curtain or portiere, beautifully stencilled with a design +on roses. + +"Ah, how beautiful!" she cried. + +The spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green stems, +all so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay at her feet. She went +on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched +voluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she +looked up at him. + +"Why does it seem cruel?" she asked. + +"What?" + +"There seems a feeling of cruelty about it," she said. + +"It's jolly good, whether or not," he replied, folding up his work with +a lover's hands. + +She rose slowly, pondering. + +"And what will you do with it?" she asked. + +"Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd rather +have the money." + +"Yes," said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam +sympathised. Money would have been nothing to HER. + +He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to +Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design. + +"I did that for you," he said. + +She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became +embarrassed. + +"By Jove, the bread!" he cried. + +He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He +put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his +hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it +in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood +rubbing the bits of dough from his hands. + +"You do like it?" he asked. + +She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed +uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him +the most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All his +passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, +when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his +imaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands +when she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and +for him. + +While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and +pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the +room. She was a friend at the Morel's. + +"Take your things off," said Paul. + +"No, I'm not stopping." + +She sat down in the armchair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on the +sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a +scent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth. + +"I shouldn't have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers," +said Beatrice wickedly. + +"Why not?" murmured Miriam huskily. + +"Why, let's look at your shoes." + +Miriam remained uncomfortably still. + +"If tha doesna tha durs'na," laughed Beatrice. + +Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer, +irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed how +self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with +mud. + +"Glory! You're a positive muck-heap," exclaimed Beatrice. "Who cleans +your boots?" + +"I clean them myself." + +"Then you wanted a job," said Beatrice. "It would ha' taken a lot of men +to ha' brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge, doesn't +it, 'Postle my duck?" + +"Inter alia," he said. + +"Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean, +Miriam?" + +There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not see +it. + +"'Among other things,' I believe," she said humbly. + +Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly. + +"'Among other things,' 'Postle?" she repeated. "Do you mean love laughs +at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends, and +lady friends, and even at the b'loved himself?" + +She affected a great innocence. + +"In fact, it's one big smile," he replied. + +"Up its sleeve, 'Postle Morel--you believe me," she said; and she went +off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter. + +Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul's +friends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the +lurch--seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then. + +"Are you still at school?" asked Miriam of Beatrice. + +"Yes." + +"You've not had your notice, then?" + +"I expect it at Easter." + +"Isn't it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you didn't pass +the exam?" + +"I don't know," said Beatrice coldly. + +"Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me +ridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass." + +"Short of brains, eh, 'Postle?" said Beatrice briefly. + +"Only brains to bite with," replied Paul, laughing. + +"Nuisance!" she cried; and, springing from her seat, she rushed and +boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while +she wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and seized two handfuls +of his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook. + +"Beat!" he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. "I +hate you!" + +She laughed with glee. + +"Mind!" she said. "I want to sit next to you." + +"I'd as lief be neighbours with a vixen," he said, nevertheless making +place for her between him and Miriam. + +"Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!" she cried; and, with her +hair-comb, she combed him straight. "And his nice little moustache!" +she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache. +"It's a wicked moustache, 'Postle," she said. "It's a red for danger. +Have you got any of those cigarettes?" + +He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside it. + +"And fancy me having Connie's last cig.," said Beatrice, putting the +thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed +daintily. + +"Thanks so much, darling," she said mockingly. + +It gave her a wicked delight. + +"Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?" she asked. + +"Oh, very!" said Miriam. + +He took a cigarette for himself. + +"Light, old boy?" said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him. + +He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winking +at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, and +his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she +could not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him; she +might as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his +full red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on his +forehead. + +"Sweet boy!" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a little +kiss on the cheek. + +"I s'll kiss thee back, Beat," he said. + +"Tha wunna!" she giggled, jumping up and going away. "Isn't he +shameless, Miriam?" + +"Quite," said Miriam. "By the way, aren't you forgetting the bread?" + +"By Jove!" he cried, flinging open the oven door. + +Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread. + +"Oh, golly!" cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouched before the +oven, she peered over his shoulder. "This is what comes of the oblivion +of love, my boy." + +Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hot +side; another was hard as a brick. + +"Poor mater!" said Paul. + +"You want to grate it," said Beatrice. "Fetch me the nutmeg-grater." + +She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and she +grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open +to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing +her cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf. + +"My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time," said Beatrice. + +"I!" exclaimed Miriam in amazement. + +"You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. I know why King Alfred +burned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postle would fix up a tale about his +work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman +had come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed the brazen thing's ears who +made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred's." + +She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in spite of +herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully. + +The garden gate was heard to bang. + +"Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it up in a +damp towel." + +Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapings +into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was +an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light. + +"Smell of burning!" she exclaimed. + +"It's the cigarettes," replied Beatrice demurely. + +"Where's Paul?" + +Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes, very +sad. + +"I suppose he's left you to settle it between you," he said. He nodded +sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice. + +"No," said Beatrice, "he's gone off with number nine." + +"I just met number five inquiring for him," said Leonard. + +"Yes--we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby," said Beatrice. + +Annie laughed. + +"Oh, ay," said Leonard. "And which bit should you have?" + +"I don't know," said Beatrice. "I'll let all the others pick first." + +"An' you'd have the leavings, like?" said Leonard, twisting up a comic +face. + +Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered. + +"This bread's a fine sight, our Paul," said Annie. + +"Then you should stop an' look after it," said Paul. + +"You mean YOU should do what you're reckoning to do," replied Annie. + +"He should, shouldn't he!" cried Beatrice. + +"I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand," said Leonard. + +"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie. + +"Yes--but I'd been in all week--" + +"And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard kindly. + +"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever," Annie agreed. She was +quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard +and Annie. She would meet her own boy. + +"Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I +don't think it will rain." + +When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and +surveyed it sadly. + +"It's a mess!" he said. + +"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it, after all--twopence, +ha'penny." + +"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to +heart. However, it's no good bothering." + +He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance +between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments +considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty +inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served +Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was +thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his +forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks +of Beatrice's comb? Why 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 exercise-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 reading only the French, ignoring her soul that +was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, +motionless. She quivered. + +"'_Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille,'" he read. "'Il faisait encore un +crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre 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 aussi 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. He was afraid of her love for +him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was +at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above +her words. + +"Look," he said quietly, "the past participle conjugated with _avoir_ +agrees with the direct object when it precedes." + +She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine curls +tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shuddering. He +saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted piteously, the +black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She +was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as +he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked +with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and +they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, +was exposed in fear. And he knew, before he could kiss her, he must +drive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back +again into his heart. He returned to her exercise. + +Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap, +turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, +and it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched before the oven +hurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel in +the swift way he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again. +If only he had been gentle in his movements she would have felt so rich +and warm. As it was, she was hurt. + +He returned and finished the exercise. + +"You've done well this week," he said. + +She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her entirely. + +"You really do blossom out sometimes," he said. "You ought to write +poetry." + +She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully. + +"I don't trust myself," she said. + +"You should try!" + +Again she shook her head. + +"Shall we read, or is it too late?" he asked. + +"It is late--but we can read just a little," she pleaded. + +She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week. +He made her copy Baudelaire's "Le Balcon". Then he read it for her. His +voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of +lifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when +he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were +trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head +bowed. She could not understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. +It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole--nor +Verlaine. + + "Behold her singing in the field + Yon solitary highland lass." + +That nourished her heart. So did "Fair Ines". And-- + + "It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, + And breathing holy quiet like a nun." + +These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat +bitterly: + +"_Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses_." + +The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the +burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. +The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery. + +"Mater needn't know till morning," he said. "It won't upset her so much +then as at night." + +Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had +received, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested +him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble to +lock the door. + +He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated +in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back, +remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on her +knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul +entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the +little local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down on +the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke. +He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a +piece of paper he found on the table. Then-- + +"I forgot that bread, mother," he said. + +There was no answer from either woman. + +"Well," he said, "it's only twopence ha'penny. I can pay you for that." + +Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid them towards his +mother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly. + +"Yes," said Annie, "you don't know how badly my mother is!" + +The girl sat staring glumly into the fire. + +"Why is she badly?" asked Paul, in his overbearing way. + +"Well!" said Annie. "She could scarcely get home." + +He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill. + +"WHY could you scarcely get home?" he asked her, still sharply. She +would not answer. + +"I found her as white as a sheet sitting here," said Annie, with a +suggestion of tears in her voice. + +"Well, WHY?" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilating +passionately. + +"It was enough to upset anybody," said Mrs. Morel, "hugging those +parcels--meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains--" + +"Well, why DID you hug them; you needn't have done." + +"Then who would?" + +"Let Annie fetch the meat." + +"Yes, and I WOULD fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off +with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came." + +"And what was the matter with you?" asked Paul of his mother. + +"I suppose it's my heart," she replied. Certainly she looked bluish +round the mouth. + +"And have you felt it before?" + +"Yes--often enough." + +"Then why haven't you told me?--and why haven't you seen a doctor?" + +Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring. + +"You'd never notice anything," said Annie. "You're too eager to be off +with Miriam." + +"Oh, am I--and any worse than you with Leonard?" + +"I was in at a quarter to ten." + +There was silence in the room for a time. + +"I should have thought," said Mrs. Morel bitterly, "that she wouldn't +have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful of bread." + +"Beatrice was here as well as she." + +"Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt." + +"Why?" he flashed. + +"Because you were engrossed with Miriam," replied Mrs. Morel hotly. + +"Oh, very well--then it was NOT!" he replied angrily. + +He was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he began to read. +Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twisted into a +plait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night. + +Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wanted to upbraid him. +He also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he was troubled. So, +instead of running away to bed, as he would have liked to do, he sat and +waited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly. + +"You'd better go to bed before your father comes in," said the mother +harshly. "And if you're going to have anything to eat, you'd better get +it." + +"I don't want anything." + +It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Friday +night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and +find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her. + +"If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the +scene," said Mrs. Morel. "But you're never too tired to go if SHE will +come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then." + +"I can't let her go alone." + +"Can't you? And why does she come?" + +"Not because I ask her." + +"She doesn't come without you want her--" + +"Well, what if I DO want her--" he replied. + +"Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go trapseing up +there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go +to Nottingham in the morning--" + +"If I hadn't, you'd be just the same." + +"Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating +that you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was bitterly +sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, +jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that +hurt Paul to see. + +"I do like her," he said, "but--" + +"LIKE her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seems to me +you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor +anyone now for you." + +"What nonsense, mother--you know I don't love her--I--I tell you I DON'T +love her--she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her +to." + +"Then why do you fly to her so often?" + +"I DO like to talk to her--I never said I didn't. But I DON'T love her." + +"Is there nobody else to talk to?" + +"Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that you're +not interested in, that--" + +"What things?" + +Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant. + +"Why--painting--and books. YOU don't care about Herbert Spencer." + +"No," was the sad reply. "And YOU won't at my age." + +"Well, but I do now--and Miriam does--" + +"And how do you know," Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, "that I shouldn't. +Do you ever try me!" + +"But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a picture's +decorative or not; you don't care what MANNER it is in." + +"How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to +me about these things, to try?" + +"But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know t's not." + +"What is it, then--what is it, then, that matters to me?" she flashed. +He knitted his brows with pain. + +"You're old, mother, and we're young." + +He only meant that the interests of HER age were not the interests of +his. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrong +thing. + +"Yes, I know it well--I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I have +nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you--the rest +is for Miriam." + +He could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that he was life to her. +And, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only supreme thing. + +"You know it isn't, mother, you know it isn't!" + +She was moved to pity by his cry. + +"It looks a great deal like it," she said, half putting aside her +despair. + +"No, mother--I really DON'T love her. I talk to her, but I want to come +home to you." + +He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to go +to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round his +neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whimpering voice, so +unlike her own that he writhed in agony: + +"I can't bear it. I could let another woman--but not her. She'd leave me +no room, not a bit of room--" + +And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly. + +"And I've never--you know, Paul--I've never had a husband--not really--" + +He stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat. + +"And she exults so in taking you from me--she's not like ordinary +girls." + +"Well, I don't love her, mother," he murmured, bowing his head and +hiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed him a long, +fervent kiss. + +"My boy!" she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love. + +Without knowing, he gently stroked her face. + +"There," said his mother, "now go to bed. You'll be so tired in the +morning." As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. "There's +your father--now go." Suddenly she looked at him almost as if in fear. +"Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy." + +His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling. + +"Ha--mother!" he said softly. + +Morel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one corner of his eye. +He balanced in the doorway. + +"At your mischief again?" he said venomously. + +Mrs. Morel's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard who had +come in thus upon her. + +"At any rate, it is sober," she said. + +"H'm--h'm! h'm--h'm!" he sneered. He went into the passage, hung up his +hat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps to the pantry. He +returned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morel +had bought for her son. + +"Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than +twenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork-pie to +stuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer." + +"Wha-at--wha-at!" snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. "Wha-at--not +for me?" He looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in a +vicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire. + +Paul started to his feet. + +"Waste your own stuff!" he cried. + +"What--what!" suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clenching his fist. +"I'll show yer, yer young jockey!" + +"All right!" said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. "Show +me!" + +He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at something. +Morel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. The young man +stood, smiling with his lips. + +"Ussha!" hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just past +his son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really touch the +young man, but swerved an inch away. + +"Right!" said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, where +in another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke. +But he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale and +dark at the mouth. Morel was dancing up to deliver another blow. + +"Father!" said Paul, so that the word rang. + +Morel started, and stood at attention. + +"Mother!" moaned the boy. "Mother!" + +She began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him, although +she could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. He laid her +down on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky, which at last +she could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he kneeled in +front of her he did not cry, but the tears ran down his face quickly. +Morel, on the opposite side of the room, sat with his elbows on his +knees glaring across. + +"What's a-matter with 'er?" he asked. + +"Faint!" replied Paul. + +"H'm!" + +The elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled off to bed. His +last fight was fought in that home. + +Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother's hand. + +"Don't be poorly, mother--don't be poorly!" he said time after time. + +"It's nothing, my boy," she murmured. + +At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and raked the fire. +Then he cleared the room, put everything straight, laid the things for +breakfast, and brought his mother's candle. + +"Can you go to bed, mother?" + +"Yes, I'll come." + +"Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him." + +"No. I'll sleep in my own bed." + +"Don't sleep with him, mother." + +"I'll sleep in my own bed." + +She rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her closely upstairs, +carrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close. + +"Good-night, mother." + +"Good-night!" she said. + +He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery. And yet, +somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he still loved his mother +best. It was the bitter peace of resignation. + +The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a great +humiliation to him. + +Everybody tried to forget the scene. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +DEFEAT OF MIRIAM + +PAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest +of his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, or +wounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and +there was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal +against her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old feeling that she was +to be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had when she prayed, was +mingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she +ever would have him. She did not believe in herself primarily: doubted +whether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly she +never saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She saw +tragedy, sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud, +in renunciation she was strong, for she did not trust herself to support +everyday life. She was prepared for the big things and the deep things, +like tragedy. It was the sufficiency of the small day-life she could not +trust. + +The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she +felt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroom +window, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood, in whose branches a +twilight was tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon. Grey-green +rosettes of honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, she +fancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded. + +Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright +grey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glittered +as he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughed towards the house. +To-day he walked with shut lips and cold, cruel bearing, that had +something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and +could tell from that keen-looking, aloof young body of his what was +happening inside him. There was a cold correctness in the way he put his +bicycle in its place, that made her heart sink. + +She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she +thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding her +of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully +a woman, and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously +formed. Her face was still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. But +her eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would +notice her new blouse. + +He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to +a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel, +conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at +the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be so +beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now taking +on one expression and then another, in imitation of various people he +was mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality. +He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, +hard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. +But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers, +just awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. +The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in their +shirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved +a "take-off" more than anything. + +He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse, +saw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth. +She was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups from the shelves. + +When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally. + +"You were late," she said. + +"Was I?" he answered. + +There was silence for a while. + +"Was it rough riding?" she asked. + +"I didn't notice it." She continued quickly to lay the table. When she +had finished-- + +"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the +daffodils?" she said. + +He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden under +the budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. +Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was +pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows, +which she loved, could look so hurting. + +"Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detected an underneath +feeling of weariness about him. + +"No, I think not," he answered. + +"It must be rough on the road--the wood moans so." + +"You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helps me here." + +"You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand," she murmured. + +"Is there need to cycle to know that!" he said. + +She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forward in silence. +Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house was a thorn +hedge, under which daffodils were craning forward from among their +sheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowers were greenish +with cold. But still some had burst, and their gold ruffled and glowed. +Miriam went on her knees before one cluster, took a wild-looking +daffodil between her hands, turned up its face of gold to her, and bowed +down, caressing it with her mouth and cheeks and brow. He stood aside, +with his hands in his pockets, watching her. One after another she +turned up to him the faces of the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly, +fondling them lavishly all the while. + +"Aren't they magnificent?" she murmured. + +"Magnificent! It's a bit thick--they're pretty!" + +She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched +her crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses. + +"Why must you always be fondling things?" he said irritably. + +"But I love to touch them," she replied, hurt. + +"Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to +pull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit more restraint, or +reserve, or something?" + +She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke her +lips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was so +much kinder than he; it almost made her cry. + +"You wheedle the soul out of things," he said. "I would never +wheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight." + +He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from him +mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm and +hard against her. + +"You're always begging things to love you," he said, "as if you were a +beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--" + +Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth, +inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to her +nostrils. + +"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal craving is to be +loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as +if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage +somewhere." + +She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not the +faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted, +tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings +like sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. She +only sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She never +realised in a flash. Over everything she brooded and brooded. + +After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no notice of +Miriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday, waited for +him. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track +this mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a +mood. + +"Shall we go through the wood a little way?" she asked him, knowing he +never refused a direct request. + +They went down to the warren. On the middle path they passed a trap, a +narrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs, baited with the guts of a +rabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye. + +"Isn't it dreadful?" she asked. + +"I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rabbit's +throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!" + +He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry for +him. + +"We will go back to the house," he said. "I don't want to walk out." + +They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds were coming +unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monument squared +and brown, like a pillar of stone. There was a little bed of hay from +the last cutting. + +"Let us sit here a minute," said Miriam. + +He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard wall of +hay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowed with sunset, +tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the woods dark and +yet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops, distinct in the distance. +The evening had cleared, and the east was tender with a magenta flush +under which the land lay still and rich. + +"Isn't it beautiful?" she pleaded. + +But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then. + +At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed, pranced +his two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back, +laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but +it came leaping back. + +"Get out," said the lad, "or I'll dot thee one." + +But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little battle +with the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, however, +only floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought +together, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning all over. Miriam +watched them. There was something pathetic about the man. He wanted so +badly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was +really loving. Bill got up, panting with happiness, his brown eyes +rolling in his white face, and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The +lad frowned. + +"Bill, I've had enough o' thee," he said. + +But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love, +upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back. + +"No," he said--"no--I've had enough." + +And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun. + +He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beauty +he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the +courage to leave Miriam. + +"Why are you sad?" she asked humbly. + +"I'm not sad; why should I be," he answered. "I'm only normal." + +She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was +disagreeable. + +"But what is the matter?" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly. + +"Nothing!" + +"Nay!" she murmured. + +He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it. + +"You'd far better not talk," he said. + +"But I wish to know--" she replied. + +He laughed resentfully. + +"You always do," he said. + +"It's not fair to me," she murmured. + +He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, digging +up little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She +gently and firmly laid her band on his wrist. + +"Don't!" she said. "Put it away." + +He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was +bottled up. + +"What is it?" she pleaded softly. + +He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they full of torment. + +"You know," he said at length, rather wearily--"you know--we'd better +break off." + +It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before her +eyes. + +"Why!" she murmured. "What has happened?" + +"Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no good--" + +She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatient +with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him. + +"We agreed on friendship," he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. "How +often HAVE we agreed for friendship! And yet--it neither stops there, +nor gets anywhere else." + +He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. +There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with +him. + +"I can only give friendship--it's all I'm capable of--it's a flaw in my +make-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hate a toppling balance. +Let us have done." + +There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him +more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not +in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her +soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor +acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, +it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She +would never let herself want him. She would merely see. + +"But what has happened?" she said. + +"Nothing--it's all in myself--it only comes out just now. We're always +like this towards Easter-time." + +He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she never +floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chiefly +humiliated. + +"What do you want?" she asked him. + +"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopolise you when +I'm not--You see, I'm deficient in something with regard to you--" + +He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her a +chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy he +was! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he, +ah! she loved his soul. Was HE deficient in something? Perhaps he was. + +"But I don't understand," she said huskily. "Yesterday--" + +The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded. +And she bowed under her suffering. + +"I know," he cried, "you never will! You'll never believe that I +can't--can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark--" + +"What?" she murmured. Now she dreaded. + +"Love you." + +He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love +her! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not +loving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part, +because he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belonged +to her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencing +him. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreignness of another +influence. + +"What have they been saying at home?" she asked. + +"It's not that," he answered. + +And then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness, his +people. They did not know what things were really worth. + +He and she talked very little more that night. After all he left her to +cycle with Edgar. + +He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie in his life. +When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unreal +feel about her. And nobody else mattered. There was one place in the +world that stood solid and did not melt into unreality: the place where +his mother was. Everybody else could grow shadowy, almost non-existent +to him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life, +from which he could not escape, was his mother. + +And in the same way she waited for him. In him was established her life +now. After all, the life beyond offered very little to Mrs. Morel. She +saw that our chance for DOING is here, and doing counted with her. Paul +was going to prove that she had been right; he was going to make a man +whom nothing should shift off his feet; he was going to alter the face +of the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt her +soul went with him. Whatever he did she felt her soul stood by him, +ready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when he +was with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul. + +And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of the +satisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She loved +him first; he loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His new young +life, so strong and imperious, was urged towards something else. It made +him mad with restlessness. She saw this, and wished bitterly that Miriam +had been a woman who could take this new life of his, and leave her the +roots. He fought against his mother almost as he fought against Miriam. + +It was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam had suffered +a great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endure +the ignominy of his abandoning her? That would only be superficial +and temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. But +meanwhile, how he would torture her with his battle against her. She +shrank from it. + +However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leivers was glad +to see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that he found +things hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was good +to him. She did him that great kindness of treating him almost with +reverence. + +He met her with the young children in the front garden. + +"I'm glad you've come," said the mother, looking at him with her great +appealing brown eyes. "It is such a sunny day. I was just going down the +fields for the first time this year." + +He felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went, talking +simply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitude that she +was deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated. + +At the bottom of the Mow Close they found a thrush's nest. + +"Shall I show you the eggs?" he said. + +"Do!" replied Mrs. Leivers. "They seem SUCH a sign of spring, and so +hopeful." + +He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding them in the palm +of his hand. + +"They are quite hot--I think we frightened her off them," he said. + +"Ay, poor thing!" said Mrs. Leivers. + +Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed +to her, cradled them so well. + +"Isn't it a strange warmth!" she murmured, to get near him. + +"Blood heat," he answered. + +She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge, +his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully +over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved +him; he seemed so simple and sufficient to himself. And she could not +get to him. + +After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took "Tartarin de +Tarascon". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the stack. +He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dog +came racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzle +in the man's chest. Paul fingered his ear for a moment. Then he pushed +him away. + +"Go away, Bill," he said. "I don't want you." + +Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. There +was a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. It +was not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared. + +Turning his face a little to one side, so that she could not see him, he +began, speaking slowly and painfully: + +"Do you think--if I didn't come up so much--you might get to like +somebody else--another man?" + +So this was what he was still harping on. + +"But I don't know any other men. Why do you ask?" she replied, in a low +tone that should have been a reproach to him. + +"Why," he blurted, "because they say I've no right to come up like +this--without we mean to marry--" + +Miriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. She +had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, +that he knew why he came so much. + +"Who says?" she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with +it. They had not. + +"Mother--and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider +me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it's not fair to +you. And I've tried to find out--and I don't think I love you as a man +ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?" + +Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle. +People should leave him and her alone. + +"I don't know," she murmured. + +"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?" he asked definitely. +It made her tremble. + +"No," she answered truthfully. "I don't think so--we're too young." + +"I thought perhaps," he went on miserably, "that you, with your +intensity in things, might have given me more--than I could ever make up +to you. And even now--if you think it better--we'll be engaged." + +Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such a +child for people to do as they liked with. + +"No, I don't think so," she said firmly. + +He pondered a minute. + +"You see," he said, "with me--I don't think one person would ever +monopolize me--be everything to me--I think never." + +This she did not consider. + +"No," she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her dark +eyes flashed. + +"This is your mother," she said. "I know she never liked me." + +"No, no, it isn't," he said hastily. "It was for your sake she spoke +this time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself +engaged." There was a silence. "And if I ask you to come down any time, +you won't stop away, will you?" + +She did not answer. By this time she was very angry. + +"Well, what shall we do?" she said shortly. "I suppose I'd better drop +French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go +on alone." + +"I don't see that we need," he said. "I can give you a French lesson, +surely." + +"Well--and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop coming to chapel, +because I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've no +need to come home with me. I can go alone." + +"All right," he answered, rather taken aback. "But if I ask Edgar, he'll +always come with us, and then they can say nothing." + +There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all +their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She +wished they would mind their own business. + +"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?" he +asked. + +"Oh no," replied Miriam, without looking at him. + +He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no +anchor of righteousness that held him. + +"Because," he continued, "a man gets across his bicycle--and goes to +work--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods." + +"No, I shan't bother," said Miriam. And she meant it. + +It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors. + +"How white Paul looks!" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. "Miriam, you shouldn't +have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken cold, Paul?" + +"Oh, no!" he laughed. + +But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam +pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he rose to go. + +"You're not going home, are you?" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously. + +"Yes," he replied. "I said I'd be early." He was very awkward. + +"But this IS early," said Mrs. Leivers. + +Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, +expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his +bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. + +"Well--good-night, all!" he faltered. + +She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past +the window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a +way that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain. + +She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passed +through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur and +a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random. +He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck. + +Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her to +read and be busy. + +At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family +so much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest place on earth to +him. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would +have been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he +loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots +tramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden +on; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was +so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of +romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the +gardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the +naked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness, +the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of +the other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. +He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism; +he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar, who +lit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill--even the +sow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides +Miriam. He could not give it up. + +So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only all the family, +including the father, joined in charades and games at evening. And +later, Miriam drew them together, and they read Macbeth out of penny +books, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. +Leivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learned +songs together from tonic sol-fa, singing in a circle round the fire. +But now Paul was very rarely alone with Miriam. She waited. When she +and Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literary +society in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox +nowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with +Paul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Friday +nights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone, +walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. +And he wrote to her frequently. + +One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had +stayed to Communion--he wondered what it was like--with Mrs. Morel. So +Paul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He was more or less under +her spell again. As usual, they were discussing the sermon. He was +setting now full sail towards Agnosticism, but such a religious +Agnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the Renan +Vie de Jesus stage. Miriam was the threshing-floor on which he threshed +out all his beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, the +truth came out for him. She alone was his threshing-floor. She alone +helped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to +his argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he gradually +realized where he was wrong. And what he realized, she realized. She +felt he could not do without her. + +They came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullery +window, and they entered. All the time he went on with his discussion. +He lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes from the +pantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore +a large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but +he liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown and +ruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him. + +She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed the lithe +movement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. +He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. +Miriam liked the way he reached up--so sharp, straight to the mark. He +turned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John. As he sat +in the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking, she felt as if +he were using her unconsciously as a man uses his tools at some work he +is bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulness of his voice was like a +reaching to something, and it was as if she were what he reached with. +She sat back on the sofa away from him, and yet feeling herself the very +instrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure. + +Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when he came to +the verse, "A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrow because +her hour is come", he missed it out. Miriam had felt him growing +uncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words did not follow. He +went on reading, but she did not hear. A grief and shame made her bend +her head. Six months ago he would have read it simply. Now there was a +scotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something +hostile between them, something of which they were ashamed. + +She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument, but +could not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel had +gone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey Farm. + +Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something else he +wanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There was +between them now always a ground for strife. She wanted to prove him. +She believed that his chief need in life was herself. If she could prove +it, both to herself and to him, the rest might go; she could simply +trust to the future. + +So in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meet Mrs. Dawes. +There was something he hankered after. She saw him, whenever they spoke +of Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like +her. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to +the test. She believed that there were in him desires for higher things, +and desires for lower, and that the desire for the higher would conquer. +At any rate, he should try. She forgot that her "higher" and "lower" +were arbitrary. + +He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. Mrs. +Dawes came for the day. Her heavy, dun-coloured hair was coiled on +top of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt, and somehow, +wherever she was, seemed to make things look paltry and insignificant. +When she was in the room, the kitchen seemed too small and mean +altogether. Miriam's beautiful twilighty parlour looked stiff and +stupid. All the Leivers were eclipsed like candles. They found +her rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but +indifferent, and rather hard. + +Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swung off his +bicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be +disappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went out to meet him, +bowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming out +crimson under the cool green shadow of their leaves. The girl stood, +dark-haired, glad to see him. + +"Hasn't Clara come?" he asked. + +"Yes," replied Miriam in her musical tone. "She's reading." + +He wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had put on a handsome tie, of +which he was rather proud, and socks to match. + +"She came this morning?" he asked. + +"Yes," replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. "You said you'd bring +me that letter from the man at Liberty's. Have you remembered?" + +"Oh, dash, no!" he said. "But nag at me till you get it." + +"I don't like to nag at you." + +"Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?" he continued. + +"You know I always think she is quite agreeable." + +He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-day had been the +newcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together towards the +house. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush the +dust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and tie. + +Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her white +neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at him +indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in a +manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to fling +something to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse, +and how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin muslin at the top +of her arm. + +"You have chosen a fine day," he said. + +"It happens so," she said. + +"Yes," he said; "I am glad." + +She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness. + +"What have you been doing all morning?" asked Paul of Miriam. + +"Well, you see," said Miriam, coughing huskily, "Clara only came with +father--and so--she's not been here very long." + +Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands were +large, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque, +and white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed her +hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the +table. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her +face slightly averted. + +"You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening," he said to +her. + +Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him. + +"Yes," she said. + +"Why," asked Miriam, "how do you know?" + +"I went in for a few minutes before the train came," he answered. + +Clara turned away again rather disdainfully. + +"I think she's a lovable little woman," said Paul. + +"Margaret Bonford!" exclaimed Clara. "She's a great deal cleverer than +most men." + +"Well, I didn't say she wasn't," he said, deprecating. "She's lovable +for all that." + +"And, of course, that is all that matters," said Clara witheringly. + +He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed. + +"I suppose it matters more than her cleverness," he said; "which, after +all, would never get her to heaven." + +"It's not heaven she wants to get--it's her fair share on earth," +retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some deprivation +which Miss Bonford suffered. + +"Well," he said, "I thought she was warm, and awfully nice--only too +frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace--" + +"'Darning her husband's stockings,'" said Clara scathingly. + +"I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings," he said. "And +I'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blacking her boots +if she wanted me to." + +But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for a +little while. The other woman held aloof. + +"Well," he said, "I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?" + +"I believe," said Miriam, "he's gone for a load of coal. He should be +back directly." + +"Then," he said, "I'll go and meet him." + +Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and +left them. + +On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking lazily +beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she dragged +the clanking load of coal. The young farmer's face lighted up as he saw +his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, warm eyes. His clothes +were old and rather disreputable, and he walked with considerable pride. + +"Hello!" he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. "Where are you going?" + +"Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore.'" + +Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement. + +"Who is 'Nevermore'?" he asked. + +"The lady--Mrs. Dawes--it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed +'Nevermore.'" + +Edgar laughed with glee. + +"Don't you like her?" he asked. + +"Not a fat lot," said Paul. "Why, do you?" + +"No!" The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. "No!" Edgar pursed +up his lips. "I can't say she's much in my line." He mused a little. +Then: "But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?" he asked. + +"Well," said Paul, "if she looks at a man she says haughtily +'Nevermore,' and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says +disdainfully 'Nevermore,' and if she thinks back she says it in disgust, +and if she looks forward she says it cynically." + +Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, and said, +laughing: + +"You think she's a man-hater?" + +"SHE thinks she is," replied Paul. + +"But you don't think so?" + +"No," replied Paul. + +"Wasn't she nice with you, then?" + +"Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?" asked the young man. + +Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was +rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked out +of the window. She didn't look. + +On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul +and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the +pelts of Jimmy and Flower. + +"Do you know a new song to teach me?" said Edgar. + +He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red +when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul +watched him sometimes. + +"'Mary Morrison'?" suggested the younger. + +Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the +songs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was +carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. +However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a +clear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then +the other, abused his horse. + +Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them--even Paul. +She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed +in a triviality. + +It was tea-time when they had finished. + +"What song was that?" asked Miriam. + +Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing. + +"We have such jolly times," Miriam said to Clara. + +Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were +present she grew distant. + +"Do you like singing?" Miriam asked her. + +"If it is good," she said. + +Paul, of course, coloured. + +"You mean if it is high-class and trained?" he said. + +"I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything," she +said. + +"You might as well insist on having people's voices trained before you +allowed them to talk," he replied. "Really, people sing for their own +pleasure, as a rule." + +"And it may be for other people's discomfort." + +"Then the other people should have flaps to their ears," he replied. + +The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply, and ate in +silence. + +After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leivers said to +Clara: + +"And you find life happier now?" + +"Infinitely." + +"And you are satisfied?" + +"So long as I can be free and independent." + +"And you don't MISS anything in your life?" asked Mrs. Leivers gently. + +"I've put all that behind me." + +Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up. + +"You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've put behind +you," he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he +had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he went +down the brick track. + +Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara and +her for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were +going beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, looking through the +brake at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a few +sunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes, +a man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beast +seemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift, +away there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among +the fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult. + +The three stood charmed. + +"What a treat to be a knight," he said, "and to have a pavilion here." + +"And to have us shut up safely?" replied Clara. + +"Yes," he answered, "singing with your maids at your broidery. I would +carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have +'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant." + +"I have no doubt," said Clara, "that you would much rather fight for a +woman than let her fight for herself." + +"I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a +looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow." + +"And YOU are the looking-glass?" she asked, with a curl of the lip. + +"Or the shadow," he replied. + +"I am afraid," she said, "that you are too clever." + +"Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD," he retorted, laughing. "Be good, +sweet maid, and just let ME be clever." + +But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he saw +that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart +grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom he +had neglected till then. + +At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenant +of Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the +halter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he were tired. The +three stood to let him pass over the stepping-stones of the first brook. +Paul admired that so large an animal should walk on such springy toes, +with an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them. + +"Tell your father, Miss Leivers," he said, in a peculiar piping voice, +"that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fence three days an' +runnin'." + +"Which?" asked Miriam, tremulous. + +The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks, and +looking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from under its +lowered head and falling mane. + +"Come along a bit," replied Limb, "an' I'll show you." + +The man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways, shaking its +white fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself in the brook. + +"No hanky-pankyin'," said the man affectionately to the beast. + +It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely through the +second brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon, watched it +half-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped and pointed to the +fence under some willows. + +"There, you see where they got through," he said. "My man's druv 'em +back three times." + +"Yes," answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault. + +"Are you comin' in?" asked the man. + +"No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond." + +"Well, just as you've a mind," he said. + +The horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home. + +"He is glad to be back," said Clara, who was interested in the creature. + +"Yes--'e's been a tidy step to-day." + +They went through the gate, and saw approaching them from the +big farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of about +thirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes looked wild. +She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As +it saw her, the big bay stallion whinneyed again. She came up excitedly. + +"Are you home again, my boy!" she said tenderly to the horse, not to +the man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She +smuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she had been hiding +behind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh +of pleasure. She held his head in her arms against her breast. + +"Isn't he splendid!" said Miriam to her. + +Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul. + +"Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers," she said. "It's ages since you've been +down." + +Miriam introduced her friends. + +"Your horse IS a fine fellow!" said Clara. + +"Isn't he!" Again she kissed him. "As loving as any man!" + +"More loving than most men, I should think," replied Clara. + +"He's a nice boy!" cried the woman, again embracing the horse. + +Clara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck. + +"He's quite gentle," said Miss Limb. "Don't you think big fellows are?" + +"He's a beauty!" replied Clara. + +She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her. + +"It's a pity he can't talk," she said. + +"Oh, but he can--all but," replied the other woman. + +Then her brother moved on with the horse. + +"Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr.--I didn't catch it." + +"Morel," said Miriam. "No, we won't come in, but we should like to go by +the mill-pond." + +"Yes--yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?" + +"No," said Paul. + +"Because if you do you might come and fish any time," said Miss Limb. +"We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I should be +thankful." + +"What fish are there in the pond?" he asked. + +They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steep +bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paul +walked with Miss Limb. + +"I shouldn't mind swimming here," he said. + +"Do," she replied. "Come when you like. My brother will be awfully +pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to +talk to. Do come and swim." + +Clara came up. + +"It's a fine depth," she said, "and so clear." + +"Yes," said Miss Limb. + +"Do you swim?" said Paul. "Miss Limb was just saying we could come when +we liked." + +"Of course there's the farm-hands," said Miss Limb. + +They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill, leaving the +lonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank. + +The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky, given +over to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then: + +"She makes me feel uncomfortable," said Paul. + +"You mean Miss Limb?" asked Miriam. "Yes." + +"What's a matter with her? Is she going dotty with being too lonely?" + +"Yes," said Miriam. "It's not the right sort of life for her. I think +it's cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her more. +But--she upsets me." + +"She makes me feel sorry for her--yes, and she bothers me," he said. + +"I suppose," blurted Clara suddenly, "she wants a man." + +The other two were silent for a few moments. + +"But it's the loneliness sends her cracked," said Paul. + +Clara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walking with her +hand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked through the dead thistles +and the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, her +handsome body seemed to be blundering up the hill. A hot wave went over +Paul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. He +forgot Miriam, who was walking beside him talking to him. She glanced at +him, finding he did not answer her. His eyes were fixed ahead on Clara. + +"Do you still think she is disagreeable?" she asked. + +He did not notice that the question was sudden. It ran with his +thoughts. + +"Something's the matter with her," he said. + +"Yes," answered Miriam. + +They found at the top of the hill a hidden wild field, two sides of +which were backed by the wood, the other sides by high loose hedges of +hawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrown bushes were gaps +that the cattle might have walked through had there been any cattle now. +There the turf was smooth as velveteen, padded and holed by the rabbits. +The field itself was coarse, and crowded with tall, big cowslips that +had never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above the +coarse tussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan, fairy +shipping. + +"Ah!" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. He +smiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara, a little way +off, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayed +close together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee, +quickly gathering the best blossoms, moving from tuft to tuft +restlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers +lovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and +almost scientific. Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers. +He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a right to them. She +had more reverence for them: they held something she had not. + +The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As +he gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still +wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he said: + +"Why don't you get some?" + +"I don't believe in it. They look better growing." + +"But you'd like some?" + +"They want to be left." + +"I don't believe they do." + +"I don't want the corpses of flowers about me," she said. + +"That's a stiff, artificial notion," he said. "They don't die any +quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice in +a bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it +looks corpse-like." + +"Whether it is one or not?" she argued. + +"It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower." + +Clara now ignored him. + +"And even so--what right have you to pull them?" she asked. + +"Because I like them, and want them--and there's plenty of them." + +"And that is sufficient?" + +"Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your room in Nottingham." + +"And I should have the pleasure of watching them die." + +"But then--it does not matter if they do die." + +Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled +flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous +foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some +scent from the cowslips. + +"I think," said Miriam, "if you treat them with reverence you don't do +them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters." + +"Yes," he said. "But no, you get 'em because you want 'em, and that's +all." He held out his bunch. + +Miriam was silent. He picked some more. + +"Look at these!" he continued; "sturdy and lusty like little trees and +like boys with fat legs." + +Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending +forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such +a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung +slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and +strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering +a handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying: + + "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, + If the Lord won't have you the devil must." + +The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost +pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on +her face, and she shut her eyes. + +Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward. + +"I thought you wanted a funeral," he said, ill at ease. + +Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips from her hair. +She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled in +her hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he +had sprinkled over her. + +At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and +stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up +to them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him. + +"Look how they've come out of the wood!" he said. + +Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude. + +"Yes," she smiled. + +His blood beat up. + +"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they +would be when they got breast to breast with the open space." + +"Do you think they were?" she asked. + +"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes--those bursting out +of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from +the open tiptoeing into the forests." + +"I should think the second," she answered. + +"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force +yourself into the dark, don't you?" + +"How should I know?" she answered queerly. + +The conversation ended there. + +The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley was full of +shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank Farm. +Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly, +her face in her big, loose bunch of flowers, walking ankle-deep through +the scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming +into shape, all shadow. + +"Shall we go?" she asked. + +And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path +they could see the light of home right across, and on the ridge of the +hill a thin dark outline with little lights, where the colliery village +touched the sky. + +"It has been nice, hasn't it?" he asked. + +Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent. + +"Don't you think so?" he persisted. + +But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell +by the way she moved, as if she didn't care, that she suffered. + +At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright and +enthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railway +carriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as if +she were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, to +fasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with +his hand. + +They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for the +cathedral. + +"There she is, mother!" he cried. + +They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain. + +"Ah!" she exclaimed. "So she is!" + +He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the cathedral +quietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternal +repose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, was +reflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his +young will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh +and pink and downy, but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, +sinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there +was on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat +against it with all the strength of his soul. + +"Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streets +and streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether." + +"So she does!" exclaimed his mother, breaking bright into life again. +But he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the window at the +cathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the relentlessness of +life. And the crow's-feet near her eyes, and her mouth shut so hard, +made him feel he would go mad. + +They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant. + +"Don't imagine I like it," she said, as she ate her cutlet. "I DON'T +like it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!" + +"You never mind my money," he said. "You forget I'm a fellow taking his +girl for an outing." + +And he bought her some blue violets. + +"Stop it at once, sir!" she commanded. "How can I do it?" + +"You've got nothing to do. Stand still!" + +And in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her coat. + +"An old thing like me!" she said, sniffing. + +"You see," he said, "I want people to think we're awful swells. So look +ikey." + +"I'll jowl your head," she laughed. + +"Strut!" he commanded. "Be a fantail pigeon." + +It took him an hour to get her through the street. She stood above Glory +Hole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood everywhere, and exclaimed. + +A man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her. + +"Can I show you the town, madam?" + +"No, thank you," she answered. "I've got my son." + +Then Paul was cross with her for not answering with more dignity. + +"You go away with you!" she exclaimed. "Ha! that's the Jew's House. Now, +do you remember that lecture, Paul--?" + +But she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not notice. +Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little +public-house, where she rested. + +"It's nothing," she said. "My heart is only a bit old; one must expect +it." + +He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart was crushed in a +hot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash things in fury. + +They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And every step seemed like +a weight on his chest. He felt as if his heart would burst. At last +they came to the top. She stood enchanted, looking at the castle gate, +looking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself. + +"Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!" she cried. + +But he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together +in the cathedral. They attended a little service in the choir. She was +timid. + +"I suppose it is open to anybody?" she asked him. + +"Yes," he replied. "Do you think they'd have the damned cheek to send us +away." + +"Well, I'm sure," she exclaimed, "they would if they heard your +language." + +Her face seemed to shine again with joy and peace during the service. +And all the time he was wanting to rage and smash things and cry. + +Afterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking at the town +below, he blurted suddenly: + +"Why can't a man have a YOUNG mother? What is she old for?" + +"Well," his mother laughed, "she can scarcely help it." + +"And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look--they say the young ones have the +advantage--but look, THEY had the young mother. You should have had me +for your eldest son." + +"I didn't arrange it," she remonstrated. "Come to consider, you're as +much to blame as me." + +He turned on her, white, his eyes furious. + +"What are you old for!" he said, mad with his impotence. "WHY can't you +walk? WHY can't you come with me to places?" + +"At one time," she replied, "I could have run up that hill a good deal +better than you." + +"What's the good of that to ME?" he cried, hitting his fist on the wall. +Then he became plaintive. "It's too bad of you to be ill. Little, it +is--" + +"Ill!" she cried. "I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it, +that's all." + +They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They got jolly +again over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats, he told her +about Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions. + +"Then who does she live with?" + +"With her mother, on Bluebell Hill." + +"And have they enough to keep them?" + +"I don't think so. I think they do lace work." + +"And wherein lies her charm, my boy?" + +"I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seems +straight, you know--not a bit deep, not a bit." + +"But she's a good deal older than you." + +"She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three." + +"You haven't told me what you like her for." + +"Because I don't know--a sort of defiant way she's got--a sort of angry +way." + +Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her son to fall +in love with some woman who would--she did not know what. But he fretted +so, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished he +knew some nice woman--She did not know what she wished, but left it +vague. At any rate, she was not hostile to the idea of Clara. + +Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to work in +Birmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him: + +"You don't look very well, my lad." + +"I dunno," he said. "I feel anyhow or nohow, ma." + +He called her "ma" already in his boyish fashion. + +"Are you sure they're good lodgings?" she asked. + +"Yes--yes. Only--it's a winder when you have to pour your own tea +out--an' nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and sup it up. +It somehow takes a' the taste out of it." + +Mrs. Morel laughed. + +"And so it knocks you up?" she said. + +"I dunno. I want to get married," he blurted, twisting his fingers and +looking down at his boots. There was a silence. + +"But," she exclaimed, "I thought you said you'd wait another year." + +"Yes, I did say so," he replied stubbornly. + +Again she considered. + +"And you know," she said, "Annie's a bit of a spendthrift. She's saved +no more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you haven't had much +chance." + +He coloured up to the ears. + +"I've got thirty-three quid," he said. + +"It doesn't go far," she answered. + +He said nothing, but twisted his fingers. + +"And you know," she said, "I've nothing--" + +"I didn't want, ma!" he cried, very red, suffering and remonstrating. + +"No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take away five pounds +for the wedding and things--it leaves twenty-nine pounds. You won't do +much on that." + +He twisted still, impotent, stubborn, not looking up. + +"But do you really want to get married?" she asked. "Do you feel as if +you ought?" + +He gave her one straight look from his blue eyes. + +"Yes," he said. + +"Then," she replied, "we must all do the best we can for it, lad." + +The next time he looked up there were tears in his eyes. + +"I don't want Annie to feel handicapped," he said, struggling. + +"My lad," she said, "you're steady--you've got a decent place. If a man +had NEEDED me I'd have married him on his last week's wages. She may +find it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls ARE like that. They look +forward to the fine home they think they'll have. But I had expensive +furniture. It's not everything." + +So the wedding took place almost immediately. Arthur came home, and was +splendid in uniform. Annie looked nice in a dove-grey dress that she +could take for Sundays. Morel called her a fool for getting married, and +was cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Morel had white tips in her bonnet, +and some white on her blouse, and was teased by both her sons for +fancying herself so grand. Leonard was jolly and cordial, and felt a +fearful fool. Paul could not quite see what Annie wanted to get +married for. He was fond of her, and she of him. Still, he hoped rather +lugubriously that it would turn out all right. Arthur was astonishingly +handsome in his scarlet and yellow, and he knew it well, but was +secretly ashamed of the uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen, +on leaving her mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on the +back and said: + +"But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you." + +Morel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonard +looked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him: + +"I s'll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsible for her." + +"You can," he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And it was all over. + +When Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as he often did, +with his mother. + +"You're not sorry she's married, mother, are you?" he asked. + +"I'm not sorry she's married--but--it seems strange that she should go +from me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer to go with her +Leonard. That's how mothers are--I know it's silly." + +"And shall you be miserable about her?" + +"When I think of my own wedding day," his mother answered, "I can only +hope her life will be different." + +"But you can trust him to be good to her?" + +"Yes, yes. They say he's not good enough for her. But I say if a man +is GENUINE, as he is, and a girl is fond of him--then--it should be all +right. He's as good as she." + +"So you don't mind?" + +"I would NEVER have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn't FEEL to +be genuine through and through. And yet, there's a gap now she's gone." + +They were both miserable, and wanted her back again. It seemed to Paul +his mother looked lonely, in her new black silk blouse with its bit of +white trimming. + +"At any rate, mother, I s'll never marry," he said. + +"Ay, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet. Only wait a +year or two." + +"But I shan't marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we'll have a +servant." + +"Ay, my lad, it's easy to talk. We'll see when the time comes." + +"What time? I'm nearly twenty-three." + +"Yes, you're not one that would marry young. But in three years' time--" + +"I shall be with you just the same." + +"We'll see, my boy, we'll see." + +"But you don't want me to marry?" + +"I shouldn't like to think of you going through your life without +anybody to care for you and do--no." + +"And you think I ought to marry?" + +"Sooner or later every man ought." + +"But you'd rather it were later." + +"It would be hard--and very hard. It's as they say: + + "'A son's my son till he takes him a wife, + But my daughter's my daughter the whole of her life.'" + +"And you think I'd let a wife take me from you?" + +"Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as you," Mrs. +Morel smiled. + +"She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere." + +"She wouldn't--till she'd got you--and then you'd see." + +"I never will see. I'll never marry while I've got you--I won't." + +"But I shouldn't like to leave you with nobody, my boy," she cried. + +"You're not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'll give +you till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four. Then I'll +marry a staid body. See!" + +His mother sat and laughed. + +"Go to bed," she said--"go to bed." + +"And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it'll be +just all right. I s'll perhaps be rich with my painting." + +"Will you go to bed!" + +"And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself--a little Queen +Victoria trotting round." + +"I tell you to go to bed," she laughed. + +He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always the same. + +Mrs. Morel sat brooding--about her daughter, about Paul, about Arthur. +She fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely bound. And she +felt she MUST live now, to be with her children. Life was so rich for +her. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply he +loved her. He was a creature of the moment. Never yet had he been forced +to realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. +He was in perfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat +close to his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose, +something almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the fun +red mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong. +It was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother's +people--good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxious about +him. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how far would he +go? + +The army had not really done him any good. He resented bitterly the +authority of the officers. He hated having to obey as if he were an +animal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attention +to getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion. +Often he got into scrapes, but they were the manly scrapes that +are easily condoned. So he made a good time out of it, whilst his +self-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks and +handsome figure, his refinement, his decent education to get him most +of what he wanted, and he was not disappointed. Yet he was restless. +Something seemed to gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was never +alone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and loved +and despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despised him +slightly. + +Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and she +decided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was +like a lad taking a holiday. + +He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough he +picked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. The +two often went long walks together, Arthur taking her arm in soldier's +fashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play the piano whilst he sang. +Then Arthur would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyes +were bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat together on +the sofa. He seemed to flaunt his body: she was aware of him so--the +strong chest, the sides, the thighs in their close-fitting trousers. + +He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She would +sometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she would only take a few whiffs +at his cigarette. + +"Nay," he said to her one evening, when she reached for his cigarette. +"Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss if ter's a mind." + +"I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all," she answered. + +"Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff," he said, "along wi' t' kiss." + +"I want a draw at thy fag," she cried, snatching for the cigarette +between his lips. + +He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was small and quick +as lightning. He just escaped. + +"I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss," he said. + +"Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel," she said, sitting back. + +"Ha'e a smoke kiss?" + +The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near hers. + +"Shonna!" she replied, turning away her head. + +He took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth, and put his +lips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustache stood out like a +brush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips, then suddenly snatched +the cigarette from his fingers and darted away. He, leaping after her, +seized the comb from her back hair. She turned, threw the cigarette at +him. He picked it up, put it in his mouth, and sat down. + +"Nuisance!" she cried. "Give me my comb!" + +She was afraid that her hair, specially done for him, would come down. +She stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb between his knees. + +"I've non got it," he said. + +The cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke. + +"Liar!" she said. + +"'S true as I'm here!" he laughed, showing his hands. + +"You brazen imp!" she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the comb, +which he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him, pulling at his +smooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till he lay back on the sofa +shaking with laughter. The cigarette fell from his mouth almost singeing +his throat. Under his delicate tan the blood flushed up, and he laughed +till his blue eyes were blinded, his throat swollen almost to choking. +Then he sat up. Beatrice was putting in her comb. + +"Tha tickled me, Beat," he said thickly. + +Like a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his face. He +started up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. Slowly the flush +mounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then her head. He sat down +sulkily. She went into the scullery to adjust her hair. In private there +she shed a few tears, she did not know what for. + +When she returned she was pursed up close. But it was only a film over +her fire. He, with ruffled hair, was sulking upon the sofa. She sat down +opposite, in the armchair, and neither spoke. The clock ticked in the +silence like blows. + +"You are a little cat, Beat," he said at length, half apologetically. + +"Well, you shouldn't be brazen," she replied. + +There was again a long silence. He whistled to himself like a man much +agitated but defiant. Suddenly she went across to him and kissed him. + +"Did it, pore fing!" she mocked. + +He lifted his face, smiling curiously. + +"Kiss?" he invited her. + +"Daren't I?" she asked. + +"Go on!" he challenged, his mouth lifted to her. + +Deliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile that seemed to +overspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immediately his +arms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss was finished she drew +back her head from him, put her delicate fingers on his neck, through +the open collar. Then she closed her eyes, giving herself up again in a +kiss. + +She acted of her own free will. What she would do she did, and made +nobody responsible. + + +Paul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youth were gone. +Now it was a home of grown-up people. Annie was a married woman, Arthur +was following his own pleasure in a way unknown to his folk. For so long +they had all lived at home, and gone out to pass their time. But now, +for Annie and Arthur, life lay outside their mother's house. They came +home for holiday and for rest. So there was that strange, half-empty +feeling about the house, as if the birds had flown. Paul became more and +more unsettled. Annie and Arthur had gone. He was restless to follow. +Yet home was for him beside his mother. And still there was something +else, something outside, something he wanted. + +He grew more and more restless. Miriam did not satisfy him. His old mad +desire to be with her grew weaker. Sometimes he met Clara in Nottingham, +sometimes he went to meetings with her, sometimes he saw her at Willey +Farm. But on these last occasions the situation became strained. There +was a triangle of antagonism between Paul and Clara and Miriam. With +Clara he took on a smart, worldly, mocking tone very antagonistic to +Miriam. It did not matter what went before. She might be intimate and +sad with him. Then as soon as Clara appeared, it all vanished, and he +played to the newcomer. + +Miriam had one beautiful evening with him in the hay. He had been on +the horse-rake, and having finished, came to help her to put the hay in +cocks. Then he talked to her of his hopes and despairs, and his whole +soul seemed to lie bare before her. She felt as if she watched the very +quivering stuff of life in him. The moon came out: they walked home +together: he seemed to have come to her because he needed her so badly, +and she listened to him, gave him all her love and her faith. It seemed +to her he brought her the best of himself to keep, and that she would +guard it all her life. Nay, the sky did not cherish the stars more +surely and eternally than she would guard the good in the soul of Paul +Morel. She went on home alone, feeling exalted, glad in her faith. + +And then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have tea in the +hayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to gold and shadow. And all +the time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made higher and higher heaps +of hay that they were jumping over. Miriam did not care for the game, +and stood aside. Edgar and Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Paul +jumped. Paul won, because he was light. Clara's blood was roused. She +could run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed at +the hay-cock and leaped, landed on the other side, her breasts shaken, +her thick hair come undone. + +"You touched!" he cried. "You touched!" + +"No!" she flashed, turning to Edgar. "I didn't touch, did I? Wasn't I +clear?" + +"I couldn't say," laughed Edgar. + +None of them could say. + +"But you touched," said Paul. "You're beaten." + +"I did NOT touch!" she cried. + +"As plain as anything," said Paul. + +"Box his ears for me!" she cried to Edgar. + +"Nay," Edgar laughed. "I daren't. You must do it yourself." + +"And nothing can alter the fact that you touched," laughed Paul. + +She was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads and men +was gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he was to humble +her. + +"I think you are despicable!" she said. + +And again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam. + +"And I KNEW you couldn't jump that heap," he teased. + +She turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the only person +she listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he of her. It pleased +the men to see this battle between them. But Miriam was tortured. + +Paul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. He could +be unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul Morel. +There was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his running after his +satisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitter +to think that he should throw away his soul for this flippant traffic of +triviality with Clara. She walked in bitterness and silence, while the +other two rallied each other, and Paul sported. + +And afterwards, he would not own it, but he was rather ashamed of +himself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled. + +"It's not religious to be religious," he said. "I reckon a crow is +religious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because it +feels itself carried to where it's going, not because it thinks it is +being eternal." + +But Miriam knew that one should be religious in everything, have God, +whatever God might be, present in everything. + +"I don't believe God knows such a lot about Himself," he cried. "God +doesn't KNOW things, He IS things. And I'm sure He's not soulful." + +And then it seemed to her that Paul was arguing God on to his own side, +because he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a long +battle between him and her. He was utterly unfaithful to her even in her +own presence; then he was ashamed, then repentant; then he hated her, +and went off again. Those were the ever-recurring conditions. + +She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained--sad, +pensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time he +grieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience; and +he felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. He +could not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He +could not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which +was three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her. + +When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been +written to her. + + +"May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, is +changing, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and left +you its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I have +given it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you +are a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun--as a mystic +monk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret--no, +have regretted--the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not +talk to you through the senses--rather through the spirit. That is why +we cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. +As yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be +dreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, +to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people +marry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be +commonplace with each other without feeling awkward--not as two souls. +So I feel it. + +"Ought I to send this letter?--I doubt it. But there--it is best to +understand. Au revoir." + + +Miriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A year +later she broke the seal to show her mother the letter. + +"You are a nun--you are a nun." The words went into her heart again and +again. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so deeply, fixedly, +like a mortal wound. + +She answered him two days after the party. + +"'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little +mistake,'" she quoted. "Was the mistake mine?" + +Almost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her at the +same time a little "Omar Khayyam." + + +"I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put me +to shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympathy. But in +fundamentals we may always be together I think. + +"I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many a +sketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which, +to my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovely +joke, that. Au revoir." + + +This was the end of the first phase of Paul's love affair. He was now +about twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex instinct +that Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew particularly strong. +Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that thickening and quickening +of his blood, that peculiar concentration in the breast, as if something +were alive there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning +him that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But +he belonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed +her right. + + + +CHAPTER X + +CLARA + +WHEN he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to the +winter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a good +deal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he met +other artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious. + +One morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery. +Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the +kitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly waving a +letter and crying "Hurrah!" as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and +frightened. + +"Why, mother!" he exclaimed. + +She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved the +letter, crying: + +"Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!" + +He was afraid of her--the small, severe woman with graying hair suddenly +bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraid +something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains. +Mrs. Morel rushed to the door. + +"His picture's got first prize, Fred," she cried, "and is sold for +twenty guineas." + +"My word, that's something like!" said the young postman, whom they had +known all his life. + +"And Major Moreton has bought it!" she cried. + +"It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel," said the +postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky +letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid +lest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after +all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was +true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy. + +"Mother!" he exclaimed. + +"Didn't I SAY we should do it!" she said, pretending she was not crying. + +He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea. + +"You didn't think, mother--" he began tentatively. + +"No, my son--not so much--but I expected a good deal." + +"But not so much," he said. + +"No--no--but I knew we should do it." + +And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with +his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl's, +and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet. + +"Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy Arthur out. +Now you needn't borrow any. It'll just do." + +"Indeed, I shan't take it all," she said. + +"But why?" + +"Because I shan't." + +"Well--you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine." + +They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to take only +the five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got over +the stress of emotion by quarrelling. + +Morel came home at night from the pit, saying: + +"They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold it to +Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound." + +"Oh, what stories people do tell!" she cried. + +"Ha!" he answered. "I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha'd +told Fred Hodgkisson." + +"As if I would tell him such stuff!" + +"Ha!" assented the miner. + +But he was disappointed nevertheless. + +"It's true he has got the first prize," said Mrs. Morel. + +The miner sat heavily in his chair. + +"Has he, beguy!" he exclaimed. + +He stared across the room fixedly. + +"But as for fifty pounds--such nonsense!" She was silent awhile. "Major +Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true." + +"Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!" exclaimed Morel. + +"Yes, and it was worth it." + +"Ay!" he said. "I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a +paintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!" + +He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed, as if it were +nothing. + +"And when does he handle th' money?" asked the collier. + +"That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home, I suppose." + +There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead of eating his +dinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarled with work lay on the +table. His wife pretended not to see him rub the back of his hand across +his eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust on his black face. + +"Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadna ha' killed +'im," he said quietly. + +The thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade. It +left her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest. + +Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said: + +"Mother, I want an evening suit." + +"Yes, I was afraid you would," she said. She was glad. There was +a moment or two of silence. "There's that one of William's," she +continued, "that I know cost four pounds ten and which he'd only worn +three times." + +"Should you like me to wear it, mother?" he asked. + +"Yes. I think it would fit you--at least the coat. The trousers would +want shortening." + +He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, he looked +strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with an evening +coat and vest. It was rather large. + +"The tailor can make it right," she said, smoothing her hand over his +shoulder. "It's beautiful stuff. I never could find in my heart to let +your father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now." + +And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought of her +eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She +passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The +other was dead. + +He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had been +William's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with pride and joy. He +was started now. The studs she and the children had bought for William +were in his shirt-front; he wore one of William's dress shirts. But he +had an elegant figure. His face was rough, but warm-looking and rather +pleasing. He did not look particularly a gentleman, but she thought he +looked quite a man. + +He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was +as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her to these new +friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening. + +"Go along with you!" she said. "What do they want to know me for?" + +"They do!" he cried indignantly. "If they want to know me--and they say +they do--then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever as +I am." + +"Go along with you, child!" she laughed. + +But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The +skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But +she began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regretted what +they had been--so small and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on her +having more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even +went so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair. +Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and was sure she looked a +sight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. Major +Moreton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morel +remained unchanged, or rather, lapsed slowly. + +Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was +fading into the background. He had shovelled away all the beliefs that +would hamper him, had cleared the ground, and come more or less to the +bedrock of belief that one should feel inside oneself for right and +wrong, and should have the patience to gradually realise one's God. Now +life interested him more. + +"You know," he said to his mother, "I don't want to belong to the +well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the +common people." + +"But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn't you be in a tear. YOU know +you consider yourself equal to any gentleman." + +"In myself," he answered, "not in my class or my education or my +manners. But in myself I am." + +"Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?" + +"Because--the difference between people isn't in their class, but in +themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas, and from the +common people--life itself, warmth. You feel their hates and loves." + +"It's all very well, my boy. But, then, why don't you go and talk to +your father's pals?" + +"But they're rather different." + +"Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do you mix with +now--among the common people? Those that exchange ideas, like the middle +classes. The rest don't interest you." + +"But--there's the life--" + +"I don't believe there's a jot more life from Miriam than you could get +from any educated girl--say Miss Moreton. It is YOU who are snobbish +about class." + +She frankly WANTED him to climb into the middle classes, a thing not +very difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the end to marry a lady. + +Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up +his connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor go the whole +length of engagement. And this indecision seemed to bleed him of his +energy. Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognised leaning +towards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman, she wished he +would fall in love with one of the girls in a better station of life. +But he was stupid, and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl +much, just because she was his social superior. + +"My boy," said his mother to him, "all your cleverness, your breaking +away from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn't seem to +bring you much happiness." + +"What is happiness!" he cried. "It's nothing to me! How AM I to be +happy?" + +The plump question disturbed her. + +"That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some GOOD +woman who would MAKE you happy--and you began to think of settling your +life--when you have the means--so that you could work without all this +fretting--it would be much better for you." + +He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound of Miriam. +He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyes full of pain and +fire. + +"You mean easy, mother," he cried. "That's a woman's whole doctrine for +life--ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it." + +"Oh, do you!" replied his mother. "And do you call yours a divine +discontent?" + +"Yes. I don't care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So long +as life's full, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. I'm afraid +your happiness would bore me." + +"You never give it a chance," she said. Then suddenly all her passion +of grief over him broke out. "But it does matter!" she cried. "And you +OUGHT to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy. +How could I bear to think your life wouldn't be a happy one!" + +"Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left you so much worse +off than the folk who've been happier. I reckon you've done well. And I +am the same. Aren't I well enough off?" + +"You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's about all you do, +as far as I can see." + +"But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best--" + +"It isn't. And one OUGHT to be happy, one OUGHT." + +By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of this kind +often took place between her and her son, when she seemed to fight for +his very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She +was ill and pitiful. + +"Never mind, Little," he murmured. "So long as you don't feel life's +paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or +unhappiness." + +She pressed him to her. + +"But I want you to be happy," she said pathetically. + +"Eh, my dear--say rather you want me to live." + +Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate she +knew he would not live. He had that poignant carelessness about himself, +his own suffering, his own life, which is a form of slow suicide. It +almost broke her heart. With all the passion of her strong nature she +hated Miriam for having in this subtle way undermined his joy. It did +not matter to her that Miriam could not help it. Miriam did it, and she +hated her. + +She wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equal to be his +mate--educated and strong. But he would not look at anybody above him +in station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate that feeling was +wholesome. His mother prayed and prayed for him, that he might not be +wasted. That was all her prayer--not for his soul or his righteousness, +but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours +she thought and prayed for him. + +He drifted away from Miriam imperceptibly, without knowing he was going. +Arthur only left the army to be married. The baby was born six months +after his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job under the firm again, at +twenty-one shillings a week. She furnished for him, with the help of +Beatrice's mother, a little cottage of two rooms. He was caught now. It +did not matter how he kicked and struggled, he was fast. For a time he +chafed, was irritable with his young wife, who loved him; he went almost +distracted when the baby, which was delicate, cried or gave trouble. He +grumbled for hours to his mother. She only said: "Well, my lad, you did +it yourself, now you must make the best of it." And then the grit +came out in him. He buckled to work, undertook his responsibilities, +acknowledged that he belonged to his wife and child, and did make a good +best of it. He had never been very closely inbound into the family. Now +he was gone altogether. + +The months went slowly along. Paul had more or less got into connection +with the Socialist, Suffragette, Unitarian people in Nottingham, owing +to his acquaintance with Clara. One day a friend of his and of Clara's, +in Bestwood, asked him to take a message to Mrs. Dawes. He went in the +evening across Sneinton Market to Bluebell Hill. He found the house in +a mean little street paved with granite cobbles and having causeways of +dark blue, grooved bricks. The front door went up a step from off this +rough pavement, where the feet of the passersby rasped and clattered. +The brown paint on the door was so old that the naked wood showed +between the rents. He stood on the street below and knocked. There came +a heavy footstep; a large, stout woman of about sixty towered above him. +He looked up at her from the pavement. She had a rather severe face. + +She admitted him into the parlour, which opened on to the street. It was +a small, stuffy, defunct room, of mahogany, and deathly enlargements of +photographs of departed people done in carbon. Mrs. Radford left him. +She was stately, almost martial. In a moment Clara appeared. She flushed +deeply, and he was covered with confusion. It seemed as if she did not +like being discovered in her home circumstances. + +"I thought it couldn't be your voice," she said. + +But she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She invited him +out of the mausoleum of a parlour into the kitchen. + +That was a little, darkish room too, but it was smothered in white lace. +The mother had seated herself again by the cupboard, and was drawing +thread from a vast web of lace. A clump of fluff and ravelled cotton was +at her right hand, a heap of three-quarter-inch lace lay on her +left, whilst in front of her was the mountain of lace web, piling the +hearthrug. Threads of curly cotton, pulled out from between the lengths +of lace, strewed over the fender and the fireplace. Paul dared not go +forward, for fear of treading on piles of white stuff. + +On the table was a jenny for carding the lace. There was a pack of brown +cardboard squares, a pack of cards of lace, a little box of pins, and on +the sofa lay a heap of drawn lace. + +The room was all lace, and it was so dark and warm that the white, snowy +stuff seemed the more distinct. + +"If you're coming in you won't have to mind the work," said Mrs. +Radford. "I know we're about blocked up. But sit you down." + +Clara, much embarrassed, gave him a chair against the wall opposite the +white heaps. Then she herself took her place on the sofa, shamedly. + +"Will you drink a bottle of stout?" Mrs. Radford asked. "Clara, get him +a bottle of stout." + +He protested, but Mrs. Radford insisted. + +"You look as if you could do with it," she said. "Haven't you never any +more colour than that?" + +"It's only a thick skin I've got that doesn't show the blood through," +he answered. + +Clara, ashamed and chagrined, brought him a bottle of stout and a glass. +He poured out some of the black stuff. + +"Well," he said, lifting the glass, "here's health!" + +"And thank you," said Mrs. Radford. + +He took a drink of stout. + +"And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don't set the house on +fire," said Mrs. Radford. + +"Thank you," he replied. + +"Nay, you needn't thank me," she answered. "I s'll be glad to smell a +bit of smoke in th' 'ouse again. A house o' women is as dead as a house +wi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'm not a spider as likes a corner to +myself. I like a man about, if he's only something to snap at." + +Clara began to work. Her jenny spun with a subdued buzz; the white +lace hopped from between her fingers on to the card. It was filled; she +snipped off the length, and pinned the end down to the banded lace. Then +she put a new card in her jenny. Paul watched her. She sat square and +magnificent. Her throat and arms were bare. The blood still mantled +below her ears; she bent her head in shame of her humility. Her face was +set on her work. Her arms were creamy and full of life beside the white +lace; her large, well-kept hands worked with a balanced movement, as if +nothing would hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her all the time. He +saw the arch of her neck from the shoulder, as she bent her head; he saw +the coil of dun hair; he watched her moving, gleaming arms. + +"I've heard a bit about you from Clara," continued the mother. "You're +in Jordan's, aren't you?" She drew her lace unceasing. + +"Yes." + +"Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to ask ME for one +of my toffies." + +"Did he?" laughed Paul. "And did he get it?" + +"Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't--which was latterly. For he's the +sort that takes all and gives naught, he is--or used to be." + +"I think he's very decent," said Paul. + +"Yes; well, I'm glad to hear it." + +Mrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was something +determined about her that he liked. Her face was falling loose, but her +eyes were calm, and there was something strong in her that made it +seem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheeks were an +anachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a woman in the prime +of life. She continued drawing the lace with slow, dignified movements. +The big web came up inevitably over her apron; the length of lace fell +away at her side. Her arms were finely shapen, but glossy and yellow +as old ivory. They had not the peculiar dull gleam that made Clara's so +fascinating to him. + +"And you've been going with Miriam Leivers?" the mother asked him. + +"Well--" he answered. + +"Yes, she's a nice girl," she continued. "She's very nice, but she's a +bit too much above this world to suit my fancy." + +"She is a bit like that," he agreed. + +"She'll never be satisfied till she's got wings and can fly over +everybody's head, she won't," she said. + +Clara broke in, and he told her his message. She spoke humbly to him. He +had surprised her in her drudgery. To have her humble made him feel as +if he were lifting his head in expectation. + +"Do you like jennying?" he asked. + +"What can a woman do!" she replied bitterly. + +"Is it sweated?" + +"More or less. Isn't ALL woman's work? That's another trick the men have +played, since we force ourselves into the labour market." + +"Now then, you shut up about the men," said her mother. "If the women +wasn't fools, the men wouldn't be bad uns, that's what I say. No man was +ever that bad wi' me but what he got it back again. Not but what they're +a lousy lot, there's no denying it." + +"But they're all right really, aren't they?" he asked. + +"Well, they're a bit different from women," she answered. + +"Would you care to be back at Jordan's?" he asked Clara. + +"I don't think so," she replied. + +"Yes, she would!" cried her mother; "thank her stars if she could get +back. Don't you listen to her. She's for ever on that 'igh horse of +hers, an' it's back's that thin an' starved it'll cut her in two one of +these days." + +Clara suffered badly from her mother. Paul felt as if his eyes were +coming very wide open. Wasn't he to take Clara's fulminations so +seriously, after all? She spun steadily at her work. He experienced a +thrill of joy, thinking she might need his help. She seemed denied and +deprived of so much. And her arm moved mechanically, that should never +have been subdued to a mechanism, and her head was bowed to the lace, +that never should have been bowed. She seemed to be stranded there +among the refuse that life has thrown away, doing her jennying. It was +a bitter thing to her to be put aside by life, as if it had no use for +her. No wonder she protested. + +She came with him to the door. He stood below in the mean street, +looking up at her. So fine she was in her stature and her bearing, she +reminded him of Juno dethroned. As she stood in the doorway, she winced +from the street, from her surroundings. + +"And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall?" + +He was talking quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her grey eyes at +last met his. They looked dumb with humiliation, pleading with a kind of +captive misery. He was shaken and at a loss. He had thought her high and +mighty. + +When he left her, he wanted to run. He went to the station in a sort of +dream, and was at home without realising he had moved out of her street. + +He had an idea that Susan, the overseer of the Spiral girls, was about +to be married. He asked her the next day. + +"I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your getting married. What about +it?" + +Susan flushed red. + +"Who's been talking to you?" she replied. + +"Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you WERE thinking--" + +"Well, I am, though you needn't tell anybody. What's more, I wish I +wasn't!" + +"Nay, Susan, you won't make me believe that." + +"Shan't I? You CAN believe it, though. I'd rather stop here a thousand +times." + +Paul was perturbed. + +"Why, Susan?" + +The girl's colour was high, and her eyes flashed. + +"That's why!" + +"And must you?" + +For answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candour and +gentleness which made the women trust him. He understood. + +"Ah, I'm sorry," he said. + +Tears came to her eyes. + +"But you'll see it'll turn out all right. You'll make the best of it," +he continued rather wistfully. + +"There's nothing else for it." + +"Yea, there's making the worst of it. Try and make it all right." + +He soon made occasion to call again on Clara. + +"Would you," he said, "care to come back to Jordan's?" + +She put down her work, laid her beautiful arms on the table, and looked +at him for some moments without answering. Gradually the flush mounted +her cheek. + +"Why?" she asked. + +Paul felt rather awkward. + +"Well, because Susan is thinking of leaving," he said. + +Clara went on with her jennying. The white lace leaped in little jumps +and bounds on to the card. He waited for her. Without raising her head, +she said at last, in a peculiar low voice: + +"Have you said anything about it?" + +"Except to you, not a word." + +There was again a long silence. + +"I will apply when the advertisement is out," she said. + +"You will apply before that. I will let you know exactly when." + +She went on spinning her little machine, and did not contradict him. + +Clara came to Jordan's. Some of the older hands, Fanny among them, +remembered her earlier rule, and cordially disliked the memory. Clara +had always been "ikey", reserved, and superior. She had never mixed with +the girls as one of themselves. If she had occasion to find fault, she +did it coolly and with perfect politeness, which the defaulter felt to +be a bigger insult than crassness. Towards Fanny, the poor, overstrung +hunchback, Clara was unfailingly compassionate and gentle, as a result +of which Fanny shed more bitter tears than ever the rough tongues of the +other overseers had caused her. + +There was something in Clara that Paul disliked, and much that piqued +him. If she were about, he always watched her strong throat or her neck, +upon which the blonde hair grew low and fluffy. There was a fine down, +almost invisible, upon the skin of her face and arms, and when once he +had perceived it, he saw it always. + +When he was at his work, painting in the afternoon, she would come and +stand near to him, perfectly motionless. Then he felt her, though she +neither spoke nor touched him. Although she stood a yard away he felt +as if he were in contact with her. Then he could paint no more. He flung +down the brushes, and turned to talk to her. + +Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and cold. + +"You are affected in that piece," she would say; and, as there was an +element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled with anger. + +Again: "What of this?" he would ask enthusiastically. + +"H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound. "It doesn't interest me much." + +"Because you don't understand it," he retorted. + +"Then why ask me about it?" + +"Because I thought you would understand." + +She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She maddened him. He +was furious. Then he abused her, and went into passionate exposition of +his stuff. This amused and stimulated her. But she never owned that she +had been wrong. + +During the ten years that she had belonged to the women's movement +she had acquired a fair amount of education, and, having had some of +Miriam's passion to be instructed, had taught herself French, and could +read in that language with a struggle. She considered herself as a woman +apart, and particularly apart, from her class. The girls in the Spiral +department were all of good homes. It was a small, special industry, and +had a certain distinction. There was an air of refinement in both rooms. +But Clara was aloof also from her fellow-workers. + +None of these things, however, did she reveal to Paul. She was not the +one to give herself away. There was a sense of mystery about her. She +was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her history was open +on the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden from everybody. It was +exciting. And then sometimes he caught her looking at him from under +her brows with an almost furtive, sullen scrutiny, which made him move +quickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were, +covered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile. +She was to him extraordinarily provocative, because of the knowledge she +seemed to possess, and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain. + +One day he picked up a copy of _Lettres de mon Moulin_ from her +work-bench. + +"You read French, do you?" he cried. + +Clara glanced round negligently. She was making an elastic stocking +of heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, balanced +regularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or to adjust the +needles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and fine pencils of +hair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. She turned a few +more rounds, and stopped. + +"What did you say?" she asked, smiling sweetly. + +Paul's eyes glittered at her insolent indifference to him. + +"I did not know you read French," he said, very polite. + +"Did you not?" she replied, with a faint, sarcastic smile. + +"Rotten swank!" he said, but scarcely loud enough to be heard. + +He shut his mouth angrily as he watched her. She seemed to scorn the +work she mechanically produced; yet the hose she made were as nearly +perfect as possible. + +"You don't like Spiral work," he said. + +"Oh, well, all work is work," she answered, as if she knew all about it. + +He marvelled at her coldness. He had to do everything hotly. She must be +something special. + +"What would you prefer to do?" he asked. + +She laughed at him indulgently, as she said: + +"There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice, that I +haven't wasted time considering." + +"Pah!" he said, contemptuous on his side now. "You only say that because +you're too proud to own up what you want and can't get." + +"You know me very well," she replied coldly. + +"I know you think you're terrific great shakes, and that you live under +the eternal insult of working in a factory." + +He was very angry and very rude. She merely turned away from him in +disdain. He walked whistling down the room, flirted and laughed with +Hilda. + +Later on he said to himself: + +"What was I so impudent to Clara for?" He was rather annoyed with +himself, at the same time glad. "Serve her right; she stinks with silent +pride," he said to himself angrily. + +In the afternoon he came down. There was a certain weight on his +heart which he wanted to remove. He thought to do it by offering her +chocolates. + +"Have one?" he said. "I bought a handful to sweeten me up." + +To his great relief, she accepted. He sat on the work-bench beside her +machine, twisting a piece of silk round his finger. She loved him for +his quick, unexpected movements, like a young animal. His feet swung +as he pondered. The sweets lay strewn on the bench. She bent over her +machine, grinding rhythmically, then stooping to see the stocking +that hung beneath, pulled down by the weight. He watched the handsome +crouching of her back, and the apron-strings curling on the floor. + +"There is always about you," he said, "a sort of waiting. Whatever I see +you doing, you're not really there: you are waiting--like Penelope when +she did her weaving." He could not help a spurt of wickedness. "I'll +call you Penelope," he said. + +"Would it make any difference?" she said, carefully removing one of her +needles. + +"That doesn't matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say, you seem to +forget I'm your boss. It just occurs to me." + +"And what does that mean?" she asked coolly. + +"It means I've got a right to boss you." + +"Is there anything you want to complain about?" + +"Oh, I say, you needn't be nasty," he said angrily. + +"I don't know what you want," she said, continuing her task. + +"I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully." + +"Call you 'sir', perhaps?" she asked quietly. + +"Yes, call me 'sir'. I should love it." + +"Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir." + +His mouth closed, and a frown came on his face. He jumped suddenly down. + +"You're too blessed superior for anything," he said. + +And he went away to the other girls. He felt he was being angrier than +he had any need to be. In fact, he doubted slightly that he was showing +off. But if he were, then he would. Clara heard him laughing, in a way +she hated, with the girls down the next room. + +When at evening he went through the department after the girls had gone, +he saw his chocolates lying untouched in front of Clara's machine. He +left them. In the morning they were still there, and Clara was at work. +Later on Minnie, a little brunette they called Pussy, called to him: + +"Hey, haven't you got a chocolate for anybody?" + +"Sorry, Pussy," he replied. "I meant to have offered them; then I went +and forgot 'em." + +"I think you did," she answered. + +"I'll bring you some this afternoon. You don't want them after they've +been lying about, do you?" + +"Oh, I'm not particular," smiled Pussy. + +"Oh no," he said. "They'll be dusty." + +He went up to Clara's bench. + +"Sorry I left these things littering about," he said. + +She flushed scarlet. He gathered them together in his fist. + +"They'll be dirty now," he said. "You should have taken them. I wonder +why you didn't. I meant to have told you I wanted you to." + +He flung them out of the window into the yard below. He just glanced at +her. She winced from his eyes. + +In the afternoon he brought another packet. + +"Will you take some?" he said, offering them first to Clara. "These are +fresh." + +She accepted one, and put it on to the bench. + +"Oh, take several--for luck," he said. + +She took a couple more, and put them on the bench also. Then she turned +in confusion to her work. He went on up the room. + +"Here you are, Pussy," he said. "Don't be greedy!" + +"Are they all for her?" cried the others, rushing up. + +"Of course they're not," he said. + +The girls clamoured round. Pussy drew back from her mates. + +"Come out!" she cried. "I can have first pick, can't I, Paul?" + +"Be nice with 'em," he said, and went away. + +"You ARE a dear," the girls cried. + +"Tenpence," he answered. + +He went past Clara without speaking. She felt the three chocolate creams +would burn her if she touched them. It needed all her courage to slip +them into the pocket of her apron. + +The girls loved him and were afraid of him. He was so nice while he +was nice, but if he were offended, so distant, treating them as if they +scarcely existed, or not more than the bobbins of thread. And then, if +they were impudent, he said quietly: "Do you mind going on with your +work," and stood and watched. + +When he celebrated his twenty-third birthday, the house was in trouble. +Arthur was just going to be married. His mother was not well. His +father, getting an old man, and lame from his accidents, was given +a paltry, poor job. Miriam was an eternal reproach. He felt he owed +himself to her, yet could not give himself. The house, moreover, needed +his support. He was pulled in all directions. He was not glad it was his +birthday. It made him bitter. + +He got to work at eight o'clock. Most of the clerks had not turned up. +The girls were not due till 8.30. As he was changing his coat, he heard +a voice behind him say: + +"Paul, Paul, I want you." + +It was Fanny, the hunchback, standing at the top of her stairs, her face +radiant with a secret. Paul looked at her in astonishment. + +"I want you," she said. + +He stood, at a loss. + +"Come on," she coaxed. "Come before you begin on the letters." + +He went down the half-dozen steps into her dry, narrow, "finishing-off" +room. Fanny walked before him: her black bodice was short--the waist was +under her armpits--and her green-black cashmere skirt seemed very +long, as she strode with big strides before the young man, himself so +graceful. She went to her seat at the narrow end of the room, where the +window opened on to chimney-pots. Paul watched her thin hands and her +flat red wrists as she excitedly twitched her white apron, which was +spread on the bench in front of her. She hesitated. + +"You didn't think we'd forgot you?" she asked, reproachful. + +"Why?" he asked. He had forgotten his birthday himself. + +"'Why,' he says! 'Why!' Why, look here!" She pointed to the calendar, +and he saw, surrounding the big black number "21", hundreds of little +crosses in black-lead. + +"Oh, kisses for my birthday," he laughed. "How did you know?" + +"Yes, you want to know, don't you?" Fanny mocked, hugely delighted. +"There's one from everybody--except Lady Clara--and two from some. But I +shan't tell you how many I put." + +"Oh, I know, you're spooney," he said. + +"There you ARE mistaken!" she cried, indignant. "I could never be so +soft." Her voice was strong and contralto. + +"You always pretend to be such a hard-hearted hussy," he laughed. "And +you know you're as sentimental--" + +"I'd rather be called sentimental than frozen meat," Fanny blurted. Paul +knew she referred to Clara, and he smiled. + +"Do you say such nasty things about me?" he laughed. + +"No, my duck," the hunchback woman answered, lavishly tender. She was +thirty-nine. "No, my duck, because you don't think yourself a fine +figure in marble and us nothing but dirt. I'm as good as you, aren't I, +Paul?" and the question delighted her. + +"Why, we're not better than one another, are we?" he replied. + +"But I'm as good as you, aren't I, Paul?" she persisted daringly. + +"Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you're better." + +She was rather afraid of the situation. She might get hysterical. + +"I thought I'd get here before the others--won't they say I'm deep! Now +shut your eyes--" she said. + +"And open your mouth, and see what God sends you," he continued, suiting +action to words, and expecting a piece of chocolate. He heard the rustle +of the apron, and a faint clink of metal. "I'm going to look," he said. + +He opened his eyes. Fanny, her long cheeks flushed, her blue eyes +shining, was gazing at him. There was a little bundle of paint-tubes on +the bench before him. He turned pale. + +"No, Fanny," he said quickly. + +"From us all," she answered hastily. + +"No, but--" + +"Are they the right sort?" she asked, rocking herself with delight. + +"Jove! they're the best in the catalogue." + +"But they're the right sorts?" she cried. + +"They're off the little list I'd made to get when my ship came in." He +bit his lip. + +Fanny was overcome with emotion. She must turn the conversation. + +"They was all on thorns to do it; they all paid their shares, all except +the Queen of Sheba." + +The Queen of Sheba was Clara. + +"And wouldn't she join?" Paul asked. + +"She didn't get the chance; we never told her; we wasn't going to have +HER bossing THIS show. We didn't WANT her to join." + +Paul laughed at the woman. He was much moved. At last he must go. She +was very close to him. Suddenly she flung her arms round his neck and +kissed him vehemently. + +"I can give you a kiss to-day," she said apologetically. "You've looked +so white, it's made my heart ache." + +Paul kissed her, and left her. Her arms were so pitifully thin that his +heart ached also. + +That day he met Clara as he ran downstairs to wash his hands at +dinner-time. + +"You have stayed to dinner!" he exclaimed. It was unusual for her. + +"Yes; and I seem to have dined on old surgical-appliance stock. I MUST +go out now, or I shall feel stale india-rubber right through." + +She lingered. He instantly caught at her wish. + +"You are going anywhere?" he asked. + +They went together up to the Castle. Outdoors she dressed very plainly, +down to ugliness; indoors she always looked nice. She walked with +hesitating steps alongside Paul, bowing and turning away from him. +Dowdy in dress, and drooping, she showed to great disadvantage. He could +scarcely recognise her strong form, that seemed to slumber with power. +She appeared almost insignificant, drowning her stature in her stoop, as +she shrank from the public gaze. + +The Castle grounds were very green and fresh. Climbing the precipitous +ascent, he laughed and chattered, but she was silent, seeming to brood +over something. There was scarcely time to go inside the squat, square +building that crowns the bluff of rock. They leaned upon the wall where +the cliff runs sheer down to the Park. Below them, in their holes in the +sandstone, pigeons preened themselves and cooed softly. Away down upon +the boulevard at the foot of the rock, tiny trees stood in their +own pools of shadow, and tiny people went scurrying about in almost +ludicrous importance. + +"You feel as if you could scoop up the folk like tadpoles, and have a +handful of them," he said. + +She laughed, answering: + +"Yes; it is not necessary to get far off in order to see us +proportionately. The trees are much more significant." + +"Bulk only," he said. + +She laughed cynically. + +Away beyond the boulevard the thin stripes of the metals showed upon the +railway-track, whose margin was crowded with little stacks of timber, +beside which smoking toy engines fussed. Then the silver string of the +canal lay at random among the black heaps. Beyond, the dwellings, very +dense on the river flat, looked like black, poisonous herbage, in thick +rows and crowded beds, stretching right away, broken now and then by +taller plants, right to where the river glistened in a hieroglyph across +the country. The steep scarp cliffs across the river looked puny. Great +stretches of country darkened with trees and faintly brightened with +corn-land, spread towards the haze, where the hills rose blue beyond +grey. + +"It is comforting," said Mrs. Dawes, "to think the town goes no farther. +It is only a LITTLE sore upon the country yet." + +"A little scab," Paul said. + +She shivered. She loathed the town. Looking drearily across at the +country which was forbidden her, her impassive face, pale and hostile, +she reminded Paul of one of the bitter, remorseful angels. + +"But the town's all right," he said; "it's only temporary. This is the +crude, clumsy make-shift we've practised on, till we find out what the +idea is. The town will come all right." + +The pigeons in the pockets of rock, among the perched bushes, cooed +comfortably. To the left the large church of St. Mary rose into space, +to keep close company with the Castle, above the heaped rubble of the +town. Mrs. Dawes smiled brightly as she looked across the country. + +"I feel better," she said. + +"Thank you," he replied. "Great compliment!" + +"Oh, my brother!" she laughed. + +"H'm! that's snatching back with the left hand what you gave with the +right, and no mistake," he said. + +She laughed in amusement at him. + +"But what was the matter with you?" he asked. "I know you were brooding +something special. I can see the stamp of it on your face yet." + +"I think I will not tell you," she said. + +"All right, hug it," he answered. + +She flushed and bit her lip. + +"No," she said, "it was the girls." + +"What about 'em?" Paul asked. + +"They have been plotting something for a week now, and to-day they seem +particularly full of it. All alike; they insult me with their secrecy." + +"Do they?" he asked in concern. + +"I should not mind," she went on, in the metallic, angry tone, "if they +did not thrust it into my face--the fact that they have a secret." + +"Just like women," said he. + +"It is hateful, their mean gloating," she said intensely. + +Paul was silent. He knew what the girls gloated over. He was sorry to be +the cause of this new dissension. + +"They can have all the secrets in the world," she went on, brooding +bitterly; "but they might refrain from glorying in them, and making me +feel more out of it than ever. It is--it is almost unbearable." + +Paul thought for a few minutes. He was much perturbed. + +"I will tell you what it's all about," he said, pale and nervous. "It's +my birthday, and they've bought me a fine lot of paints, all the +girls. They're jealous of you"--he felt her stiffen coldly at the word +'jealous'--"merely because I sometimes bring you a book," he added +slowly. "But, you see, it's only a trifle. Don't bother about it, will +you--because"--he laughed quickly--"well, what would they say if they +saw us here now, in spite of their victory?" + +She was angry with him for his clumsy reference to their present +intimacy. It was almost insolent of him. Yet he was so quiet, she +forgave him, although it cost her an effort. + +Their two hands lay on the rough stone parapet of the Castle wall. He +had inherited from his mother a fineness of mould, so that his hands +were small and vigorous. Hers were large, to match her large limbs, but +white and powerful looking. As Paul looked at them he knew her. "She is +wanting somebody to take her hands--for all she is so contemptuous of +us," he said to himself. And she saw nothing but his two hands, so warm +and alive, which seemed to live for her. He was brooding now, staring +out over the country from under sullen brows. The little, interesting +diversity of shapes had vanished from the 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 sympathise 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." + +"Five years! Did you love him when you married him?" + +She was silent for some time; then she said slowly: + +"I thought I did--more or less. I didn't think much about it. And he +wanted me. I was very prudish then." + +"And you sort of walked into it without thinking?" + +"Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life." + +"_Somnambule_? But--when did you wake up?" + +"I don't know that I ever did, or ever have--since I was a child." + +"You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn't +wake you?" + +"No; he never got there," she replied, in a monotone. + +The brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hips stood naked +and scarlet. + +"Got where?" he asked. + +"At me. He never really mattered to me." + +The afternoon was so gently warm and dim. Red roofs of the cottages +burned among the blue haze. He loved the day. He could feel, but he +could not understand, what Clara was saying. + +"But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?" + +She shuddered lightly. + +"He--he sort of degraded me. He wanted to bully me because he hadn't +got me. And then I felt as if I wanted to run, as if I was fastened and +bound up. And he seemed dirty." + +"I see." + +He did not at all see. + +"And was he always dirty?" he asked. + +"A bit," she replied slowly. "And then he seemed as if he couldn't get +AT me, really. And then he got brutal--he WAS brutal!" + +"And why did you leave him finally?" + +"Because--because he was unfaithful to me--" + +They were both silent for some time. Her hand lay on the gate-post as +she balanced. He put his own over it. His heart beat quickly. + +"But did you--were you ever--did you ever give him a chance?" + +"Chance? How?" + +"To come near to you." + +"I married him--and I was willing--" + +They both strove to keep their voices steady. + +"I believe he loves you," he said. + +"It looks like it," she replied. + +He wanted to take his hand away, and could not. She saved him by +removing her own. After a silence, he began again: + +"Did you leave him out of count all along?" + +"He left me," she said. + +"And I suppose he couldn't MAKE himself mean everything to you?" + +"He tried to bully me into it." + +But the conversation had got them both out of their depth. Suddenly Paul +jumped down. + +"Come on," he said. "Let's go and get some tea." + +They found a cottage, where they sat in the cold parlour. She poured out +his tea. She was very quiet. He felt she had withdrawn again from him. +After tea, she stared broodingly into her tea-cup, twisting her wedding +ring all the time. In her abstraction she took the ring off her finger, +stood it up, and spun it upon the table. The gold became a diaphanous, +glittering globe. It fell, and the ring was quivering upon the table. +She spun it again and again. Paul watched, fascinated. + +But she was a married woman, and he believed in simple friendship. And +he considered that he was perfectly honourable with regard to her. +It was only a friendship between man and woman, such as any civilised +persons might have. + +He was like so many young men of his own age. Sex had become so +complicated in him that he would have denied that he ever could want +Clara or Miriam or any woman whom he knew. Sex desire was a sort of +detached thing, that did not belong to a woman. He loved Miriam with his +soul. He grew warm at the thought of Clara, he battled with her, he +knew the curves of her breast and shoulders as if they had been moulded +inside him; and yet he did not positively desire her. He would have +denied it for ever. He believed himself really bound to Miriam. If ever +he should marry, some time in the far future, it would be his duty to +marry Miriam. That he gave Clara to understand, and she said nothing, +but left him to his courses. He came to her, Mrs. Dawes, whenever +he could. Then he wrote frequently to Miriam, and visited the girl +occasionally. So he went on through the winter; but he seemed not so +fretted. His mother was easier about him. She thought he was getting +away from Miriam. + +Miriam knew now how strong was the attraction of Clara for him; but +still she was certain that the best in him would triumph. His feeling +for Mrs. Dawes--who, moreover, was a married woman--was shallow and +temporal, compared with his love for herself. He would come back to her, +she was sure; with some of his young freshness gone, perhaps, but cured +of his desire for the lesser things which other women than herself could +give him. She could bear all if he were inwardly true to her and must +come back. + +He saw none of the anomaly of his position. Miriam was his old friend, +lover, and she belonged to Bestwood and home and his youth. Clara was a +newer friend, and she belonged to Nottingham, to life, to the world. It +seemed to him quite plain. + +Mrs. Dawes and he had many periods of coolness, when they saw little of +each other; but they always came together again. + +"Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?" he asked her. It was a thing that +seemed to trouble him. + +"In what way?" + +"Oh, I don't know. But weren't you horrid with him? Didn't you do +something that knocked him to pieces?" + +"What, pray?" + +"Making him feel as if he were nothing--I know," Paul declared. + +"You are so clever, my friend," she said coolly. + +The conversation broke off there. But it made her cool with him for some +time. + +She very rarely saw Miriam now. The friendship between the two women was +not broken off, but considerably weakened. + +"Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?" Clara asked him +just after Christmas. + +"I promised to go up to Willey Farm," he replied. + +"Oh, very well." + +"You don't mind, do you?" he asked. + +"Why should I?" she answered. + +Which almost annoyed him. + +"You know," he said, "Miriam and I have been a lot to each other ever +since I was sixteen--that's seven years now." + +"It's a long time," Clara replied. + +"Yes; but somehow she--it doesn't go right--" + +"How?" asked Clara. + +"She seems to draw me and draw me, and she wouldn't leave a single hair +of me free to fall out and blow away--she'd keep it." + +"But you like to be kept." + +"No," he said, "I don't. I wish it could be normal, give and take--like +me and you. I want a woman to keep me, but not in her pocket." + +"But if you love her, it couldn't be normal, like me and you." + +"Yes; I should love her better then. She sort of wants me so much that I +can't give myself." + +"Wants you how?" + +"Wants the soul out of my body. I can't help shrinking back from her." + +"And yet you love her!" + +"No, I don't love her. I never even kiss her." + +"Why not?" Clara asked. + +"I don't know." + +"I suppose you're afraid," she said. + +"I'm not. Something in me shrinks from her like hell--she's so good, +when I'm not good." + +"How do you know what she is?" + +"I do! I know she wants a sort of soul union." + +"But how do you know what she wants?" + +"I've been with her for seven years." + +"And you haven't found out the very first thing about her." + +"What's that?" + +"That she doesn't want any of your soul communion. That's your own +imagination. She wants you." + +He pondered over this. Perhaps he was wrong. + +"But she seems--" he began. + +"You've never tried," she answered. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE TEST ON MIRIAM + +WITH the spring came again the old madness and battle. Now he knew he +would have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? He told himself +it was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and him which neither +could break through. He might have married her; but his circumstances +at home made it difficult, and, moreover, he did not want to marry. +Marriage was for life, and because they had become close companions, he +and she, he did not see that it should inevitably follow they should be +man and wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage with Miriam. He +wished he did. He would have given his head to have felt a joyous desire +to marry her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? There +was some obstacle; and what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical +bondage. He shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her he felt +bound up inside himself. He could not go out to her. Something struggled +in him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said she +even wanted him; then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss +her? Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did he +feel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself to +her; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking +from her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no aversion for +her. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong desire battling with a +still stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a +positive force, which fought and won in both of them. And with her he +felt it so hard to overcome; yet he was nearest to her, and with her +alone could he deliberately break through. And he owed himself to her. +Then, if they could get things right, they could marry; but he would not +marry unless he could feel strong in the joy of it--never. He could not +have faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself in +a marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all his +life, make it a nullity. He would try what he COULD do. + +And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, dreaming +her religion; and he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear to +fail her. It would all come right if they tried. + +He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were like +himself, bound in by their own virginity, which they could not break +out of. They were so sensitive to their women that they would go without +them for ever rather than do them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sons +of mothers whose husbands had blundered rather brutally through their +feminine sanctities, they were themselves too diffident and shy. They +could easier deny themselves than incur any reproach from a woman; for +a woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense of their +mother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy, +rather than risk the other person. + +He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, brought +the tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang. +Annie was playing a song on the piano. As Miriam sang her mouth seemed +hopeless. She sang like a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so much +of the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, so +spiritual. Again, hot as steel, came up the pain in him. Why must he ask +her for the other thing? Why was there his blood battling with her? If +only he could have been always gentle, tender with her, breathing with +her the atmosphere of reverie and religious dreams, he would give +his right hand. It was not fair to hurt her. There seemed an eternal +maidenhood about her; and when he thought of her mother, he saw the +great brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and shocked out of +her virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of her seven children. +They had been born almost leaving her out of count, not of her, but upon +her. So she could never let them go, because she never had possessed +them. + +Mrs. Morel saw him going again frequently to Miriam, and was astonished. +He said nothing to his mother. He did not explain nor excuse himself. If +he came home late, and she reproached him, he frowned and turned on her +in an overbearing way: + +"I shall come home when I like," he said; "I am old enough." + +"Must she keep you till this time?" + +"It is I who stay," he answered. + +"And she lets you? But very well," she said. + +And she went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for him; but she lay +listening until he came, often long after. It was a great bitterness +to her that he had gone back to Miriam. She recognised, however, the +uselessness of any further interference. He went to Willey Farm as a +man now, not as a youth. She had no right over him. There was a coldness +between him and her. He hardly told her anything. Discarded, she waited +on him, cooked for him still, and loved to slave for him; but her face +closed again like a mask. There was nothing for her to do now but the +housework; for all the rest he had gone to Miriam. She could not forgive +him. Miriam killed the joy and the warmth in him. He had been such a +jolly lad, and full of the warmest affection; now he grew colder, more +and more irritable and gloomy. It reminded her of William; but Paul was +worse. He did things with more intensity, and more realisation of what +he was about. His mother knew how he was suffering for want of a woman, +and she saw him going to Miriam. If he had made up his mind, nothing +on earth would alter him. Mrs. Morel was tired. She began to give up at +last; she had finished. She was in the way. + +He went on determinedly. He realised more or less what his mother felt. +It only hardened his soul. He made himself callous towards her; but it +was like being callous to his own health. It undermined him quickly; yet +he persisted. + +He lay back in the rocking-chair at Willey Farm one evening. He had been +talking to Miriam for some weeks, but had not come to the point. Now he +said suddenly: + +"I am twenty-four, almost." + +She had been brooding. She looked up at him suddenly in surprise. + +"Yes. What makes you say it?" + +There was something in the charged atmosphere that she dreaded. + +"Sir Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four." + +She laughed quaintly, saying: + +"Does it need Sir Thomas More's sanction?" + +"No; but one ought to marry about then." + +"Ay," she answered broodingly; and she waited. + +"I can't marry you," he continued slowly, "not now, because we've no +money, and they depend on me at home." + +She sat half-guessing what was coming. + +"But I want to marry now--" + +"You want to marry?" she repeated. + +"A woman--you know what I mean." + +She was silent. + +"Now, at last, I must," he said. + +"Ay," she answered. + +"And you love me?" + +She laughed bitterly. + +"Why are you ashamed of it," he answered. "You wouldn't be ashamed +before your God, why are you before people?" + +"Nay," she answered deeply, "I am not ashamed." + +"You are," he replied bitterly; "and it's my fault. But you know I can't +help being--as I am--don't you?" + +"I know you can't help it," she replied. + +"I love you an awful lot--then there is something short." + +"Where?" she answered, looking at him. + +"Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed--like a spiritual cripple. +And I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?" + +"I don't know," replied Miriam. + +"And I don't know," he repeated. "Don't you think we have been too +fierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that to be so much +afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness?" + +She looked at him with startled dark eyes. + +"You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the motion from +you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse." + +There was silence in the room for some time. + +"Yes," she said, "it is so." + +"There is between us," he said, "all these years of intimacy. I feel +naked enough before you. Do you understand?" + +"I think so," she answered. + +"And you love me?" + +She laughed. + +"Don't be bitter," he pleaded. + +She looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were dark with +torture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have this +deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He +was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. He +might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her. + +"Nay," she said softly, "I am not bitter." + +She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him. She +put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took +it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himself +aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more like +nullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, when it would drive +her away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him and +kissed her. + +They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him, +she watched his eyes; they were staring across the room, with a peculiar +dark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. She +could feel his heart throbbing heavily in his breast. + +"What are you thinking about?" she asked. + +The blaze in his eyes shuddered, became uncertain. + +"I was thinking, all the while, I love you. I have been obstinate." + +She sank her head on his breast. + +"Yes," she answered. + +"That's all," he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouth was +kissing her throat. + +Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her full gaze of +love. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from her, and +then was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment of +anguish. + +"Kiss me," she whispered. + +He shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer and +closer. + +When she walked home with him over the fields, he said: + +"I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you--as if there +was nothing to hide. We will be happy?" + +"Yes," she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes. + +"Some sort of perversity in our souls," he said, "makes us not want, get +away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that." + +"Yes," she said, and she felt stunned. + +As she stood under the drooping-thorn tree, in the darkness by the +roadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. In +the darkness, where he could not see her but only feel her, his passion +flooded him. He clasped her very close. + +"Sometime you will have me?" he murmured, hiding his face on her +shoulder. It was so difficult. + +"Not now," she said. + +His hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him. + +"No," he said. + +His clasp of her slackened. + +"I love to feel your arm THERE!" she said, pressing his arm against her +back, where it went round her waist. "It rests me so." + +He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back to rest +her. + +"We belong to each other," he said. + +"Yes." + +"Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether?" + +"But--" she faltered. + +"I know it's a lot to ask," he said; "but there's not much risk for you +really--not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?" + +"Oh, I can trust you." The answer came quick and strong. "It's not +that--it's not that at all--but--" + +"What?" + +She hid her face in his neck with a little cry of misery. + +"I don't know!" she cried. + +She seemed slightly hysterical, but with a sort of horror. His heart +died in him. + +"You don't think it ugly?" he asked. + +"No, not now. You have TAUGHT me it isn't." + +"You are afraid?" + +She calmed herself hastily. + +"Yes, I am only afraid," she said. + +He kissed her tenderly. + +"Never mind," he said. "You should please yourself." + +Suddenly she gripped his arms round her, and clenched her body stiff. + +"You SHALL have me," she said, through her shut teeth. + +His heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close, and his mouth +was on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. He disengaged +her. + +"Won't you be late?" she asked gently. + +He sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited, wishing he would +go. At last he kissed her quickly and climbed the fence. Looking round +he saw the pale blotch of her face down in the darkness under the +hanging tree. There was no more of her but this pale blotch. + +"Good-bye!" she called softly. She had no body, only a voice and a dim +face. He turned away and ran down the road, his fists clenched; and +when he came to the wall over the lake he leaned there, almost stunned, +looking up the black water. + +Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid of people, what +they might say; but she dreaded the issue with him. Yes, she would +let him have her if he insisted; and then, when she thought of it +afterwards, her heart went down. He would be disappointed, he would find +no satisfaction, and then he would go away. Yet he was so insistent; and +over this, which did not seem so all-important to her, was their love +to break down. After all, he was only like other men, seeking his +satisfaction. Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper! +She could trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession +was a great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there. +Perhaps it was so. There was something divine in it; then she would +submit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And at +the thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily, hard, as if +against something; but Life forced her through this gate of suffering, +too, and she would submit. At any rate, it would give him what he +wanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded and brooded +herself towards accepting him. + +He courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot, she put his +face from her, held it between her hands, and looked in his eyes. +He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love, earnest and +searching, made him turn away. Not for an instant would she let him +forget. Back again he had to torture himself into a sense of his +responsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leaving himself +to the great hunger and impersonality of passion; he must be brought +back to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if from a swoon of passion +she caged him back to the littleness, the personal relationship. He +could not bear it. "Leave me alone--leave me alone!" he wanted to cry; +but she wanted him to look at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full +of the dark, impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her. + +There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at the back +of the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarlet and crimson +drops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gathering the fruit +one evening. It had been a hot day, and now the clouds were rolling in +the sky, dark and warm. Paul combed high in the tree, above the scarlet +roofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily, made the whole tree +rock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirred the blood. The young +man, perched insecurely in the slender branches, rocked till he felt +slightly drunk, reached down the boughs, where the scarlet beady +cherries hung thick underneath, and tore off handful after handful of +the sleek, cool-fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck as +he stretched forward, their chill finger-tips sending a flash down his +blood. All shades of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson, +glowed and met his eyes under a darkness of leaves. + +The sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Immense piles of +gold flared out in the south-east, heaped in soft, glowing yellow right +up the sky. The world, till now dusk and grey, reflected the gold glow, +astonished. Everywhere the trees, and the grass, and the far-off water, +seemed roused from the twilight and shining. + +Miriam came out wondering. + +"Oh!" Paul heard her mellow voice call, "isn't it wonderful?" + +He looked down. There was a faint gold glimmer on her face, that looked +very soft, turned up to him. + +"How high you are!" she said. + +Beside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds, thieves that +had been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hanging quite bleached, like +skeletons, picked clear of flesh. He looked down again to Miriam. + +"Clouds are on fire," he said. + +"Beautiful!" she cried. + +She seemed so small, so soft, so tender, down there. He threw a handful +of cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He laughed with a +low, chuckling sound, and pelted her. She ran for shelter, picking +up some cherries. Two fine red pairs she hung over her ears; then she +looked up again. + +"Haven't you got enough?" she asked. + +"Nearly. It is like being on a ship up here." + +"And how long will you stay?" + +"While the sunset lasts." + +She went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds fall to +pieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the darkness. Gold +flamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarlet +sank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quickly the passion went out of +the sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul scrambled quickly down with +his basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve as he did so. + +"They are lovely," said Miriam, fingering the cherries. + +"I've torn my sleeve," he answered. + +She took the three-cornered rip, saying: + +"I shall have to mend it." It was near the shoulder. She put her fingers +through the tear. "How warm!" she said. + +He laughed. There was a new, strange note in his voice, one that made +her pant. + +"Shall we stay out?" he said. + +"Won't it rain?" she asked. + +"No, let us walk a little way." + +They went down the fields and into the thick plantation of trees and +pines. + +"Shall we go in among the trees?" he asked. + +"Do you want to?" + +"Yes." + +It was very dark among the firs, and the sharp spines pricked her face. +She was afraid. Paul was silent and strange. + +"I like the darkness," he said. "I wish it were thicker--good, thick +darkness." + +He seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person: she was only to him +then a woman. She was afraid. + +He stood against a pine-tree trunk and took her in his arms. She +relinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which she felt +something of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man was a stranger to +her. + +Later it began to rain. The pine-trees smelled very strong. Paul lay +with his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles, listening to the +sharp hiss of the rain--a steady, keen noise. His heart was down, very +heavy. Now he realised that she had not been with him all the time, +that her soul had stood apart, in a sort of horror. He was physically at +rest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very sad, and very tender, +his fingers wandered over her face pitifully. Now again she loved him +deeply. He was tender and beautiful. + +"The rain!" he said. + +"Yes--is it coming on you?" + +She put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feel if +the raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he lay with his +face on the dead pine-leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. He did not +mind if the raindrops came on him: he would have lain and got wet +through: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if his living were smeared +away into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentle +reaching-out to death was new to him. + +"We must go," said Miriam. + +"Yes," he answered, but did not move. + +To him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death, +and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be +urgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt +out into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being. + +"The rain is coming in on us," said Miriam. + +He rose, and assisted her. + +"It is a pity," he said. + +"What?" + +"To have to go. I feel so still." + +"Still!" she repeated. + +"Stiller than I have ever been in my life." + +He was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers, feeling +a slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fear lest she should +lose him. + +"The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only a +presence." + +She was afraid, and said nothing. + +"A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that's +what we do in death--sleep in wonder." + +She had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the mystic. She +trod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy "Hush!" on the +trees. At last they gained the cartshed. + +"Let us stay here awhile," he said. + +There was a sound of rain everywhere, smothering everything. + +"I feel so strange and still," he said; "along with everything." + +"Ay," she answered patiently. + +He seemed again unaware of her, though he held her hand close. + +"To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our +effort--to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep--that is very +beautiful, I think; that is our after-life--our immortality." + +"Yes?" + +"Yes--and very beautiful to have." + +"You don't usually say that." + +"No." + +In a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them curiously. He +still kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness in his +voice. Instinctively, they all left him alone. + +About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottage in +Woodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It was a +beautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, with +red brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the back +another garden was separated from the fields by a tall old hedge. It +was very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found time for her +beloved reading, and for writing little introspective pieces which +interested her. + +At the holiday-time her grandmother, being better, was driven to Derby +to stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a crotchety old +lady, and might return the second day or the third; so Miriam stayed +alone in the cottage, which also pleased her. + +Paul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rule peaceful and happy +times. He did not embarrass her much; but then on the Monday of the +holiday he was to spend a whole day with her. + +It was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where he was +going. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him; but +he had three days that were all his own, when he was going to do as he +liked. It was sweet to rush through the morning lanes on his bicycle. + +He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy preparing +dinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the little kitchen, +ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was small +and cosy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort of linen in squares +of red and pale blue, old, much washed, but pretty. There was a stuffed +owl in a case over a corner cupboard. The sunlight came through the +leaves of the scented geraniums in the window. She was cooking a chicken +in his honour. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man and +wife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought she +gave a feeling of home almost like his mother; and no one could look +more beautiful, with her tumbled curls, when she was flushed from the +fire. + +The dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he carved. They +talked all the time with unflagging zest. Then he wiped the dishes she +had washed, and they went out down the fields. There was a bright little +brook that ran into a bog at the foot of a very steep bank. Here +they wandered, picking still a few marsh-marigolds and many big blue +forget-me-nots. Then she sat on the bank with her hands full of flowers, +mostly golden water-blobs. As she put her face down into the marigolds, +it was all overcast with a yellow shine. + +"Your face is bright," he said, "like a transfiguration." + +She looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her, laying his +hands on hers. Then he kissed her fingers, then her face. + +The world was all steeped in sunshine, and quite still, yet not asleep, +but quivering with a kind of expectancy. + +"I have never seen anything more beautiful than this," he said. He held +her hand fast all the time. + +"And the water singing to itself as it runs--do you love it?" She looked +at him full of love. His eyes were very dark, very bright. + +"Don't you think it's a great day?" he asked. + +She murmured her assent. She WAS happy, and he saw it. + +"And our day--just between us," he said. + +They lingered a little while. Then they stood up upon the sweet thyme, +and he looked down at her simply. + +"Will you come?" he asked. + +They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens came +scampering down the path to her. He locked the door, and they had the +little house to themselves. + +He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he was +unfastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was blind +with it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imagined. He stood +unable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half-smiling with +wonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went forward to her, her hands +lifted in a little pleading movement, and he looked at her face, and +stopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him, still and resigned and +loving; she lay as if she had given herself up to sacrifice: there was +her body for him; but the look at the back of her eyes, like a creature +awaiting immolation, arrested him, and all his blood fell back. + +"You are sure you want me?" he asked, as if a cold shadow had come over +him. + +"Yes, quite sure." + +She was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that she was doing +something for him. He could hardly bear it. She lay to be sacrificed for +him because she loved him so much. And he had to sacrifice her. For a +second, he wished he were sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes again +to her, and his blood beat back again. + +And afterwards he loved her--loved her to the last fibre of his being. +He loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was something he +could not bear for her sake. He stayed with her till quite late at +night. As he rode home he felt that he was finally initiated. He was a +youth no longer. But why had he the dull pain in his soul? Why did the +thought of death, the after-life, seem so sweet and consoling? + +He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passion before +it was gone. He had always, almost wilfully, to put her out of count, +and act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not do +it often, and there remained afterwards always the sense of failure and +of death. If he were really with her, he had to put aside himself and +his desire. If he would have her, he had to put her aside. + +"When I come to you," he asked her, his eyes dark with pain and shame, +"you don't really want me, do you?" + +"Ah, yes!" she replied quickly. + +He looked at her. + +"Nay," he said. + +She began to tremble. + +"You see," she said, taking his face and shutting it out against her +shoulder--"you see--as we are--how can I get used to you? It would come +all right if we were married." + +He lifted her head, and looked at her. + +"You mean, now, it is always too much shock?" + +"Yes--and--" + +"You are always clenched against me." + +She was trembling with agitation. + +"You see," she said, "I'm not used to the thought--" + +"You are lately," he said. + +"But all my life. Mother said to me: 'There is one thing in marriage +that is always dreadful, but you have to bear it.' And I believed it." + +"And still believe it," he said. + +"No!" she cried hastily. "I believe, as you do, that loving, even in +THAT way, is the high-water mark of living." + +"That doesn't alter the fact that you never want it." + +"No," she said, taking his head in her arms and rocking in despair. +"Don't say so! You don't understand." She rocked with pain. "Don't I +want your children?" + +"But not me." + +"How can you say so? But we must be married to have children--" + +"Shall we be married, then? I want you to have my children." + +He kissed her hand reverently. She pondered sadly, watching him. + +"We are too young," she said at length. + +"Twenty-four and twenty-three--" + +"Not yet," she pleaded, as she rocked herself in distress. + +"When you will," he said. + +She bowed her head gravely. The tone of hopelessness in which he said +these things grieved her deeply. It had always been a failure between +them. Tacitly, she acquiesced in what he felt. + +And after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly one Sunday +night, just as they were going to bed: + +"I shan't go so much to Miriam's, mother." + +She was surprised, but she would not ask him anything. + +"You please yourself," she said. + +So he went to bed. But there was a new quietness about him which she +had wondered at. She almost guessed. She would leave him alone, however. +Precipitation might spoil things. She watched him in his loneliness, +wondering where he would end. He was sick, and much too quiet for him. +There was a perpetual little knitting of his brows, such as she had seen +when he was a small baby, and which had been gone for many years. Now +it was the same again. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go on +alone, make his own way. + +He continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved her utterly. +But it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. At first it +was only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could not go on. He wanted +to run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he ceased to ask her to have +him. Instead of drawing them together, it put them apart. And then he +realised, consciously, that it was no good. It was useless trying: it +would never be a success between them. + +For some months he had seen very little of Clara. They had occasionally +walked out for half an hour at dinner-time. But he always reserved +himself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his brow cleared, and he +was gay again. She treated him indulgently, as if he were a child. He +thought he did not mind. But deep below the surface it piqued him. + +Sometimes Miriam said: + +"What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately." + +"I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday," he replied. + +"And what did she talk about?" + +"I don't know. I suppose I did all the jawing--I usually do. I think I +was telling her about the strike, and how the women took it." + +"Yes." + +So he gave the account of himself. + +But insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he felt for Clara +drew him away from Miriam, for whom he felt responsible, and to whom he +felt he belonged. He thought he was being quite faithful to her. It was +not easy to estimate exactly the strength and warmth of one's feelings +for a woman till they have run away with one. + +He began to give more time to his men friends. There was Jessop, at the +art school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstrator at the university; +Newton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar and Miriam's younger brothers. +Pleading work, he sketched and studied with Jessop. He called in the +university for Swain, and the two went "down town" together. Having come +home in the train with Newton, he called and had a game of billiards +with him in the Moon and Stars. If he gave to Miriam the excuse of his +men friends, he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved. +He always told her where he had been. + +During the summer Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cotton stuff with +loose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleeves fell back, and her +beautiful strong arms shone out. + +"Half a minute," he cried. "Hold your arm still." + +He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawings contained some +of the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, who always went +scrupulously through his books and papers, saw the drawings. + +"I think Clara has such beautiful arms," he said. + +"Yes! When did you draw them?" + +"On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I've got a corner where I can +work. Often I can do every single thing they need in the department, +before dinner. Then I work for myself in the afternoon, and just see to +things at night." + +"Yes," she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book. + +Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward and pored +over his things. He hated her way of patiently casting him up, as if he +were an endless psychological account. When he was with her, he hated +her for having got him, and yet not got him, and he tortured her. She +took all and gave nothing, he said. At least, she gave no living warmth. +She was never alive, and giving off life. Looking for her was like +looking for something which did not exist. She was only his conscience, +not his mate. He hated her violently, and was more cruel to her. They +dragged on till the next summer. He saw more and more of Clara. + +At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at home one evening. There +was between him and his mother a peculiar condition of people frankly +finding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel was strong on her feet again. +He was not going to stick to Miriam. Very well; then she would stand +aloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, this +bursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. This +evening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense. +He worked feverishly and mechanically, so that he could escape from +himself. It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent +of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got +up and went out of doors. + +The beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half-moon, dusky gold, +was sinking behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden, making +the sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a dim white fence of lilies +went across the garden, and the air all round seemed to stir with scent, +as if it were alive. He went across the bed of pinks, whose keen perfume +came sharply across the rocking, heavy scent of the lilies, and stood +alongside the white barrier of flowers. They flagged all loose, as if +they were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field +to watch the moon sink under. + +A corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moon slid quite +quickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind him the great flowers +leaned as if they were calling. And then, like a shock, he caught +another perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round, he found +the purple iris, touched their fleshy throats and their dark, grasping +hands. At any rate, he had found something. They stood stiff in the +darkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon the +crest of the hill. It was gone; all was dark. The corncrake called +still. + +Breaking off a pink, he suddenly went indoors. + +"Come, my boy," said his mother. "I'm sure it's time you went to bed." + +He stood with the pink against his lips. + +"I shall break off with Miriam, mother," he answered calmly. + +She looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring back at her, +unswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took off her glasses. He +was white. The male was up in him, dominant. She did not want to see him +too clearly. + +"But I thought--" she began. + +"Well," he answered, "I don't love her. I don't want to marry her--so I +shall have done." + +"But," exclaimed his mother, amazed, "I thought lately you had made up +your mind to have her, and so I said nothing." + +"I had--I wanted to--but now I don't want. It's no good. I shall break +off on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I?" + +"You know best. You know I said so long ago." + +"I can't help that now. I shall break off on Sunday." + +"Well," said his mother, "I think it will be best. But lately I decided +you had made up your mind to have her, so I said nothing, and should +have said nothing. But I say as I have always said, I DON'T think she is +suited to you." + +"On Sunday I break off," he said, smelling the pink. He put the flower +in his mouth. Unthinking, he bared his teeth, closed them on the blossom +slowly, and had a mouthful of petals. These he spat into the fire, +kissed his mother, and went to bed. + +On Sunday he went up to the farm in the early afternoon. He had written +Miriam that they would walk over the fields to Hucknall. His mother was +very tender with him. He said nothing. But she saw the effort it was +costing. The peculiar set look on his face stilled her. + +"Never mind, my son," she said. "You will be so much better when it is +all over." + +Paul glanced swiftly at his mother in surprise and resentment. He did +not want sympathy. + +Miriam met him at the lane-end. She was wearing a new dress of figured +muslin that had short sleeves. Those short sleeves, and Miriam's +brown-skinned arms beneath them--such pitiful, resigned arms--gave him +so much pain that they helped to make him cruel. She had made herself +look so beautiful and fresh for him. She seemed to blossom for him +alone. Every time he looked at her--a mature young woman now, and +beautiful in her new dress--it hurt so much that his heart seemed almost +to be bursting with the restraint he put on it. But he had decided, and +it was irrevocable. + +On the hills they sat down, and he lay with his head in her lap, whilst +she fingered his hair. She knew that "he was not there," as she put it. +Often, when she had him with her, she looked for him, and could not find +him. But this afternoon she was not prepared. + +It was nearly five o'clock when he told her. They were sitting on the +bank of a stream, where the lip of turf hung over a hollow bank of +yellow earth, and he was hacking away with a stick, as he did when he +was perturbed and cruel. + +"I have been thinking," he said, "we ought to break off." + +"Why?" she cried in surprise. + +"Because it's no good going on." + +"Why is it no good?" + +"It isn't. I don't want to marry. I don't want ever to marry. And if +we're not going to marry, it's no good going on." + +"But why do you say this now?" + +"Because I've made up my mind." + +"And what about these last months, and the things you told me then?" + +"I can't help it! I don't want to go on." + +"You don't want any more of me?" + +"I want us to break off--you be free of me, I free of you." + +"And what about these last months?" + +"I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true." + +"Then why are you different now?" + +"I'm not--I'm the same--only I know it's no good going on." + +"You haven't told me why it's no good." + +"Because I don't want to go on--and I don't want to marry." + +"How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn't?" + +"I know; but I want us to break off." + +There was silence for a moment or two, while he dug viciously at the +earth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasonable child. He +was like an infant which, when it has drunk its fill, throws away and +smashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she could get hold of him +and WRING some consistency out of him. But she was helpless. Then she +cried: + +"I have said you were only fourteen--you are only FOUR!" + +He still dug at the earth viciously. He heard. + +"You are a child of four," she repeated in her anger. + +He did not answer, but said in his heart: "All right; if I'm a child of +four, what do you want me for? I don't want another mother." But he said +nothing to her, and there was silence. + +"And have you told your people?" she asked. + +"I have told my mother." + +There was another long interval of silence. + +"Then what do you WANT?" she asked. + +"Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all these +years; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you, and you will +go your way without me. You will have an independent life of your own +then." + +There was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness, she could +not help registering. She knew she felt in a sort of bondage to him, +which she hated because she could not control it. She hated her love for +him from the moment it grew too strong for her. And, deep down, she had +hated him because she loved him and he dominated her. She had resisted +his domination. She had fought to keep herself free of him in the last +issue. And she was free of him, even more than he of her. + +"And," he continued, "we shall always be more or less each other's work. +You have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us start and live by +ourselves." + +"What do you want to do?" she asked. + +"Nothing--only to be free," he answered. + +She, however, knew in her heart that Clara's influence was over him to +liberate him. But she said nothing. + +"And what have I to tell my mother?" she asked. + +"I told my mother," he answered, "that I was breaking off--clean and +altogether." + +"I shall not tell them at home," she said. + +Frowning, "You please yourself," he said. + +He knew he had landed her in a nasty hole, and was leaving her in the +lurch. It angered him. + +"Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken off," he +said. "It's true enough." + +She bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She had +known it would come to this; she had seen it all along. It chimed with +her bitter expectation. + +"Always--it has always been so!" she cried. "It has been one long battle +between us--you fighting away from me." + +It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heart +stood still. Was this how she saw it? + +"But we've had SOME perfect hours, SOME perfect times, when we were +together!" he pleaded. + +"Never!" she cried; "never! It has always been you fighting me off." + +"Not always--not at first!" he pleaded. + +"Always, from the very beginning--always the same!" + +She had finished, but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wanted +to say: "It has been good, but it is at an end." And she--she whose love +he had believed in when he had despised himself--denied that their love +had ever been love. "He had always fought away from her?" Then it had +been monstrous. There had never been anything really between them; all +the time he had been imagining something where there was nothing. And +she had known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She +had known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her! + +He sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appeared in a +cynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with her. +She had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, and +despised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel. + +"You ought to marry a man who worships you," he said; "then you could do +as you liked with him. Plenty of men will worship you, if you get on the +private side of their natures. You ought to marry one such. They would +never fight you off." + +"Thank you!" she said. "But don't advise me to marry someone else any +more. You've done it before." + +"Very well," he said; "I will say no more." + +He sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow, instead of giving one. +Their eight years of friendship and love, THE eight years of his life, +were nullified. + +"When did you think of this?" she asked. + +"I thought definitely on Thursday night." + +"I knew it was coming," she said. + +That pleased him bitterly. "Oh, very well! If she knew then it doesn't +come as a surprise to her," he thought. + +"And have you said anything to Clara?" she asked. + +"No; but I shall tell her now." + +There was a silence. + +"Do you remember the things you said this time last year, in my +grandmother's house--nay last month even?" + +"Yes," he said; "I do! And I meant them! I can't help that it's failed." + +"It has failed because you want something else." + +"It would have failed whether or not. YOU never believed in me." + +She laughed strangely. + +He sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she had deceived him. +She had despised him when he thought she worshipped him. She had let him +say wrong things, and had not contradicted him. She had let him fight +alone. But it stuck in his throat that she had despised him whilst he +thought she worshipped him. She should have told him when she found +fault with him. She had not played fair. He hated her. All these years +she had treated him as if he were a hero, and thought of him secretly as +an infant, a foolish child. Then why had she left the foolish child to +his folly? His heart was hard against her. + +She sat full of bitterness. She had known--oh, well she had known! +All the time he was away from her she had summed him up, seen his +littleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soul +against him. She was not overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt. +She had known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strange +dominance over her? His very movements fascinated her as if she were +hypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean. +Why this bondage for her? Why was it the movement of his arm stirred her +as nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why, +even now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey? +She would obey him in his trifling commands. But once he was obeyed, +then she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would. +She was sure of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he was not a man! +He was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachment +of his soul would not keep him. Very well, he would have to go. But he +would come back when he had tired of his new sensation. + +He hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She rose. He sat +flinging lumps of earth in the stream. + +"We will go and have tea here?" he asked. + +"Yes," she answered. + +They chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea. He held forth on +the love of ornament--the cottage parlour moved him thereto--and its +connection with aesthetics. She was cold and quiet. As they walked home, +she asked: + +"And we shall not see each other?" + +"No--or rarely," he answered. + +"Nor write?" she asked, almost sarcastically. + +"As you will," he answered. "We're not strangers--never should be, +whatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You please +yourself." + +"I see!" she answered cuttingly. + +But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made a +great cleavage in his life. He had had a great shock when she had told +him their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mattered. If it +never had been much, there was no need to make a fuss that it was ended. + +He left her at the lane-end. As she went home, solitary, in her new +frock, having her people to face at the other end, he stood still with +shame and pain in the highroad, thinking of the suffering he caused her. + +In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went into the +Willow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who had been out for the +day, drinking a modest glass of port. They had some chocolates on the +table. Paul sat near with his whisky. He noticed the girls whispering +and nudging. Presently one, a bonny dark hussy, leaned to him and said: + +"Have a chocolate?" + +The others laughed loudly at her impudence. + +"All right," said Paul. "Give me a hard one--nut. I don't like creams." + +"Here you are, then," said the girl; "here's an almond for you." + +She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. She popped +it in, and blushed. + +"You ARE nice!" he said. + +"Well," she answered, "we thought you looked overcast, and they dared me +offer you a chocolate." + +"I don't mind if I have another--another sort," he said. + +And presently they were all laughing together. + +It was nine o'clock when he got home, falling dark. He entered the house +in silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose anxiously. + +"I told her," he said. + +"I'm glad," replied the mother, with great relief. + +He hung up his cap wearily. + +"I said we'd have done altogether," he said. + +"That's right, my son," said the mother. "It's hard for her now, but +best in the long run. I know. You weren't suited for her." + +He laughed shakily as he sat down. + +"I've had such a lark with some girls in a pub," he said. + +His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He told her +about the girls in the Willow Tree. Mrs. Morel looked at him. It seemed +unreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much horror and misery. + +"Now have some supper," she said very gently. + +Afterwards he said wistfully: + +"She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first, and so +she's not disappointed." + +"I'm afraid," said his mother, "she doesn't give up hopes of you yet." + +"No," he said, "perhaps not." + +"You'll find it's better to have done," she said. + +"I don't know," he said desperately. + +"Well, leave her alone," replied his mother. So he left her, and she was +alone. Very few people cared for her, and she for very few people. She +remained alone with herself, waiting. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +PASSION + +HE was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood by his art. +Liberty's had taken several of his painted designs on various stuffs, +and he could sell designs for embroideries, for altar-cloths, and +similar things, in one or two places. It was not very much he made +at present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends with the +designer for a pottery firm, and was gaining some knowledge of his new +acquaintance's art. The applied arts interested him very much. At the +same time he laboured slowly at his pictures. He loved to paint large +figures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and cast +shadows, like the impressionists; rather definite figures that had a +certain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo's people. And +these he fitted into a landscape, in what he thought true proportion. +He worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew. He believed +firmly in his work, that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits of +depression, shrinking, everything, he believed in his work. + +He was twenty-four when he said his first confident thing to his mother. + +"Mother," he said, "I s'll make a painter that they'll attend to." + +She sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleased shrug of +the shoulders. + +"Very well, my boy, we'll see," she said. + +"You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you're not swanky one of these +days!" + +"I'm quite content, my boy," she smiled. + +"But you'll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie!" + +Minnie was the small servant, a girl of fourteen. + +"And what about Minnie?" asked Mrs. Morel, with dignity. + +"I heard her this morning: 'Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was going to do that,' +when you went out in the rain for some coal," he said. "That looks a lot +like your being able to manage servants!" + +"Well, it was only the child's niceness," said Mrs. Morel. + +"And you apologising to her: 'You can't do two things at once, can +you?'" + +"She WAS busy washing up," replied Mrs. Morel. + +"And what did she say? 'It could easy have waited a bit. Now look how +your feet paddle!'" + +"Yes--brazen young baggage!" said Mrs. Morel, smiling. + +He looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm and rosy again +with love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshine were on her for a +moment. He continued his work gladly. She seemed so well when she was +happy that he forgot her grey hair. + +And that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight for a holiday. It +was too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morel was full +of joy and wonder. But he would have her walk with him more than she +was able. She had a bad fainting bout. So grey her face was, so blue her +mouth! It was agony to him. He felt as if someone were pushing a knife +in his chest. Then she was better again, and he forgot. But the anxiety +remained inside him, like a wound that did not close. + +After leaving Miriam he went almost straight to Clara. On the Monday +following the day of the rupture he went down to the work-room. She +looked up at him and smiled. They had grown very intimate unawares. She +saw a new brightness about him. + +"Well, Queen of Sheba!" he said, laughing. + +"But why?" she asked. + +"I think it suits you. You've got a new frock on." + +She flushed, asking: + +"And what of it?" + +"Suits you--awfully! I could design you a dress." + +"How would it be?" + +He stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded. He +kept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of her. She +half-started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse tighter, smoothed it +over her breast. + +"More SO!" he explained. + +But they were both of them flaming with blushes, and immediately he +ran away. He had touched her. His whole body was quivering with the +sensation. + +There was already a sort of secret understanding between them. The next +evening he went to the cinematograph with her for a few minutes before +train-time. As they sat, he saw her hand lying near him. For some +moments he dared not touch it. The pictures danced and dithered. Then +he took her hand in his. It was large and firm; it filled his grasp. He +held it fast. She neither moved nor made any sign. When they came out +his train was due. He hesitated. + +"Good-night," she said. He darted away across the road. + +The next day he came again, talking to her. She was rather superior with +him. + +"Shall we go a walk on Monday?" he asked. + +She turned her face aside. + +"Shall you tell Miriam?" she replied sarcastically. + +"I have broken off with her," he said. + +"When?" + +"Last Sunday." + +"You quarrelled?" + +"No! I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely I should +consider myself free." + +Clara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She was so quiet and +so superb! + +On the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink coffee with him +in a restaurant, meeting him after work was over. She came, looking +very reserved and very distant. He had three-quarters of an hour to +train-time. + +"We will walk a little while," he said. + +She agreed, and they went past the Castle into the Park. He was afraid +of her. She walked moodily at his side, with a kind of resentful, +reluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to take her hand. + +"Which way shall we go?" he asked as they walked in darkness. + +"I don't mind." + +"Then we'll go up the steps." + +He suddenly turned round. They had passed the Park steps. She stood +still in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her. +She stood aloof. He caught her suddenly in his arms, held her strained +for a moment, kissed her. Then he let her go. + +"Come along," he said, penitent. + +She followed him. He took her hand and kissed her finger-tips. They went +in silence. When they came to the light, he let go her hand. Neither +spoke till they reached the station. Then they looked each other in the +eyes. + +"Good-night," she said. + +And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically. People talked to +him. He heard faint echoes answering them. He was in a delirium. He felt +that he would go mad if Monday did not come at once. On Monday he would +see her again. All himself was pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened. +He could not bear it. He could not see her till Monday. And Sunday +intervened--hour after hour of tension. He wanted to beat his head +against the door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whisky +on the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must not be +upset, that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There he +sat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out of the window at +the far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought nor slept, but sat +perfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold that he came +to himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two. It was +after three o'clock. He was exhausted, but still there was the torment +of knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bed and slept. Then he +cycled all day long, till he was fagged out. And he scarcely knew where +he had been. But the day after was Monday. He slept till four o'clock. +Then he lay and thought. He was coming nearer to himself--he could see +himself, real, somewhere in front. She would go a walk with him in the +afternoon. Afternoon! It seemed years ahead. + +Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard him pottering +about. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavy boots scraping the +yard. Cocks were still crowing. A cart went down the road. His mother +got up. She knocked the fire. Presently she called him softly. He +answered as if he were asleep. This shell of himself did well. + +He was walking to the station--another mile! The train was near +Nottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels? But it did not matter; it +would get there before dinner-time. He was at Jordan's. She would +come in half an hour. At any rate, she would be near. He had done +the letters. She would be there. Perhaps she had not come. He ran +downstairs. Ah! he saw her through the glass door. Her shoulders +stooping a little to her work made him feel he could not go forward; he +could not stand. He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quite +cold. Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real self with +this shell. + +"And this afternoon," he struggled to say. "You will come?" + +"I think so," she replied, murmuring. + +He stood before her, unable to say a word. She hid her face from him. +Again came over him the feeling that he would lose consciousness. He set +his teeth and went upstairs. He had done everything correctly yet, and +he would do so. All the morning things seemed a long way off, as they +do to a man under chloroform. He himself seemed under a tight band +of constraint. Then there was his other self, in the distance, doing +things, entering stuff in a ledger, and he watched that far-off him +carefully to see he made no mistake. + +But the ache and strain of it could not go on much longer. He worked +incessantly. Still it was only twelve o'clock. As if he had nailed his +clothing against the desk, he stood there and worked, forcing every +stroke out of himself. It was a quarter to one; he could clear away. +Then he ran downstairs. + +"You will meet me at the Fountain at two o'clock," he said. + +"I can't be there till half-past." + +"Yes!" he said. + +She saw his dark, mad eyes. + +"I will try at a quarter past." + +And he had to be content. He went and got some dinner. All the time +he was still under chloroform, and every minute was stretched out +indefinitely. He walked miles of streets. Then he thought he would be +late at the meeting-place. He was at the Fountain at five past two. The +torture of the next quarter of an hour was refined beyond expression. It +was the anguish of combining the living self with the shell. Then he saw +her. She came! And he was there. + +"You are late," he said. + +"Only five minutes," she answered. + +"I'd never have done it to you," he laughed. + +She was in a dark blue costume. He looked at her beautiful figure. + +"You want some flowers," he said, going to the nearest florist's. + +She followed him in silence. He bought her a bunch of scarlet, brick-red +carnations. She put them in her coat, flushing. + +"That's a fine colour!" he said. + +"I'd rather have had something softer," she said. + +He laughed. + +"Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street?" he said. + +She hung her head, afraid of the people they met. He looked sideways at +her as they walked. There was a wonderful close down on her face near +the ear that he wanted to touch. And a certain heaviness, the heaviness +of a very full ear of corn that dips slightly in the wind, that there +was about her, made his brain spin. He seemed to be spinning down the +street, everything going round. + +As they sat in the tramcar, she leaned her heavy shoulder against him, +and he took her hand. He felt himself coming round from the anaesthetic, +beginning to breathe. Her ear, half-hidden among her blonde hair, was +near to him. The temptation to kiss it was almost too great. But there +were other people on top of the car. It still remained to him to kiss +it. After all, he was not himself, he was some attribute of hers, like +the sunshine that fell on her. + +He looked quickly away. It had been raining. The big bluff of the Castle +rock was streaked with rain, as it reared above the flat of the town. +They crossed the wide, black space of the Midland Railway, and passed +the cattle enclosure that stood out white. Then they ran down sordid +Wilford Road. + +She rocked slightly to the tram's motion, and as she leaned against +him, rocked upon him. He was a vigorous, slender man, with exhaustless +energy. His face was rough, with rough-hewn features, like the common +people's; but his eyes under the deep brows were so full of life that +they fascinated her. They seemed to dance, and yet they were still +trembling on the finest balance of laughter. His mouth the same was just +going to spring into a laugh of triumph, yet did not. There was a sharp +suspense about him. She bit her lip moodily. His hand was hard clenched +over hers. + +They paid their two halfpennies at the turnstile and crossed the bridge. +The Trent was very full. It swept silent and insidious under the bridge, +travelling in a soft body. There had been a great deal of rain. On the +river levels were flat gleams of flood water. The sky was grey, with +glisten of silver here and there. In Wilford churchyard the dahlias were +sodden with rain--wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path that +went along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade. + +There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the green +meadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The river +slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself +like some subtle, complex creature. Clara walked moodily beside him. + +"Why," she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, "did you leave +Miriam?" + +He frowned. + +"Because I WANTED to leave her," he said. + +"Why?" + +"Because I didn't want to go on with her. And I didn't want to marry." + +She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path. +Drops of water fell from the elm-trees. + +"You didn't want to marry Miriam, or you didn't want to marry at all?" +she asked. + +"Both," he answered--"both!" + +They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools of +water. + +"And what did she say?" Clara asked. + +"Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always HAD battled +her off." + +Clara pondered over this for a time. + +"But you have really been going with her for some time?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"And now you don't want any more of her?" + +"No. I know it's no good." + +She pondered again. + +"Don't you think you've treated her rather badly?" she asked. + +"Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been no +good going on. Two wrongs don't make a right." + +"How old ARE you?" Clara asked. + +"Twenty-five." + +"And I am thirty," she said. + +"I know you are." + +"I shall be thirty-one--or AM I thirty-one?" + +"I neither know nor care. What does it matter!" + +They were at the entrance to the Grove. The wet, red track, already +sticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass. +On either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle, +arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell. +All was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and he +held both her hands. Laughing, she looked down into his eyes. Then she +leaped. Her breast came against his; he held her, and covered her face +with kisses. + +They went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released his +hand and put it round her waist. + +"You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly," she said. + +They walked along. His finger-tips felt the rocking of her breast. All +was silent and deserted. On the left the red wet plough-land showed +through the doorways between the elm-boles and their branches. On the +right, looking down, they could see the tree-tops of elms growing far +beneath them, hear occasionally the gurgle of the river. Sometimes +there below they caught glimpses of the full, soft-sliding Trent, and of +water-meadows dotted with small cattle. + +"It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come," he +said. + +But he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush was +fusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that pouted disconsolate. She +stirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string. + +Halfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the Grove rose highest above +the river, their forward movement faltered to an end. He led her across +to the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path. The cliff of red +earth sloped swiftly down, through trees and bushes, to the river that +glimmered and was dark between the foliage. The far-below water-meadows +were very green. He and she stood leaning against one another, silent, +afraid, their bodies touching all along. There came a quick gurgle from +the river below. + +"Why," he asked at length, "did you hate Baxter Dawes?" + +She turned to him with a splendid movement. Her mouth was offered him, +and her throat; her eyes were half-shut; her breast was tilted as if it +asked for him. He flashed with a small laugh, shut his eyes, and met +her in a long, whole kiss. Her mouth fused with his; their bodies were +sealed and annealed. It was some minutes before they withdrew. They were +standing beside the public path. + +"Will you go down to the river?" he asked. + +She looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over the brim +of the declivity and began to climb down. + +"It is slippery," he said. + +"Never mind," she replied. + +The red clay went down almost sheer. He slid, went from one tuft +of grass to the next, hanging on to the bushes, making for a little +platform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laughing with +excitement. Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her. +He frowned. At last he caught her hand, and she stood beside him. The +cliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyes +flashed. He looked at the big drop below them. + +"It's risky," he said; "or messy, at any rate. Shall we go back?" + +"Not for my sake," she said quickly. + +"All right. You see, I can't help you; I should only hinder. Give me +that little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!" + +They stood perched on the face of the declivity, under the trees. + +"Well, I'll go again," he said. + +Away he went, slipping, staggering, sliding to the next tree, into which +he fell with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. She +came after cautiously, hanging on to the twigs and grasses. So they +descended, stage by stage, to the river's brink. There, to his disgust, +the flood had eaten away the path, and the red decline ran straight into +the water. He dug in his heels and brought himself up violently. The +string of the parcel broke with a snap; the brown parcel bounded down, +leaped into the water, and sailed smoothly away. He hung on to his tree. + +"Well, I'll be damned!" he cried crossly. Then he laughed. She was +coming perilously down. + +"Mind!" he warned her. He stood with his back to the tree, waiting. +"Come now," he called, opening his arms. + +She let herself run. He caught her, and together they stood watching the +dark water scoop at the raw edge of the bank. The parcel had sailed out +of sight. + +"It doesn't matter," she said. + +He held her close and kissed her. There was only room for their four +feet. + +"It's a swindle!" he said. "But there's a rut where a man has been, so +if we go on I guess we shall find the path again." + +The river slid and twined its great volume. On the other bank cattle +were feeding on the desolate flats. The cliff rose high above Paul and +Clara on their right hand. They stood against the tree in the watery +silence. + +"Let us try going forward," he said; and they struggled in the red +clay along the groove a man's nailed boots had made. They were hot and +flushed. Their barkled shoes hung heavy on their steps. At last they +found the broken path. It was littered with rubble from the water, but +at any rate it was easier. They cleaned their boots with twigs. His +heart was beating thick and fast. + +Suddenly, coming on to the little level, he saw two figures of men +standing silent at the water's edge. His heart leaped. They were +fishing. He turned and put his hand up warningly to Clara. She +hesitated, buttoned her coat. The two went on together. + +The fishermen turned curiously to watch the two intruders on their +privacy and solitude. They had had a fire, but it was nearly out. All +kept perfectly still. The men turned again to their fishing, stood +over the grey glinting river like statues. Clara went with bowed head, +flushing; he was laughing to himself. Directly they passed out of sight +behind the willows. + +"Now they ought to be drowned," said Paul softly. + +Clara did not answer. They toiled forward along a tiny path on the +river's lip. Suddenly it vanished. The bank was sheer red solid clay +in front of them, sloping straight into the river. He stood and cursed +beneath his breath, setting his teeth. + +"It's impossible!" said Clara. + +He stood erect, looking round. Just ahead were two islets in the stream, +covered with osiers. But they were unattainable. The cliff came down +like a sloping wall from far above their heads. Behind, not far back, +were the fishermen. Across the river the distant cattle fed silently +in the desolate afternoon. He cursed again deeply under his breath. He +gazed up the great steep bank. Was there no hope but to scale back to +the public path? + +"Stop a minute," he said, and, digging his heels sideways into the steep +bank of red clay, he began nimbly to mount. He looked across at every +tree-foot. At last he found what he wanted. Two beech-trees side by side +on the hill held a little level on the upper face between their roots. +It was littered with damp leaves, but it would do. The fishermen were +perhaps sufficiently out of sight. He threw down his rainproof and waved +to her to come. + +She toiled to his side. Arriving there, she looked at him heavily, +dumbly, and laid her head on his shoulder. He held her fast as he looked +round. They were safe enough from all but the small, lonely cows over +the river. He sunk his mouth on her throat, where he felt her heavy +pulse beat under his lips. Everything was perfectly still. There was +nothing in the afternoon but themselves. + +When she arose, he, looking on the ground all the time, saw suddenly +sprinkled on the black wet beech-roots many scarlet carnation petals, +like splashed drops of blood; and red, small splashes fell from her +bosom, streaming down her dress to her feet. + +"Your flowers are smashed," he said. + +She looked at him heavily as she put back her hair. Suddenly he put his +finger-tips on her cheek. + +"Why dost look so heavy?" he reproached her. + +She smiled sadly, as if she felt alone in herself. He caressed her cheek +with his fingers, and kissed her. + +"Nay!" he said. "Never thee bother!" + +She gripped his fingers tight, and laughed shakily. Then she dropped her +hand. He put the hair back from her brows, stroking her temples, kissing +them lightly. + +"But tha shouldna worrit!" he said softly, pleading. + +"No, I don't worry!" she laughed tenderly and resigned. + +"Yea, tha does! Dunna thee worrit," he implored, caressing. + +"No!" she consoled him, kissing him. + +They had a stiff climb to get to the top again. It took them a quarter +of an hour. When he got on to the level grass, he threw off his cap, +wiped the sweat from his forehead, and sighed. + +"Now we're back at the ordinary level," he said. + +She sat down, panting, on the tussocky grass. Her cheeks were flushed +pink. He kissed her, and she gave way to joy. + +"And now I'll clean thy boots and make thee fit for respectable folk," +he said. + +He kneeled at her feet, worked away with a stick and tufts of grass. She +put her fingers in his hair, drew his head to her, and kissed it. + +"What am I supposed to be doing," he said, looking at her laughing; +"cleaning shoes or dibbling with love? Answer me that!" + +"Just whichever I please," she replied. + +"I'm your boot-boy for the time being, and nothing else!" But they +remained looking into each other's eyes and laughing. Then they kissed +with little nibbling kisses. + +"T-t-t-t!" he went with his tongue, like his mother. "I tell you, +nothing gets done when there's a woman about." + +And he returned to his boot-cleaning, singing softly. She touched his +thick hair, and he kissed her fingers. He worked away at her shoes. At +last they were quite presentable. + +"There you are, you see!" he said. "Aren't I a great hand at restoring +you to respectability? Stand up! There, you look as irreproachable as +Britannia herself!" + +He cleaned his own boots a little, washed his hands in a puddle, and +sang. They went on into Clifton village. He was madly in love with her; +every movement she made, every crease in her garments, sent a hot flash +through him and seemed adorable. + +The old lady at whose house they had tea was roused into gaiety by them. + +"I could wish you'd had something of a better day," she said, hovering +round. + +"Nay!" he laughed. "We've been saying how nice it is." + +The old lady looked at him curiously. There was a peculiar glow +and charm about him. His eyes were dark and laughing. He rubbed his +moustache with a glad movement. + +"Have you been saying SO!" she exclaimed, a light rousing in her old +eyes. + +"Truly!" he laughed. + +"Then I'm sure the day's good enough," said the old lady. + +She fussed about, and did not want to leave them. + +"I don't know whether you'd like some radishes as well," she said to +Clara; "but I've got some in the garden--AND a cucumber." + +Clara flushed. She looked very handsome. + +"I should like some radishes," she answered. + +And the old lady pottered off gleefully. + +"If she knew!" said Clara quietly to him. + +"Well, she doesn't know; and it shows we're nice in ourselves, at any +rate. You look quite enough to satisfy an archangel, and I'm sure I feel +harmless--so--if it makes you look nice, and makes folk happy when they +have us, and makes us happy--why, we're not cheating them out of much!" + +They went on with the meal. When they were going away, the old lady came +timidly with three tiny dahlias in full blow, neat as bees, and speckled +scarlet and white. She stood before Clara, pleased with herself, saying: + +"I don't know whether--" and holding the flowers forward in her old +hand. + +"Oh, how pretty!" cried Clara, accepting the flowers. + +"Shall she have them all?" asked Paul reproachfully of the old woman. + +"Yes, she shall have them all," she replied, beaming with joy. "You have +got enough for your share." + +"Ah, but I shall ask her to give me one!" he teased. + +"Then she does as she pleases," said the old lady, smiling. And she +bobbed a little curtsey of delight. + +Clara was rather quiet and uncomfortable. As they walked along, he said: + +"You don't feel criminal, do you?" + +She looked at him with startled grey eyes. + +"Criminal!" she said. "No." + +"But you seem to feel you have done a wrong?" + +"No," she said. "I only think, 'If they knew!'" + +"If they knew, they'd cease to understand. As it is, they do understand, +and they like it. What do they matter? Here, with only the trees and me, +you don't feel not the least bit wrong, do you?" + +He took her by the arm, held her facing him, holding her eyes with his. +Something fretted him. + +"Not sinners, are we?" he said, with an uneasy little frown. + +"No," she replied. + +He kissed her, laughing. + +"You like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe," he said. "I believe +Eve enjoyed it, when she went cowering out of Paradise." + +But there was a certain glow and quietness about her that made him glad. +When he was alone in the railway-carriage, he found himself tumultuously +happy, and the people exceedingly nice, and the night lovely, and +everything good. + +Mrs. Morel was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not good +now, and there had come that ivory pallor into her face which he never +noticed, and which afterwards he never forgot. She did not mention her +own ill-health to him. After all, she thought, it was not much. + +"You are late!" she said, looking at him. + +His eyes were shining; his face seemed to glow. He smiled to her. + +"Yes; I've been down Clifton Grove with Clara." + +His mother looked at him again. + +"But won't people talk?" she said. + +"Why? They know she's a suffragette, and so on. And what if they do +talk!" + +"Of course, there may be nothing wrong in it," said his mother. "But you +know what folks are, and if once she gets talked about--" + +"Well, I can't help it. Their jaw isn't so almighty important, after +all." + +"I think you ought to consider HER." + +"So I DO! What can people say?--that we take a walk together. I believe +you're jealous." + +"You know I should be GLAD if she weren't a married woman." + +"Well, my dear, she lives separate from her husband, and talks on +platforms; so she's already singled out from the sheep, and, as far as +I can see, hasn't much to lose. No; her life's nothing to her, so what's +the worth of nothing? She goes with me--it becomes something. Then she +must pay--we both must pay! Folk are so frightened of paying; they'd +rather starve and die." + +"Very well, my son. We'll see how it will end." + +"Very well, my mother. I'll abide by the end." + +"We'll see!" + +"And she's--she's AWFULLY nice, mother; she is really! You don't know!" + +"That's not the same as marrying her." + +"It's perhaps better." + +There was silence for a while. He wanted to ask his mother something, +but was afraid. + +"Should you like to know her?" He hesitated. + +"Yes," said Mrs. Morel coolly. "I should like to know what she's like." + +"But she's nice, mother, she is! And not a bit common!" + +"I never suggested she was." + +"But you seem to think she's--not as good as--She's better than +ninety-nine folk out of a hundred, I tell you! She's BETTER, she is! +She's fair, she's honest, she's straight! There isn't anything underhand +or superior about her. Don't be mean about her!" + +Mrs. Morel flushed. + +"I am sure I am not mean about her. She may be quite as you say, but--" + +"You don't approve," he finished. + +"And do you expect me to?" she answered coldly. + +"Yes!--yes!--if you'd anything about you, you'd be glad! Do you WANT to +see her?" + +"I said I did." + +"Then I'll bring her--shall I bring her here?" + +"You please yourself." + +"Then I WILL bring her here--one Sunday--to tea. If you think a horrid +thing about her, I shan't forgive you." + +His mother laughed. + +"As if it would make any difference!" she said. He knew he had won. + +"Oh, but it feels so fine, when she's there! She's such a queen in her +way." + +Occasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam and +Edgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very much the +same with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her presence. One +evening she was alone when he accompanied her. They began by talking +books: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. Morel had said that his and +Miriam's affair was like a fire fed on books--if there were no more +volumes it would die out. Miriam, for her part, boasted that she could +read him like a book, could place her finger any minute on the chapter +and the line. He, easily taken in, believed that Miriam knew more about +him than anyone else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself, +like the simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his own +doings. It flattered him immensely that he was of such supreme interest. + +"And what have you been doing lately?" + +"I--oh, not much! I made a sketch of Bestwood from the garden, that is +nearly right at last. It's the hundredth try." + +So they went on. Then she said: + +"You've not been out, then, lately?" + +"Yes; I went up Clifton Grove on Monday afternoon with Clara." + +"It was not very nice weather," said Miriam, "was it?" + +"But I wanted to go out, and it was all right. The Trent IS full." + +"And did you go to Barton?" she asked. + +"No; we had tea in Clifton." + +"DID you! That would be nice." + +"It was! The jolliest old woman! She gave us several pompom dahlias, as +pretty as you like." + +Miriam bowed her head and brooded. He was quite unconscious of +concealing anything from her. + +"What made her give them you?" she asked. + +He laughed. + +"Because she liked us--because we were jolly, I should think." + +Miriam put her finger in her mouth. + +"Were you late home?" she asked. + +At last he resented her tone. + +"I caught the seven-thirty." + +"Ha!" + +They walked on in silence, and he was angry. + +"And how IS Clara?" asked Miriam. + +"Quite all right, I think." + +"That's good!" she said, with a tinge of irony. "By the way, what of her +husband? One never hears anything of him." + +"He's got some other woman, and is also quite all right," he replied. +"At least, so I think." + +"I see--you don't know for certain. Don't you think a position like that +is hard on a woman?" + +"Rottenly hard!" + +"It's so unjust!" said Miriam. "The man does as he likes--" + +"Then let the woman also," he said. + +"How can she? And if she does, look at her position!" + +"What of it?" + +"Why, it's impossible! You don't understand what a woman forfeits--" + +"No, I don't. But if a woman's got nothing but her fair fame to feed on, +why, it's thin tack, and a donkey would die of it!" + +So she understood his moral attitude, at least, and she knew he would +act accordingly. + +She never asked him anything direct, but she got to know enough. + +Another day, when he saw Miriam, the conversation turned to marriage, +then to Clara's marriage with Dawes. + +"You see," he said, "she never knew the fearful importance of marriage. +She thought it was all in the day's march--it would have to come--and +Dawes--well, a good many women would have given their souls to get +him; so why not him? Then she developed into the femme incomprise, and +treated him badly, I'll bet my boots." + +"And she left him because he didn't understand her?" + +"I suppose so. I suppose she had to. It isn't altogether a question +of understanding; it's a question of living. With him, she was only +half-alive; the rest was dormant, deadened. And the dormant woman was +the femme incomprise, and she HAD to be awakened." + +"And what about him." + +"I don't know. I rather think he loves her as much as he can, but he's a +fool." + +"It was something like your mother and father," said Miriam. + +"Yes; but my mother, I believe, got real joy and satisfaction out of +my father at first. I believe she had a passion for him; that's why she +stayed with him. After all, they were bound to each other." + +"Yes," said Miriam. + +"That's what one MUST HAVE, I think," he continued--"the real, real +flame of feeling through another person--once, only once, if it only +lasts three months. See, my mother looks as if she'd HAD everything that +was necessary for her living and developing. There's not a tiny bit of +feeling of sterility about her." + +"No," said Miriam. + +"And with my father, at first, I'm sure she had the real thing. She +knows; she has been there. You can feel it about her, and about him, and +about hundreds of people you meet every day; and, once it has happened +to you, you can go on with anything and ripen." + +"What happened, exactly?" asked Miriam. + +"It's so hard to say, but the something big and intense that changes +you when you really come together with somebody else. It almost seems to +fertilise your soul and make it that you can go on and mature." + +"And you think your mother had it with your father?" + +"Yes; and at the bottom she feels grateful to him for giving it her, +even now, though they are miles apart." + +"And you think Clara never had it?" + +"I'm sure." + +Miriam pondered this. She saw what he was seeking--a sort of baptism of +fire in passion, it seemed to her. She realised that he would never be +satisfied till he had it. Perhaps it was essential to him, as to some +men, to sow wild oats; and afterwards, when he was satisfied, he would +not rage with restlessness any more, but could settle down and give her +his life into her hands. Well, then, if he must go, let him go and have +his fill--something big and intense, he called it. At any rate, when he +had got it, he would not want it--that he said himself; he would want +the other thing that she could give him. He would want to be owned, so +that he could work. It seemed to her a bitter thing that he must go, but +she could let him go into an inn for a glass of whisky, so she could let +him go to Clara, so long as it was something that would satisfy a need +in him, and leave him free for herself to possess. + +"Have you told your mother about Clara?" she asked. + +She knew this would be a test of the seriousness of his feeling for the +other woman: she knew he was going to Clara for something vital, not as +a man goes for pleasure to a prostitute, if he told his mother. + +"Yes," he said, "and she is coming to tea on Sunday." + +"To your house?" + +"Yes; I want mater to see her." + +"Ah!" + +There was a silence. Things had gone quicker than she thought. She felt +a sudden bitterness that he could leave her so soon and so entirely. +And was Clara to be accepted by his people, who had been so hostile to +herself? + +"I may call in as I go to chapel," she said. "It is a long time since I +saw Clara." + +"Very well," he said, astonished, and unconsciously angry. + +On the Sunday afternoon he went to Keston to meet Clara at the station. +As he stood on the platform he was trying to examine in himself if he +had a premonition. + +"Do I FEEL as if she'd come?" he said to himself, and he tried to find +out. His heart felt queer and contracted. That seemed like foreboding. +Then he HAD a foreboding she would not come! Then she would not come, +and instead of taking her over the fields home, as he had imagined, +he would have to go alone. The train was late; the afternoon would +be wasted, and the evening. He hated her for not coming. Why had she +promised, then, if she could not keep her promise? Perhaps she had +missed her train--he himself was always missing trains--but that was no +reason why she should miss this particular one. He was angry with her; +he was furious. + +Suddenly he saw the train crawling, sneaking round the corner. Here, +then, was the train, but of course she had not come. The green engine +hissed along the platform, the row of brown carriages drew up, several +doors opened. No; she had not come! No! Yes; ah, there she was! She had +a big black hat on! He was at her side in a moment. + +"I thought you weren't coming," he said. + +She was laughing rather breathlessly as she put out her hand to him; +their eyes met. He took her quickly along the platform, talking at a +great rate to hide his feeling. She looked beautiful. In her hat were +large silk roses, coloured like tarnished gold. Her costume of dark +cloth fitted so beautifully over her breast and shoulders. His pride +went up as he walked with her. He felt the station people, who knew him, +eyed her with awe and admiration. + +"I was sure you weren't coming," he laughed shakily. + +She laughed in answer, almost with a little cry. + +"And I wondered, when I was in the train, WHATEVER I should do if you +weren't there!" she said. + +He caught her hand impulsively, and they went along the narrow twitchel. +They took the road into Nuttall and over the Reckoning House Farm. It +was a blue, mild day. Everywhere the brown leaves lay scattered; many +scarlet hips stood upon the hedge beside the wood. He gathered a few for +her to wear. + +"Though, really," he said, as he fitted them into the breast of her +coat, "you ought to object to my getting them, because of the birds. +But they don't care much for rose-hips in this part, where they can +get plenty of stuff. You often find the berries going rotten in the +springtime." + +So he chattered, scarcely aware of what he said, only knowing he was +putting berries in the bosom of her coat, while she stood patiently for +him. And she watched his quick hands, so full of life, and it seemed to +her she had never SEEN anything before. Till now, everything had been +indistinct. + +They came near to the colliery. It stood quite still and black among the +corn-fields, its immense heap of slag seen rising almost from the oats. + +"What a pity there is a coal-pit here where it is so pretty!" said +Clara. + +"Do you think so?" he answered. "You see, I am so used to it I should +miss it. No; and I like the pits here and there. I like the rows of +trucks, and the headstocks, and the steam in the daytime, and the lights +at night. When I was a boy, I always thought a pillar of cloud by day +and a pillar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, and its +lights, and the burning bank,--and I thought the Lord was always at the +pit-top." + +As they drew near home she walked in silence, and seemed to hang back. +He pressed her fingers in his own. She flushed, but gave no response. + +"Don't you want to come home?" he asked. + +"Yes, I want to come," she replied. + +It did not occur to him that her position in his home would be rather a +peculiar and difficult one. To him it seemed just as if one of his men +friends were going to be introduced to his mother, only nicer. + +The Morels lived in a house in an ugly street that ran down a steep +hill. The street itself was hideous. The house was rather superior +to most. It was old, grimy, with a big bay window, and it was +semi-detached; but it looked gloomy. Then Paul opened the door to the +garden, and all was different. The sunny afternoon was there, like +another land. By the path grew tansy and little trees. In front of the +window was a plot of sunny grass, with old lilacs round it. And away +went the garden, with heaps of dishevelled chrysanthemums in the +sunshine, down to the sycamore-tree, and the field, and beyond one +looked over a few red-roofed cottages to the hills with all the glow of +the autumn afternoon. + +Mrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her black silk blouse. +Her grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her brow and her high +temples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering, followed Paul into +the kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thought her a lady, even rather +stiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look, +almost resigned. + +"Mother--Clara," said Paul. + +Mrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled. + +"He has told me a good deal about you," she said. + +The blood flamed in Clara's cheek. + +"I hope you don't mind my coming," she faltered. + +"I was pleased when he said he would bring you," replied Mrs. Morel. + +Paul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His mother looked so +small, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara. + +"It's such a pretty day, mother!" he said. "And we saw a jay." + +His mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thought what a +man he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale and +detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart +glowed; then she was sorry for Clara. + +"Perhaps you'll leave your things in the parlour," said Mrs. Morel +nicely to the young woman. + +"Oh, thank you," she replied. + +"Come on," said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room, +with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble +mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and +drawing-boards. "I leave my things lying about," he said. "It's so much +easier." + +She loved his artist's paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of +people. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William's +young lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this +was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being +taken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they +talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put +aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow +black-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her +head. She looked rather stately and reserved. + +"You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?" said Mrs. Morel. "When +I was a girl--girl, I say!--when I was a young woman WE lived in Minerva +Terrace." + +"Oh, did you!" said Clara. "I have a friend in number 6." + +And the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottingham +people; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs. +Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very +clear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paul +saw. + +Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found herself +easily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul's surprising +regard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting, expecting +someone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this little +interested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as she +felt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs. Morel's way. +There was something so hard and certain in his mother, as if she never +had a misgiving in her life. + +Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoon +sleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he plodded in his stocking feet, +his waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous. + +"This is Mrs. Dawes, father," said Paul. + +Then Morel pulled himself together. Clara saw Paul's manner of bowing +and shaking hands. + +"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Morel. "I am very glad to see you--I am, I +assure you. But don't disturb yourself. No, no make yourself quite +comfortable, and be very welcome." + +Clara was astonished at this flood of hospitality from the old collier. +He was so courteous, so gallant! She thought him most delightful. + +"And may you have come far?" he asked. + +"Only from Nottingham," she said. + +"From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful day for your journey." + +Then he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face, and from +force of habit came on to the hearth with the towel to dry himself. + +At tea Clara felt the refinement and sang-froid of the household. Mrs. +Morel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea and attending +to the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in her +talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark blue +willow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little +bowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the +circle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the +self-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone; +there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where +everyone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a +fear deep at the bottom of her. + +Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was +conscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming blown +quickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and thither +of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him. By the +way she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see she was +possessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman was sorry +for her. + +Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two women +to talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced +through the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums. +She felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet he +seemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as he +tied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wanted +to shriek in her helplessness. + +Mrs. Morel rose. + +"You will let me help you wash up," said Clara. + +"Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute," said the other. + +Clara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be on such good +terms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow him +down the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if a +rope were taken off her ankle. + +The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood across +in the other garden, beside a bush of pale Michaelmas daisies, watching +the last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming, he turned to her +with an easy motion, saying: + +"It's the end of the run with these chaps." + +Clara stood near him. Over the low red wall in front was the country and +the far-off hills, all golden dim. + +At that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door. She saw +Clara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come to rest together. +Something in their perfect isolation together made her know that it was +accomplished between them, that they were, as she put it, married. She +walked very slowly down the cinder-track of the long garden. + +Clara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breaking it +to get the seeds. Above her bowed head the pink flowers stared, as if +defending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive. + +"Count your money," laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seeds one by one +from the roll of coin. She looked at him. + +"I'm well off," she said, smiling. + +"How much? Pf!" He snapped his fingers. "Can I turn them into gold?" + +"I'm afraid not," she laughed. + +They looked into each other's eyes, laughing. At that moment they became +aware of Miriam. There was a click, and everything had altered. + +"Hello, Miriam!" he exclaimed. "You said you'd come!" + +"Yes. Had you forgotten?" + +She shook hands with Clara, saying: + +"It seems strange to see you here." + +"Yes," replied the other; "it seems strange to be here." + +There was a hesitation. + +"This is pretty, isn't it?" said Miriam. + +"I like it very much," replied Clara. + +Then Miriam realised that Clara was accepted as she had never been. + +"Have you come down alone?" asked Paul. + +"Yes; I went to Agatha's to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called +in for a moment to see Clara." + +"You should have come in here to tea," he said. + +Miriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside. + +"Do you like the chrysanthemums?" he asked. + +"Yes; they are very fine," replied Miriam. + +"Which sort do you like best?" he asked. + +"I don't know. The bronze, I think." + +"I don't think you've seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see +which are YOUR favourites, Clara." + +He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsled bushes of +flowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path down to the field. +The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge. + +"Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. They +aren't so fine here, are they?" + +"No," said Miriam. + +"But they're hardier. You're so sheltered; things grow big and tender, +and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?" + +While they were out there the bells began to ring in the church, +sounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at the tower, +proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he had +brought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her even +yet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors. + +"What! is that Miriam?" asked his mother coldly. + +"Yes; she said she'd call and see Clara." + +"You told her, then?" came the sarcastic answer. + +"Yes; why shouldn't I?" + +"There's certainly no reason why you shouldn't," said Mrs. Morel, and +she returned to her book. He winced from his mother's irony, frowned +irritably, thinking: "Why can't I do as I like?" + +"You've not seen Mrs. Morel before?" Miriam was saying to Clara. + +"No; but she's so nice!" + +"Yes," said Miriam, dropping her head; "in some ways she's very fine." + +"I should think so." + +"Had Paul told you much about her?" + +"He had talked a good deal." + +"Ha!" + +There was silence until he returned with the book. + +"When will you want it back?" Miriam asked. + +"When you like," he answered. + +Clara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriam to the gate. + +"When will you come up to Willey Farm?" the latter asked. + +"I couldn't say," replied Clara. + +"Mother asked me to say she'd be pleased to see you any time, if you +cared to come." + +"Thank you; I should like to, but I can't say when." + +"Oh, very well!" exclaimed Miriam rather bitterly, turning away. + +She went down the path with her mouth to the flowers he had given her. + +"You're sure you won't come in?" he said. + +"No, thanks." + +"We are going to chapel." + +"Ah, I shall see you, then!" Miriam was very bitter. + +"Yes." + +They parted. He felt guilty towards her. She was bitter, and she scorned +him. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could have +Clara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give her +the same hymn-book he had given herself years before. She heard him +running quickly indoors. + +But he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass, he heard +his mother's voice, then Clara's answer: + +"What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam." + +"Yes," said his mother quickly, "yes; DOESN'T it make you hate her, +now!" + +His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about the +girl. What right had they to say that? Something in the speech itself +stung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heart +rebelled furiously at Clara's taking the liberty of speaking so about +Miriam. After all, the girl was the better woman of the two, he thought, +if it came to goodness. He went indoors. His mother looked excited. She +was beating with her hand rhythmically on the sofa-arm, as women do who +are wearing out. He could never bear to see the movement. There was a +silence; then he began to talk. + +In chapel Miriam saw him find the place in the hymn-book for Clara, in +exactly the same way as he used for herself. And during the sermon he +could see the girl across the chapel, her hat throwing a dark shadow +over her face. What did she think, seeing Clara with him? He did not +stop to consider. He felt himself cruel towards Miriam. + +After chapel he went over Pentrich with Clara. It was a dark autumn +night. They had said good-bye to Miriam, and his heart had smitten him +as he left the girl alone. "But it serves her right," he said inside +himself, and it almost gave him pleasure to go off under her eyes with +this other handsome woman. + +There was a scent of damp leaves in the darkness. Clara's hand lay warm +and inert in his own as they walked. He was full of conflict. The battle +that raged inside him made him feel desperate. + +Up Pentrich Hill Clara leaned against him as he went. He slid his arm +round her waist. Feeling the strong motion of her body under his arm as +she walked, the tightness in his chest because of Miriam relaxed, and +the hot blood bathed him. He held her closer and closer. + +Then: "You still keep on with Miriam," she said quietly. + +"Only talk. There never WAS a great deal more than talk between us," he +said bitterly. + +"Your mother doesn't care for her," said Clara. + +"No, or I might have married her. But it's all up really!" + +Suddenly his voice went passionate with hate. + +"If I was with her now, we should be jawing about the 'Christian +Mystery', or some such tack. Thank God, I'm not!" + +They walked on in silence for some time. + +"But you can't really give her up," said Clara. + +"I don't give her up, because there's nothing to give," he said. + +"There is for her." + +"I don't know why she and I shouldn't be friends as long as we live," he +said. "But it'll only be friends." + +Clara drew away from him, leaning away from contact with him. + +"What are you drawing away for?" he asked. + +She did not answer, but drew farther from him. + +"Why do you want to walk alone?" he asked. + +Still there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head. + +"Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!" he exclaimed. + +She would not answer him anything. + +"I tell you it's only words that go between us," he persisted, trying to +take her again. + +She resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring her +way. + +"Damn it!" he said. "What do you want now?" + +"You'd better run after Miriam," mocked Clara. + +The blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She drooped +sulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her in +his arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss of +rage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard and +relentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall of +his chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, and +kissed her. + +He heard people coming down the hill. + +"Stand up! stand up!" he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. If +he had let go, she would have sunk to the ground. + +She sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence. + +"We will go over the fields," he said; and then she woke up. + +But she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in silence +with him over the first dark field. It was the way to Nottingham and to +the station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. They came out on +a bare hilltop where stood the dark figure of the ruined windmill. There +he halted. They stood together high up in the darkness, looking at +the lights scattered on the night before them, handfuls of glittering +points, villages lying high and low on the dark, here and there. + +"Like treading among the stars," he said, with a quaky laugh. + +Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved aside her +mouth to ask, dogged and low: + +"What time is it?" + +"It doesn't matter," he pleaded thickly. + +"Yes it does--yes! I must go!" + +"It's early yet," he said. + +"What time is it?" she insisted. + +All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights. + +"I don't know." + +She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the joints +fuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he stood +panting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face of the +watch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till he +could take her in his arms again. + +"I can't see," she said. + +"Then don't bother." + +"Yes; I'm going!" she said, turning away. + +"Wait! I'll look!" But he could not see. "I'll strike a match." + +He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the +glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face lit +up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All was +black before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her feet. Where +was he? + +"What is it?" she asked, afraid. + +"You can't do it," his voice answered out of the darkness. + +There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring in his +voice. It frightened her. + +"What time is it?" she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless. + +"Two minutes to nine," he replied, telling the truth with a struggle. + +"And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?" + +"No. At any rate--" + +She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted +to escape. + +"But can't I do it?" she pleaded. + +"If you hurry," he said brusquely. "But you could easily walk it, Clara; +it's only seven miles to the tram. I'll come with you." + +"No; I want to catch the train." + +"But why?" + +"I do--I want to catch the train." + +Suddenly his voice altered. + +"Very well," he said, dry and hard. "Come along, then." + +And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, wanting to +cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the rough, dark +fields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row of +lights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly: + +"There she is!" he cried, breaking into a run. + +There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, like +a luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling +ceased. + +"She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it." + +Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The +whistle blew. He was gone. Gone!--and she was in a carriage full of +people. She felt the cruelty of it. + +He turned round and plunged home. Before he knew where he was he was +in the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark and +dangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him. + +"Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!" she said. + +He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother +wondered if he were drunk. + +"She caught the train then?" she said. + +"Yes." + +"I hope HER feet weren't so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her I +don't know!" + +He was silent and motionless for some time. + +"Did you like her?" he asked grudgingly at last. + +"Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you know you will." + +He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing. + +"Have you been running?" she asked. + +"We had to run for the train." + +"You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk." + +It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went to +bed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rage +and pain. There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips till +they bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost to +feel. + +"This is how she serves me, is it?" he said in his heart, over and over, +pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over the +scene, and again he hated her. + +The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara was very gentle, +almost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a touch of contempt. +She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round. + +One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royal in +Nottingham, giving "La Dame aux Camelias". Paul wanted to see this old +and famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told his +mother to leave the key in the window for him. + +"Shall I book seats?" he asked of Clara. + +"Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seen you in it." + +"But, good Lord, Clara! Think of ME in evening suit at the theatre!" he +remonstrated. + +"Would you rather not?" she asked. + +"I will if you WANT me to; but I s'll feel a fool." + +She laughed at him. + +"Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?" + +The request made his blood flush up. + +"I suppose I s'll have to." + +"What are you taking a suitcase for?" his mother asked. + +He blushed furiously. + +"Clara asked me," he said. + +"And what seats are you going in?" + +"Circle--three-and-six each!" + +"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed his mother sarcastically. + +"It's only once in the bluest of blue moons," he said. + +He dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met Clara in a +cafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old long +coat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrap over her head, which +he hated. The three went to the theatre together. + +Clara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was in a +sort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and part of her +breast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thing +of green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, he thought. He could +see her figure inside the frock, as if that were wrapped closely round +her. The firmness and the softness of her upright body could almost be +felt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists. + +And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm, +watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching the +breasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight +dress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this +torture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head and +stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she +yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could +not help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself. +A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were a wistful sphinx, made +it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched +down on the floor to get it, so that he could kiss her hand and wrist. +Her beauty was a torture to him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights +went down, she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and +arm with his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time +his blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his +consciousness momentarily. + +The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on somewhere; +he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara's +white heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be +himself. Then away somewhere the play went on, and he was identified +with that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara, +her bosom coming down on him, her arm that he held gripped between his +hands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless, +her towering in her force above him. + +Only the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expressibly. He +wanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark again. In a maze, +he wandered out for a drink. Then the lights were out, and the strange, +insane reality of Clara and the drama took hold of him again. + +The play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire to kiss the tiny +blue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel it. His +whole face seemed suspended till he had put his lips there. It must be +done. And the other people! At last he bent quickly forward and touched +it with his lips. His moustache brushed the sensitive flesh. Clara +shivered, drew away her arm. + +When all was over, the lights up, the people clapping, he came to +himself and looked at his watch. His train was gone. + +"I s'll have to walk home!" he said. + +Clara looked at him. + +"It is too late?" she asked. + +He nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat. + +"I love you! You look beautiful in that dress," he murmured over her +shoulder, among the throng of bustling people. + +She remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He saw the +cabs waiting, the people passing. It seemed he met a pair of brown +eyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and Clara turned away, +mechanically taking the direction to the station. + +The train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home. + +"It doesn't matter," he said. "I shall enjoy it." + +"Won't you," she said, flushing, "come home for the night? I can sleep +with mother." + +He looked at her. Their eyes met. + +"What will your mother say?" he asked. + +"She won't mind." + +"You're sure?" + +"Quite!" + +"SHALL I come?" + +"If you will." + +"Very well." + +And they turned away. At the first stopping-place they took the car. The +wind blew fresh in their faces. The town was dark; the tram tipped in +its haste. He sat with her hand fast in his. + +"Will your mother be gone to bed?" he asked. + +"She may be. I hope not." + +They hurried along the silent, dark little street, the only people out +of doors. Clara quickly entered the house. He hesitated. + +He leaped up the step and was in the room. Her mother appeared in the +inner doorway, large and hostile. + +"Who have you got there?" she asked. + +"It's Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we might put him up +for the night, and save him a ten-mile walk." + +"H'm," exclaimed Mrs. Radford. "That's your lookout! If you've invited +him, he's very welcome as far as I'm concerned. YOU keep the house!" + +"If you don't like me, I'll go away again," he said. + +"Nay, nay, you needn't! Come along in! I dunno what you'll think of the +supper I'd got her." + +It was a little dish of chip potatoes and a piece of bacon. The table +was roughly laid for one. + +"You can have some more bacon," continued Mrs. Radford. "More chips you +can't have." + +"It's a shame to bother you," he said. + +"Oh, don't you be apologetic! It doesn't DO wi' me! You treated her to +the theatre, didn't you?" There was a sarcasm in the last question. + +"Well?" laughed Paul uncomfortably. + +"Well, and what's an inch of bacon! Take your coat off." + +The big, straight-standing woman was trying to estimate the situation. +She moved about the cupboard. Clara took his coat. The room was very +warm and cosy in the lamplight. + +"My sirs!" exclaimed Mrs. Radford; "but you two's a pair of bright +beauties, I must say! What's all that get-up for?" + +"I believe we don't know," he said, feeling a victim. + +"There isn't room in THIS house for two such bobby-dazzlers, if you fly +your kites THAT high!" she rallied them. It was a nasty thrust. + +He in his dinner jacket, and Clara in her green dress and bare arms, +were confused. They felt they must shelter each other in that little +kitchen. + +"And look at THAT blossom!" continued Mrs. Radford, pointing to Clara. +"What does she reckon she did it for?" + +Paul looked at Clara. She was rosy; her neck was warm with blushes. +There was a moment of silence. + +"You like to see it, don't you?" he asked. + +The mother had them in her power. All the time his heart was beating +hard, and he was tight with anxiety. But he would fight her. + +"Me like to see it!" exclaimed the old woman. "What should I like to see +her make a fool of herself for?" + +"I've seen people look bigger fools," he said. Clara was under his +protection now. + +"Oh, ay! and when was that?" came the sarcastic rejoinder. + +"When they made frights of themselves," he answered. + +Mrs. Radford, large and threatening, stood suspended on the hearthrug, +holding her fork. + +"They're fools either road," she answered at length, turning to the +Dutch oven. + +"No," he said, fighting stoutly. "Folk ought to look as well as they +can." + +"And do you call THAT looking nice!" cried the mother, pointing a +scornful fork at Clara. "That--that looks as if it wasn't properly +dressed!" + +"I believe you're jealous that you can't swank as well," he said +laughing. + +"Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I'd wanted to!" +came the scornful answer. + +"And why didn't you want to?" he asked pertinently. "Or DID you wear +it?" + +There was a long pause. Mrs. Radford readjusted the bacon in the Dutch +oven. His heart beat fast, for fear he had offended her. + +"Me!" she exclaimed at last. "No, I didn't! And when I was in service, +I knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bare shoulders what sort +SHE was, going to her sixpenny hop!" + +"Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?" he said. + +Clara sat with bowed head. His eyes were dark and glittering. Mrs. +Radford took the Dutch oven from the fire, and stood near him, putting +bits of bacon on his plate. + +"THERE'S a nice crozzly bit!" she said. + +"Don't give me the best!" he said. + +"SHE'S got what SHE wants," was the answer. + +There was a sort of scornful forbearance in the woman's tone that made +Paul know she was mollified. + +"But DO have some!" he said to Clara. + +She looked up at him with her grey eyes, humiliated and lonely. + +"No thanks!" she said. + +"Why won't you?" he answered carelessly. + +The blood was beating up like fire in his veins. Mrs. Radford sat down +again, large and impressive and aloof. He left Clara altogether to +attend to the mother. + +"They say Sarah Bernhardt's fifty," he said. + +"Fifty! She's turned sixty!" came the scornful answer. + +"Well," he said, "you'd never think it! She made me want to howl even +now." + +"I should like to see myself howling at THAT bad old baggage!" said +Mrs. Radford. "It's time she began to think herself a grandmother, not a +shrieking catamaran--" + +He laughed. + +"A catamaran is a boat the Malays use," he said. + +"And it's a word as I use," she retorted. + +"My mother does sometimes, and it's no good my telling her," he said. + +"I s'd think she boxes your ears," said Mrs. Radford, good-humouredly. + +"She'd like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool to +stand on." + +"That's the worst of my mother," said Clara. "She never wants a stool +for anything." + +"But she often can't touch THAT lady with a long prop," retorted Mrs. +Radford to Paul. + +"I s'd think she doesn't want touching with a prop," he laughed. "I +shouldn't." + +"It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head with +one," said the mother, laughing suddenly. + +"Why are you so vindictive towards me?" he said. "I've not stolen +anything from you." + +"No; I'll watch that," laughed the older woman. + +Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her chair. Paul +lit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit, +which she spread on the fender to air. + +"Why, I'd forgot all about THEM!" said Mrs. Radford. "Where have they +sprung from?" + +"Out of my drawer." + +"H'm! You bought 'em for Baxter, an' he wouldn't wear 'em, would +he?"--laughing. "Said he reckoned to do wi'out trousers i' bed." She +turned confidentially to Paul, saying: "He couldn't BEAR 'em, them +pyjama things." + +The young man sat making rings of smoke. + +"Well, it's everyone to his taste," he laughed. + +Then followed a little discussion of the merits of pyjamas. + +"My mother loves me in them," he said. "She says I'm a pierrot." + +"I can imagine they'd suit you," said Mrs. Radford. + +After a while he glanced at the little clock that was ticking on the +mantelpiece. It was half-past twelve. + +"It is funny," he said, "but it takes hours to settle down to sleep +after the theatre." + +"It's about time you did," said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table. + +"Are YOU tired?" he asked of Clara. + +"Not the least bit," she answered, avoiding his eyes. + +"Shall we have a game at cribbage?" he said. + +"I've forgotten it." + +"Well, I'll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?" he asked. + +"You'll please yourselves," she said; "but it's pretty late." + +"A game or so will make us sleepy," he answered. + +Clara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-ring whilst he +shuffled them. Mrs. Radford was washing up in the scullery. As it grew +later Paul felt the situation getting more and more tense. + +"Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two's eight--!" + +The clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radford had done +all the little jobs preparatory to going to bed, had locked the door +and filled the kettle. Still Paul went on dealing and counting. He was +obsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He believed he could see where the +division was just beginning for her breasts. He could not leave her. She +watched his hands, and felt her joints melt as they moved quickly. She +was so near; it was almost as if he touched her, and yet not quite. His +mettle was roused. He hated Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly dropping +asleep, but determined and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her, +then at Clara. She met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard as +steel. Her own answered him in shame. He knew SHE, at any rate, was of +his mind. He played on. + +At last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiffly, and said: + +"Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?" + +Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiently to murder +her. + +"Half a minute," he said. + +The elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery, returning +with his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then she sat down +again. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, he dropped his +cards. + +"We'll stop, then," he said, but his voice was still a challenge. + +Clara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It seemed like +an agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing, to clear her throat. + +"Well, I'm glad you've finished," said Mrs. Radford. "Here, take your +things"--she thrust the warm suit in his hand--"and this is your candle. +Your room's over this; there's only two, so you can't go far wrong. +Well, good-night. I hope you'll rest well." + +"I'm sure I shall; I always do," he said. + +"Yes; and so you ought at your age," she replied. + +He bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting stairs of white, +scrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He went doggedly. The +two doors faced each other. He went in his room, pushed the door to, +without fastening the latch. + +It was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara's hair-pins were +on the dressing-table--her hair-brush. Her clothes and some skirts hung +under a cloth in a corner. There was actually a pair of stockings over +a chair. He explored the room. Two books of his own were there on the +shelf. He undressed, folded his suit, and sat on the bed, listening. +Then he blew out the candle, lay down, and in two minutes was almost +asleep. Then click!--he was wide awake and writhing in torment. It +was as if, when he had nearly got to sleep, something had bitten him +suddenly and sent him mad. He sat up and looked at the room in the +darkness, his feet doubled under him, perfectly motionless, listening. +He heard a cat somewhere away outside; then the heavy, poised tread of +the mother; then Clara's distinct voice: + +"Will you unfasten my dress?" + +There was silence for some time. At last the mother said: + +"Now then! aren't you coming up?" + +"No, not yet," replied the daughter calmly. + +"Oh, very well then! If it's not late enough, stop a bit longer. Only +you needn't come waking me up when I've got to sleep." + +"I shan't be long," said Clara. + +Immediately afterwards Paul heard the mother slowly mounting the stairs. +The candlelight flashed through the cracks in his door. Her dress +brushed the door, and his heart jumped. Then it was dark, and he +heard the clatter of her latch. She was very leisurely indeed in her +preparations for sleep. After a long time it was quite still. He sat +strung up on the bed, shivering slightly. His door was an inch open. +As Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He waited. All was dead +silence. The clock struck two. Then he heard a slight scrape of the +fender downstairs. Now he could not help himself. His shivering was +uncontrollable. He felt he must go or die. + +He stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then he went +straight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first stair +cracked like a shot. He listened. The old woman stirred in her bed. The +staircase was dark. There was a slit of light under the stair-foot +door, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. Then he went on, +mechanically. Every step creaked, and his back was creeping, lest the +old woman's door should open behind him up above. He fumbled with the +door at the bottom. The latch opened with a loud clack. He went through +into the kitchen, and shut the door noisily behind him. The old woman +daren't come now. + +Then he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of white +underclothing on the hearthrug, her back towards him, warming herself. +She did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, and her rounded +beautiful back was towards him, and her face was hidden. She was warming +her body at the fire for consolation. The glow was rosy on one side, the +shadow was dark and warm on the other. Her arms hung slack. + +He shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hard to keep +control. Then he went forward to her. He put one hand on her shoulder, +the fingers of the other hand under her chin to raise her face. A +convulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his touch. She kept +her head bent. + +"Sorry!" he murmured, realising that his hands were very cold. + +Then she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that is afraid of +death. + +"My hands are so cold," he murmured. + +"I like it," she whispered, closing her eyes. + +The breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms clasped his knees. +The cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and made her shiver. +As the warmth went into him, his shuddering became less. + +At length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and she buried +her head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowly with an +infinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him, trying to hide +herself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at last she looked +at him, mute, imploring, looking to see if she must be ashamed. + +His eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if her beauty +and his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked at her with a +little pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before her. She kissed him +fervently on the eyes, first one, then the other, and she folded herself +to him. She gave herself. He held her fast. It was a moment intense +almost to agony. + +She stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It healed +her hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It made her feel erect +and proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside her. She had been +cheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride again. It was her +restoration and her recognition. + +Then he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed to each other, +and he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off, the minutes +passed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together, mouth to mouth, +like a statue in one block. + +But again his fingers went seeking over her, restless, wandering, +dissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her head on +his shoulder. + +"Come you to my room," he murmured. + +She looked at him and shook her head, her mouth pouting disconsolately, +her eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly. + +"Yes!" he said. + +Again she shook her head. + +"Why not?" he asked. + +She looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again she shook her +head. His eyes hardened, and he gave way. + +When, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she had refused to +come to him openly, so that her mother would know. At any rate, then +things would have been definite. And she could have stayed with him the +night, without having to go, as she was, to her mother's bed. It was +strange, and he could not understand it. And then almost immediately he +fell asleep. + +He awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes, +he saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking down on him. She held a +cup of tea in her hand. + +"Do you think you're going to sleep till Doomsday?" she said. + +He laughed at once. + +"It ought only to be about five o'clock," he said. + +"Well," she answered, "it's half-past seven, whether or not. Here, I've +brought you a cup of tea." + +He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, and roused +himself. + +"What's it so late for!" he grumbled. + +He resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neck in the +flannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl's. He rubbed his +hair crossly. + +"It's no good your scratching your head," she said. "It won't make it no +earlier. Here, an' how long d'you think I'm going to stand waiting wi' +this here cup?" + +"Oh, dash the cup!" he said. + +"You should go to bed earlier," said the woman. + +He looked up at her, laughing with impudence. + +"I went to bed before YOU did," he said. + +"Yes, my Guyney, you did!" she exclaimed. + +"Fancy," he said, stirring his tea, "having tea brought to bed to me! My +mother'll think I'm ruined for life." + +"Don't she never do it?" asked Mrs. Radford. + +"She'd as leave think of flying." + +"Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That's why they've turned out such bad +uns," said the elderly woman. + +"You'd only Clara," he said. "And Mr. Radford's in heaven. So I suppose +there's only you left to be the bad un." + +"I'm not bad; I'm only soft," she said, as she went out of the bedroom. +"I'm only a fool, I am!" + +Clara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of air of +proprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radford was +evidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting. + +"What's the good," exclaimed the mother, "of your whittling and worrying +and twistin' and too-in' at that painting of yours? What GOOD does it do +you, I should like to know? You'd better be enjoyin' yourself." + +"Oh, but," exclaimed Paul, "I made over thirty guineas last year." + +"Did you! Well, that's a consideration, but it's nothing to the time you +put in." + +"And I've got four pounds owing. A man said he'd give me five pounds if +I'd paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went and +put the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy, so I had to +knock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn't like the dog. I made a +picture of it. What shall I do when he pays me the four pounds?" + +"Nay! you know your own uses for your money," said Mrs. Radford. + +"But I'm going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the seaside for +a day or two?" + +"Who?" + +"You and Clara and me." + +"What, on your money!" she exclaimed, half-wrathful. + +"Why not?" + +"YOU wouldn't be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!" she said. + +"So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?" + +"Nay; you may settle that atween you." + +"And you're willing?" he asked, amazed and rejoicing. + +"You'll do as you like," said Mrs. Radford, "whether I'm willing or +not." + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +BAXTER DAWES + +SOON after Paul had been to the theatre with Clara, he was drinking +in the Punch Bowl with some friends of his when Dawes came in. Clara's +husband was growing stout; his eyelids were getting slack over his brown +eyes; he was losing his healthy firmness of flesh. He was very evidently +on the downward track. Having quarrelled with his sister, he had gone +into cheap lodgings. His mistress had left him for a man who would marry +her. He had been in prison one night for fighting when he was drunk, and +there was a shady betting episode in which he was concerned. + +Paul and he were confirmed enemies, and yet there was between them that +peculiar feeling of intimacy, as if they were secretly near to each +other, which sometimes exists between two people, although they never +speak to one another. Paul often thought of Baxter Dawes, often wanted +to get at him and be friends with him. He knew that Dawes often thought +about him, and that the man was drawn to him by some bond or other. And +yet the two never looked at each other save in hostility. + +Since he was a superior employee at Jordan's, it was the thing for Paul +to offer Dawes a drink. + +"What'll you have?" he asked of him. + +"Nowt wi' a bleeder like you!" replied the man. + +Paul turned away with a slight disdainful movement of the shoulders, +very irritating. + +"The aristocracy," he continued, "is really a military institution. Take +Germany, now. She's got thousands of aristocrats whose only means of +existence is the army. They're deadly poor, and life's deadly slow. So +they hope for a war. They look for war as a chance of getting on. Till +there's a war they are idle good-for-nothings. When there's a war, they +are leaders and commanders. There you are, then--they WANT war!" + +He was not a favourite debater in the public-house, being too quick and +overbearing. He irritated the older men by his assertive manner, and +his cocksureness. They listened in silence, and were not sorry when he +finished. + +Dawes interrupted the young man's flow of eloquence by asking, in a loud +sneer: + +"Did you learn all that at th' theatre th' other night?" + +Paul looked at him; their eyes met. Then he knew Dawes had seen him +coming out of the theatre with Clara. + +"Why, what about th' theatre?" asked one of Paul's associates, glad to +get a dig at the young fellow, and sniffing something tasty. + +"Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!" sneered Dawes, +jerking his head contemptuously at Paul. + +"That's comin' it strong," said the mutual friend. "Tart an' all?" + +"Tart, begod!" said Dawes. + +"Go on; let's have it!" cried the mutual friend. + +"You've got it," said Dawes, "an' I reckon Morelly had it an' all." + +"Well, I'll be jiggered!" said the mutual friend. "An' was it a proper +tart?" + +"Tart, God blimey--yes!" + +"How do you know?" + +"Oh," said Dawes, "I reckon he spent th' night--" + +There was a good deal of laughter at Paul's expense. + +"But who WAS she? D'you know her?" asked the mutual friend. + +"I should SHAY SHO," said Dawes. + +This brought another burst of laughter. + +"Then spit it out," said the mutual friend. + +Dawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer. + +"It's a wonder he hasn't let on himself," he said. "He'll be braggin' of +it in a bit." + +"Come on, Paul," said the friend; "it's no good. You might just as well +own up." + +"Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?" + +"Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad," said the +friend. + +"She WAS all right," said Dawes. + +Paul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his fingers, +sneering. + +"Strike me--! One o' that sort?" said the mutual friend. "Paul, boy, I'm +surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?" + +"Just a bit, like!" + +He winked at the other men. + +"Oh well," said Paul, "I'll be going!" + +The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. + +"Nay," he said, "you don't get off as easy as that, my lad. We've got to +have a full account of this business." + +"Then get it from Dawes!" he said. + +"You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man," remonstrated the friend. + +Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer +in his face. + +"Oh, Mr. Morel!" cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the +"chucker-out". + +Dawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a brawny +fellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over his +haunches intervened. + +"Now, then!" he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes. + +"Come out!" cried Dawes. + +Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of the +bar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at that +minute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man's forehead, +he thought he looked pathetic. He did not move. + +"Come out, you--," said Dawes. + +"That's enough, Dawes," cried the barmaid. + +"Come on," said the "chucker-out", with kindly insistence, "you'd better +be getting on." + +And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he worked +him to the door. + +"THAT'S the little sod as started it!" cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointing +to Paul Morel. + +"Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes!" said the barmaid. "You know it was you +all the time." + +Still the "chucker-out" kept thrusting his chest forward at him, still +he kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the steps +outside; then he turned round. + +"All right," he said, nodding straight at his rival. + +Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled with +violent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there was silence +in the bar. + +"Serve, him, jolly well right!" said the barmaid. + +"But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes," said the +mutual friend. + +"I tell you I was glad he did," said the barmaid. "Will you have +another, Mr. Morel?" + +She held up Paul's glass questioningly. He nodded. + +"He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes," said one. + +"Pooh! is he?" said the barmaid. "He's a loud-mouthed one, he is, and +they're never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken chap, if you want a +devil!" + +"Well, Paul, my lad," said the friend, "you'll have to take care of +yourself now for a while." + +"You won't have to give him a chance over you, that's all," said the +barmaid. + +"Can you box?" asked a friend. + +"Not a bit," he answered, still very white. + +"I might give you a turn or two," said the friend. + +"Thanks, I haven't time." + +And presently he took his departure. + +"Go along with him, Mr. Jenkinson," whispered the barmaid, tipping Mr. +Jenkinson the wink. + +The man nodded, took his hat, said: "Good-night all!" very heartily, and +followed Paul, calling: + +"Half a minute, old man. You an' me's going the same road, I believe." + +"Mr. Morel doesn't like it," said the barmaid. "You'll see, we shan't +have him in much more. I'm sorry; he's good company. And Baxter Dawes +wants locking up, that's what he wants." + +Paul would have died rather than his mother should get to know of this +affair. He suffered tortures of humiliation and self-consciousness. +There was now a good deal of his life of which necessarily he could not +speak to his mother. He had a life apart from her--his sexual life. The +rest she still kept. But he felt he had to conceal something from her, +and it irked him. There was a certain silence between them, and he +felt he had, in that silence, to defend himself against her; he felt +condemned by her. Then sometimes he hated her, and pulled at her +bondage. His life wanted to free itself of her. It was like a circle +where life turned back on itself, and got no farther. She bore him, +loved him, kept him, and his love turned back into her, so that he could +not be free to go forward with his own life, really love another woman. +At this period, unknowingly, he resisted his mother's influence. He did +not tell her things; there was a distance between them. + +Clara was happy, almost sure of him. She felt she had at last got him +for herself; and then again came the uncertainty. He told her jestingly +of the affair with her husband. Her colour came up, her grey eyes +flashed. + +"That's him to a 'T'," she cried--"like a navvy! He's not fit for mixing +with decent folk." + +"Yet you married him," he said. + +It made her furious that he reminded her. + +"I did!" she cried. "But how was I to know?" + +"I think he might have been rather nice," he said. + +"You think I made him what he is!" she exclaimed. + +"Oh no! he made himself. But there's something about him--" + +Clara looked at her lover closely. There was something in him she hated, +a sort of detached criticism of herself, a coldness which made her +woman's soul harden against him. + +"And what are you going to do?" she asked. + +"How?" + +"About Baxter." + +"There's nothing to do, is there?" he replied. + +"You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?" she said. + +"No; I haven't the least sense of the 'fist'. It's funny. With most men +there's the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It's not so with me. I +should want a knife or a pistol or something to fight with." + +"Then you'd better carry something," she said. + +"Nay," he laughed; "I'm not daggeroso." + +"But he'll do something to you. You don't know him." + +"All right," he said, "we'll see." + +"And you'll let him?" + +"Perhaps, if I can't help it." + +"And if he kills you?" she said. + +"I should be sorry, for his sake and mine." + +Clara was silent for a moment. + +"You DO make me angry!" she exclaimed. + +"That's nothing afresh," he laughed. + +"But why are you so silly? You don't know him." + +"And don't want." + +"Yes, but you're not going to let a man do as he likes with you?" + +"What must I do?" he replied, laughing. + +"I should carry a revolver," she said. "I'm sure he's dangerous." + +"I might blow my fingers off," he said. + +"No; but won't you?" she pleaded. + +"No." + +"Not anything?" + +"No." + +"And you'll leave him to--?" + +"Yes." + +"You are a fool!" + +"Fact!" + +She set her teeth with anger. + +"I could SHAKE you!" she cried, trembling with passion. + +"Why?" + +"Let a man like HIM do as he likes with you." + +"You can go back to him if he triumphs," he said. + +"Do you want me to hate you?" she asked. + +"Well, I only tell you," he said. + +"And YOU say you LOVE me!" she exclaimed, low and indignant. + +"Ought I to slay him to please you?" he said. "But if I did, see what a +hold he'd have over me." + +"Do you think I'm a fool!" she exclaimed. + +"Not at all. But you don't understand me, my dear." + +There was a pause between them. + +"But you ought NOT to expose yourself," she pleaded. + +He shrugged his shoulders. + + "'The man in righteousness arrayed, + The pure and blameless liver, + Needs not the keen Toledo blade, + Nor venom-freighted quiver,'" + +he quoted. + +She looked at him searchingly. + +"I wish I could understand you," she said. + +"There's simply nothing to understand," he laughed. + +She bowed her head, brooding. + +He did not see Dawes for several days; then one morning as he ran +upstairs from the Spiral room he almost collided with the burly +metal-worker. + +"What the--!" cried the smith. + +"Sorry!" said Paul, and passed on. + +"SORRY!" sneered Dawes. + +Paul whistled lightly, "Put Me among the Girls". + +"I'll stop your whistle, my jockey!" he said. + +The other took no notice. + +"You're goin' to answer for that job of the other night." + +Paul went to his desk in his corner, and turned over the leaves of the +ledger. + +"Go and tell Fanny I want order 097, quick!" he said to his boy. + +Dawes stood in the doorway, tall and threatening, looking at the top of +the young man's head. + +"Six and five's eleven and seven's one-and-six," Paul added aloud. + +"An' you hear, do you!" said Dawes. + +"FIVE AND NINEPENCE!" He wrote a figure. "What's that?" he said. + +"I'm going to show you what it is," said the smith. + +The other went on adding the figures aloud. + +"Yer crawlin' little--, yer daresn't face me proper!" + +Paul quickly snatched the heavy ruler. Dawes started. The young man +ruled some lines in his ledger. The elder man was infuriated. + +"But wait till I light on you, no matter where it is, I'll settle your +hash for a bit, yer little swine!" + +"All right," said Paul. + +At that the smith started heavily from the doorway. Just then a whistle +piped shrilly. Paul went to the speaking-tube. + +"Yes!" he said, and he listened. "Er--yes!" He listened, then he +laughed. "I'll come down directly. I've got a visitor just now." + +Dawes knew from his tone that he had been speaking to Clara. He stepped +forward. + +"Yer little devil!" he said. "I'll visitor you, inside of two minutes! +Think I'm goin' to have YOU whipperty-snappin' round?" + +The other clerks in the warehouse looked up. Paul's office-boy appeared, +holding some white article. + +"Fanny says you could have had it last night if you'd let her know," he +said. + +"All right," answered Paul, looking at the stocking. "Get it off." Dawes +stood frustrated, helpless with rage. Morel turned round. + +"Excuse me a minute," he said to Dawes, and he would have run +downstairs. + +"By God, I'll stop your gallop!" shouted the smith, seizing him by the +arm. He turned quickly. + +"Hey! Hey!" cried the office-boy, alarmed. + +Thomas Jordan started out of his little glass office, and came running +down the room. + +"What's a-matter, what's a-matter?" he said, in his old man's sharp +voice. + +"I'm just goin' ter settle this little--, that's all," said Dawes +desperately. + +"What do you mean?" snapped Thomas Jordan. + +"What I say," said Dawes, but he hung fire. + +Morel was leaning against the counter, ashamed, half-grinning. + +"What's it all about?" snapped Thomas Jordan. + +"Couldn't say," said Paul, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. + +"Couldn't yer, couldn't yer!" cried Dawes, thrusting forward his +handsome, furious face, and squaring his fist. + +"Have you finished?" cried the old man, strutting. "Get off about your +business, and don't come here tipsy in the morning." + +Dawes turned his big frame slowly upon him. + +"Tipsy!" he said. "Who's tipsy? I'm no more tipsy than YOU are!" + +"We've heard that song before," snapped the old man. "Now you get off, +and don't be long about it. Comin' HERE with your rowdying." + +The smith looked down contemptuously on his employer. His hands, large, +and grimy, and yet well shaped for his labour, worked restlessly. Paul +remembered they were the hands of Clara's husband, and a flash of hate +went through him. + +"Get out before you're turned out!" snapped Thomas Jordan. + +"Why, who'll turn me out?" said Dawes, beginning to sneer. + +Mr. Jordan started, marched up to the smith, waving him off, thrusting +his stout little figure at the man, saying: + +"Get off my premises--get off!" + +He seized and twitched Dawes's arm. + +"Come off!" said the smith, and with a jerk of the elbow he sent the +little manufacturer staggering backwards. + +Before anyone could help him, Thomas Jordan had collided with the flimsy +spring-door. It had given way, and let him crash down the half-dozen +steps into Fanny's room. There was a second of amazement; then men and +girls were running. Dawes stood a moment looking bitterly on the scene, +then he took his departure. + +Thomas Jordan was shaken and braised, not otherwise hurt. He was, +however, beside himself with rage. He dismissed Dawes from his +employment, and summoned him for assault. + +At the trial Paul Morel had to give evidence. Asked how the trouble +began, he said: + +"Dawes took occasion to insult Mrs. Dawes and me because I accompanied +her to the theatre one evening; then I threw some beer at him, and he +wanted his revenge." + +"_Cherchez la femme!_" smiled the magistrate. + +The case was dismissed after the magistrate had told Dawes he thought +him a skunk. + +"You gave the case away," snapped Mr. Jordan to Paul. + +"I don't think I did," replied the latter. "Besides, you didn't really +want a conviction, did you?" + +"What do you think I took the case up for?" + +"Well," said Paul, "I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing." Clara was also +very angry. + +"Why need MY name have been dragged in?" she said. + +"Better speak it openly than leave it to be whispered." + +"There was no need for anything at all," she declared. + +"We are none the poorer," he said indifferently. + +"YOU may not be," she said. + +"And you?" he asked. + +"I need never have been mentioned." + +"I'm sorry," he said; but he did not sound sorry. + +He told himself easily: "She will come round." And she did. + +He told his mother about the fall of Mr. Jordan and the trial of Dawes. +Mrs. Morel watched him closely. + +"And what do you think of it all?" she asked him. + +"I think he's a fool," he said. + +But he was very uncomfortable, nevertheless. + +"Have you ever considered where it will end?" his mother said. + +"No," he answered; "things work out of themselves." + +"They do, in a way one doesn't like, as a rule," said his mother. + +"And then one has to put up with them," he said. + +"You'll find you're not as good at 'putting up' as you imagine," she +said. + +He went on working rapidly at his design. + +"Do you ever ask HER opinion?" she said at length. + +"What of?" + +"Of you, and the whole thing." + +"I don't care what her opinion of me is. She's fearfully in love with +me, but it's not very deep." + +"But quite as deep as your feeling for her." + +He looked up at his mother curiously. + +"Yes," he said. "You know, mother, I think there must be something the +matter with me, that I CAN'T love. When she's there, as a rule, I DO +love her. Sometimes, when I see her just as THE WOMAN, I love her, +mother; but then, when she talks and criticises, I often don't listen to +her." + +"Yet she's as much sense as Miriam." + +"Perhaps; and I love her better than Miriam. But WHY don't they hold +me?" + +The last question was almost a lamentation. His mother turned away her +face, sat looking across the room, very quiet, grave, with something of +renunciation. + +"But you wouldn't want to marry Clara?" she said. + +"No; at first perhaps I would. But why--why don't I want to marry her or +anybody? I feel sometimes as if I wronged my women, mother." + +"How wronged them, my son?" + +"I don't know." + +He went on painting rather despairingly; he had touched the quick of the +trouble. + +"And as for wanting to marry," said his mother, "there's plenty of time +yet." + +"But no, mother. I even love Clara, and I did Miriam; but to GIVE myself +to them in marriage I couldn't. I couldn't belong to them. They seem to +want ME, and I can't ever give it them." + +"You haven't met the right woman." + +"And I never shall meet the right woman while you live," he said. + +She was very quiet. Now she began to feel again tired, as if she were +done. + +"We'll see, my son," she answered. + +The feeling that things were going in a circle made him mad. + +Clara was, indeed, passionately in love with him, and he with her, as +far as passion went. In the daytime he forgot her a good deal. She was +working in the same building, but he was not aware of it. He was busy, +and her existence was of no matter to him. But all the time she was in +her Spiral room she had a sense that he was upstairs, a physical sense +of his person in the same building. Every second she expected him to +come through the door, and when he came it was a shock to her. But he +was often short and offhand with her. He gave her his directions in an +official manner, keeping her at bay. With what wits she had left she +listened to him. She dared not misunderstand or fail to remember, but +it was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactly +how his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touch +it. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice giving orders about +the work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivial +coating of business which covered him with hardness, get at the man +again; but she was afraid, and before she could feel one touch of his +warmth he was gone, and she ached again. + +He knew that she was dreary every evening she did not see him, so he +gave her a good deal of his time. The days were often a misery to her, +but the evenings and the nights were usually a bliss to them both. Then +they were silent. For hours they sat together, or walked together in the +dark, and talked only a few, almost meaningless words. But he had her +hand in his, and her bosom left its warmth in his chest, making him feel +whole. + +One evening they were walking down by the canal, and something was +troubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the time he whistled +softly and persistently to himself. She listened, feeling she could +learn more from his whistling than from his speech. It was a sad +dissatisfied tune--a tune that made her feel he would not stay with her. +She walked on in silence. When they came to the swing bridge he sat down +on the great pole, looking at the stars in the water. He was a long way +from her. She had been thinking. + +"Will you always stay at Jordan's?" she asked. + +"No," he answered without reflecting. "No; I s'll leave Nottingham and +go abroad--soon." + +"Go abroad! What for?" + +"I dunno! I feel restless." + +"But what shall you do?" + +"I shall have to get some steady designing work, and some sort of sale +for my pictures first," he said. "I am gradually making my way. I know I +am." + +"And when do you think you'll go?" + +"I don't know. I shall hardly go for long, while there's my mother." + +"You couldn't leave her?" + +"Not for long." + +She looked at the stars in the black water. They lay very white and +staring. It was an agony to know he would leave her, but it was almost +an agony to have him near her. + +"And if you made a nice lot of money, what would you do?" she asked. + +"Go somewhere in a pretty house near London with my mother." + +"I see." + +There was a long pause. + +"I could still come and see you," he said. "I don't know. Don't ask me +what I should do; I don't know." + +There was a silence. The stars shuddered and broke upon the water. There +came a breath of wind. He went suddenly to her, and put his hand on her +shoulder. + +"Don't ask me anything about the future," he said miserably. "I don't +know anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter what it is?" + +And she took him in her arms. After all, she was a married woman, and +she had no right even to what he gave her. He needed her badly. She had +him in her arms, and he was miserable. With her warmth she folded +him over, consoled him, loved him. She would let the moment stand for +itself. + +After a moment he lifted his head as if he wanted to speak. + +"Clara," he said, struggling. + +She caught him passionately to her, pressed his head down on her breast +with her hand. She could not bear the suffering in his voice. She was +afraid in her soul. He might have anything of her--anything; but she did +not want to KNOW. She felt she could not bear it. She wanted him to be +soothed upon her--soothed. She stood clasping him and caressing him, and +he was something unknown to her--something almost uncanny. She wanted to +soothe him into forgetfulness. + +And soon the struggle went down in his soul, and he forgot. But then +Clara was not there for him, only a woman, warm, something he loved +and almost worshipped, there in the dark. But it was not Clara, and she +submitted to him. The naked hunger and inevitability of his loving her, +something strong and blind and ruthless in its primitiveness, made the +hour almost terrible to her. She knew how stark and alone he was, and +she felt it was great that he came to her; and she took him simply +because his need was bigger either than her or him, and her soul was +still within her. She did this for him in his need, even if he left her, +for she loved him. + +All the while the peewits were screaming in the field. When he came to, +he wondered what was near his eyes, curving and strong with life in the +dark, and what voice it was speaking. Then he realised it was the grass, +and the peewit was calling. The warmth was Clara's breathing heaving. +He lifted his head, and looked into her eyes. They were dark and shining +and strange, life wild at the source staring into his life, stranger to +him, yet meeting him; and he put his face down on her throat, afraid. +What was she? A strong, strange, wild life, that breathed with his +in the darkness through this hour. It was all so much bigger than +themselves that he was hushed. They had met, and included in their +meeting the thrust of the manifold grass stems, the cry of the peewit, +the wheel of the stars. + +When they stood up they saw other lovers stealing down the opposite +hedge. It seemed natural they were there; the night contained them. + +And after such an evening they both were very still, having known +the immensity of passion. They felt small, half-afraid, childish and +wondering, like Adam and Eve when they lost their innocence and realised +the magnificence of the power which drove them out of Paradise and +across the great night and the great day of humanity. It was for each of +them an initiation and a satisfaction. To know their own nothingness, +to know the tremendous living flood which carried them always, gave them +rest within themselves. If so great a magnificent power could overwhelm +them, identify them altogether with itself, so that they knew they were +only grains in the tremendous heave that lifted every grass blade its +little height, and every tree, and living thing, then why fret about +themselves? They could let themselves be carried by life, and they felt +a sort of peace each in the other. There was a verification which they +had had together. Nothing could nullify it, nothing could take it away; +it was almost their belief in life. + +But Clara was not satisfied. Something great was there, she knew; +something great enveloped her. But it did not keep her. In the morning +it was not the same. They had KNOWN, but she could not keep the moment. +She wanted it again; she wanted something permanent. She had not +realised fully. She thought it was he whom she wanted. He was not safe +to her. This that had been between them might never be again; he might +leave her. She had not got him; she was not satisfied. She had been +there, but she had not gripped the--the something--she knew not +what--which she was mad to have. + +In the morning he had considerable peace, and was happy in himself. It +seemed almost as if he had known the baptism of fire in passion, and it +left him at rest. But it was not Clara. It was something that happened +because of her, but it was not her. They were scarcely any nearer each +other. It was as if they had been blind agents of a great force. + +When she saw him that day at the factory her heart melted like a drop of +fire. It was his body, his brows. The drop of fire grew more intense +in her breast; she must hold him. But he, very quiet, very subdued this +morning, went on giving his instruction. She followed him into the +dark, ugly basement, and lifted her arms to him. He kissed her, and the +intensity of passion began to burn him again. Somebody was at the door. +He ran upstairs; she returned to her room, moving as if in a trance. + +After that the fire slowly went down. He felt more and more that his +experience had been impersonal, and not Clara. He loved her. There was +a big tenderness, as after a strong emotion they had known together; but +it was not she who could keep his soul steady. He had wanted her to be +something she could not be. + +And she was mad with desire of him. She could not see him without +touching him. In the factory, as he talked to her about Spiral hose, +she ran her hand secretly along his side. She followed him out into the +basement for a quick kiss; her eyes, always mute and yearning, full of +unrestrained passion, she kept fixed on his. He was afraid of her, lest +she should too flagrantly give herself away before the other girls. She +invariably waited for him at dinnertime for him to embrace her before +she went. He felt as if she were helpless, almost a burden to him, and +it irritated him. + +"But what do you always want to be kissing and embracing for?" he said. +"Surely there's a time for everything." + +She looked up at him, and the hate came into her eyes. + +"DO I always want to be kissing you?" she said. + +"Always, even if I come to ask you about the work. I don't want anything +to do with love when I'm at work. Work's work--" + +"And what is love?" she asked. "Has it to have special hours?" + +"Yes; out of work hours." + +"And you'll regulate it according to Mr. Jordan's closing time?" + +"Yes; and according to the freedom from business of any sort." + +"It is only to exist in spare time?" + +"That's all, and not always then--not the kissing sort of love." + +"And that's all you think of it?" + +"It's quite enough." + +"I'm glad you think so." + +And she was cold to him for some time--she hated him; and while she was +cold and contemptuous, he was uneasy till she had forgiven him again. +But when they started afresh they were not any nearer. He kept her +because he never satisfied her. + +In the spring they went together to the seaside. They had rooms at +a little cottage near Theddlethorpe, and lived as man and wife. Mrs. +Radford sometimes went with them. + +It was known in Nottingham that Paul Morel and Mrs. Dawes were going +together, but as nothing was very obvious, and Clara always a solitary +person, and he seemed so simple and innocent, it did not make much +difference. + +He loved the Lincolnshire coast, and she loved the sea. In the early +morning they often went out together to bathe. The grey of the dawn, +the far, desolate reaches of the fenland smitten with winter, the +sea-meadows rank with herbage, were stark enough to rejoice his soul. +As they stepped on to the highroad from their plank bridge, and looked +round at the endless monotony of levels, the land a little darker than +the sky, the sea sounding small beyond the sandhills, his heart filled +strong with the sweeping relentlessness of life. She loved him then. He +was solitary and strong, and his eyes had a beautiful light. + +They shuddered with cold; then he raced her down the road to the green +turf bridge. She could run well. Her colour soon came, her throat was +bare, her eyes shone. He loved her for being so luxuriously heavy, and +yet so quick. Himself was light; she went with a beautiful rush. They +grew warm, and walked hand in hand. + +A flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way down the west, sank +into insignificance. On the shadowy land things began to take life, +plants with great leaves became distinct. They came through a pass in +the big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long waste of foreshore lay +moaning under the dawn and the sea; the ocean was a flat dark strip with +a white edge. Over the gloomy sea the sky grew red. Quickly the fire +spread among the clouds and scattered them. Crimson burned to orange, +orange to dull gold, and in a golden glitter the sun came up, dribbling +fierily over the waves in little splashes, as if someone had gone along +and the light had spilled from her pail as she walked. + +The breakers ran down the shore in long, hoarse strokes. Tiny seagulls, +like specks of spray, wheeled above the line of surf. Their crying +seemed larger than they. Far away the coast reached out, and melted into +the morning, the tussocky sandhills seemed to sink to a level with the +beach. Mablethorpe was tiny on their right. They had alone the space of +all this level shore, the sea, and the upcoming sun, the faint noise of +the waters, the sharp crying of the gulls. + +They had a warm hollow in the sandhills where the wind did not come. He +stood looking out to sea. + +"It's very fine," he said. + +"Now don't get sentimental," she said. + +It irritated her to see him standing gazing at the sea, like a solitary +and poetic person. He laughed. She quickly undressed. + +"There are some fine waves this morning," she said triumphantly. + +She was a better swimmer than he; he stood idly watching her. + +"Aren't you coming?" she said. + +"In a minute," he answered. + +She was white and velvet skinned, with heavy shoulders. A little wind, +coming from the sea, blew across her body and ruffled her hair. + +The morning was of a lovely limpid gold colour. Veils of shadow seemed +to be drifting away on the north and the south. Clara stood shrinking +slightly from the touch of the wind, twisting her hair. The sea-grass +rose behind the white stripped woman. She glanced at the sea, then +looked at him. He was watching her with dark eyes which she loved and +could not understand. She hugged her breasts between her arms, cringing, +laughing: + +"Oo, it will be so cold!" she said. + +He bent forward and kissed her, held her suddenly close, and kissed her +again. She stood waiting. He looked into her eyes, then away at the pale +sands. + +"Go, then!" he said quietly. + +She flung her arms round his neck, drew him against her, kissed him +passionately, and went, saying: + +"But you'll come in?" + +"In a minute." + +She went plodding heavily over the sand that was soft as velvet. He, +on the sandhills, watched the great pale coast envelop her. She grew +smaller, lost proportion, seemed only like a large white bird toiling +forward. + +"Not much more than a big white pebble on the beach, not much more +than a clot of foam being blown and rolled over the sand," he said to +himself. + +She seemed to move very slowly across the vast sounding shore. As he +watched, he lost her. She was dazzled out of sight by the sunshine. +Again he saw her, the merest white speck moving against the white, +muttering sea-edge. + +"Look how little she is!" he said to himself. "She's lost like a grain +of sand in the beach--just a concentrated speck blown along, a tiny +white foam-bubble, almost nothing among the morning. Why does she absorb +me?" + +The morning was altogether uninterrupted: she was gone in the water. Far +and wide the beach, the sandhills with their blue marrain, the shining +water, glowed together in immense, unbroken solitude. + +"What is she, after all?" he said to himself. "Here's the seacoast +morning, big and permanent and beautiful; there is she, fretting, always +unsatisfied, and temporary as a bubble of foam. What does she mean +to me, after all? She represents something, like a bubble of foam +represents the sea. But what is she? It's not her I care for." + +Then, startled by his own unconscious thoughts, that seemed to speak so +distinctly that all the morning could hear, he undressed and ran quickly +down the sands. She was watching for him. Her arm flashed up to him, she +heaved on a wave, subsided, her shoulders in a pool of liquid silver. +He jumped through the breakers, and in a moment her hand was on his +shoulder. + +He was a poor swimmer, and could not stay long in the water. She played +round him in triumph, sporting with her superiority, which he begrudged +her. The sunshine stood deep and fine on the water. They laughed in the +sea for a minute or two, then raced each other back to the sandhills. + +When they were drying themselves, panting heavily, he watched her +laughing, breathless face, her bright shoulders, her breasts that swayed +and made him frightened as she rubbed them, and he thought again: + +"But she is magnificent, and even bigger than the morning and the sea. +Is she--? Is she--" + +She, seeing his dark eyes fixed on her, broke off from her drying with a +laugh. + +"What are you looking at?" she said. + +"You," he answered, laughing. + +Her eyes met his, and in a moment he was kissing her white +"goose-fleshed" shoulder, and thinking: + +"What is she? What is she?" + +She loved him in the morning. There was something detached, hard, and +elemental about his kisses then, as if he were only conscious of his own +will, not in the least of her and her wanting him. + +Later in the day he went out sketching. + +"You," he said to her, "go with your mother to Sutton. I am so dull." + +She stood and looked at him. He knew she wanted to come with him, but he +preferred to be alone. She made him feel imprisoned when she was there, +as if he could not get a free deep breath, as if there were something on +top of him. She felt his desire to be free of her. + +In the evening he came back to her. They walked down the shore in the +darkness, then sat for a while in the shelter of the sandhills. + +"It seems," she said, as they stared over the darkness of the sea, where +no light was to be seen--"it seemed as if you only loved me at night--as +if you didn't love me in the daytime." + +He ran the cold sand through his fingers, feeling guilty under the +accusation. + +"The night is free to you," he replied. "In the daytime I want to be by +myself." + +"But why?" she said. "Why, even now, when we are on this short holiday?" + +"I don't know. Love-making stifles me in the daytime." + +"But it needn't be always love-making," she said. + +"It always is," he answered, "when you and I are together." + +She sat feeling very bitter. + +"Do you ever want to marry me?" he asked curiously. + +"Do you me?" she replied. + +"Yes, yes; I should like us to have children," he answered slowly. + +She sat with her head bent, fingering the sand. + +"But you don't really want a divorce from Baxter, do you?" he said. + +It was some minutes before she replied. + +"No," she said, very deliberately; "I don't think I do." + +"Why?" + +"I don't know." + +"Do you feel as if you belonged to him?" + +"No; I don't think so." + +"What, then?" + +"I think he belongs to me," she replied. + +He was silent for some minutes, listening to the wind blowing over the +hoarse, dark sea. + +"And you never really intended to belong to ME?" he said. + +"Yes, I do belong to you," she answered. + +"No," he said; "because you don't want to be divorced." + +It was a knot they could not untie, so they left it, took what they +could get, and what they could not attain they ignored. + +"I consider you treated Baxter rottenly," he said another time. + +He half-expected Clara to answer him, as his mother would: "You consider +your own affairs, and don't know so much about other people's." But she +took him seriously, almost to his own surprise. + +"Why?" she said. + +"I suppose you thought he was a lily of the valley, and so you put him +in an appropriate pot, and tended him according. You made up your mind +he was a lily of the valley and it was no good his being a cow-parsnip. +You wouldn't have it." + +"I certainly never imagined him a lily of the valley." + +"You imagined him something he wasn't. That's just what a woman is. She +thinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's going to see he gets +it; and no matter if he's starving, he may sit and whistle for what he +needs, while she's got him, and is giving him what's good for him." + +"And what are you doing?" she asked. + +"I'm thinking what tune I shall whistle," he laughed. + +And instead of boxing his ears, she considered him in earnest. + +"You think I want to give you what's good for you?" she asked. + +"I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom, not of prison. +Miriam made me feel tied up like a donkey to a stake. I must feed on her +patch, and nowhere else. It's sickening!" + +"And would YOU let a WOMAN do as she likes?" + +"Yes; I'll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn't--well, I don't +hold her." + +"If you were as wonderful as you say--," replied Clara. + +"I should be the marvel I am," he laughed. + +There was a silence in which they hated each other, though they laughed. + +"Love's a dog in a manger," he said. + +"And which of us is the dog?" she asked. + +"Oh well, you, of course." + +So there went on a battle between them. She knew she never fully had +him. Some part, big and vital in him, she had no hold over; nor did she +ever try to get it, or even to realise what it was. And he knew in some +way that she held herself still as Mrs. Dawes. She did not love Dawes, +never had loved him; but she believed he loved her, at least depended on +her. She felt a certain surety about him that she never felt with Paul +Morel. Her passion for the young man had filled her soul, given her +a certain satisfaction, eased her of her self-mistrust, her doubt. +Whatever else she was, she was inwardly assured. It was almost as if +she had gained HERSELF, and stood now distinct and complete. She had +received her confirmation; but she never believed that her life belonged +to Paul Morel, nor his to her. They would separate in the end, and the +rest of her life would be an ache after him. But at any rate, she knew +now, she was sure of herself. And the same could almost be said of him. +Together they had received the baptism of life, each through the other; +but now their missions were separate. Where he wanted to go she could +not come with him. They would have to part sooner or later. Even if they +married, and were faithful to each other, still he would have to leave +her, go on alone, and she would only have to attend to him when he came +home. But it was not possible. Each wanted a mate to go side by side +with. + +Clara had gone to live with her mother upon Mapperley Plains. One +evening, as Paul and she were walking along Woodborough Road, they met +Dawes. Morel knew something about the bearing of the man approaching, +but he was absorbed in his thinking at the moment, so that only his +artist's eye watched the form of the stranger. Then he suddenly turned +to Clara with a laugh, and put his hand on her shoulder, saying, +laughing: + +"But we walk side by side, and yet I'm in London arguing with an +imaginary Orpen; and where are you?" + +At that instant Dawes passed, almost touching Morel. The young man +glanced, saw the dark brown eyes burning, full of hate and yet tired. + +"Who was that?" he asked of Clara. + +"It was Baxter," she replied. + +Paul took his hand from her shoulder and glanced round; then he saw +again distinctly the man's form as it approached him. Dawes still walked +erect, with his fine shoulders flung back, and his face lifted; but +there was a furtive look in his eyes that gave one the impression he was +trying to get unnoticed past every person he met, glancing suspiciously +to see what they thought of him. And his hands seemed to be wanting to +hide. He wore old clothes, the trousers were torn at the knee, and the +handkerchief tied round his throat was dirty; but his cap was still +defiantly over one eye. As she saw him, Clara felt guilty. There was +a tiredness and despair on his face that made her hate him, because it +hurt her. + +"He looks shady," said Paul. + +But the note of pity in his voice reproached her, and made her feel +hard. + +"His true commonness comes out," she answered. + +"Do you hate him?" he asked. + +"You talk," she said, "about the cruelty of women; I wish you knew the +cruelty of men in their brute force. They simply don't know that the +woman exists." + +"Don't I?" he said. + +"No," she answered. + +"Don't I know you exist?" + +"About ME you know nothing," she said bitterly--"about ME!" + +"No more than Baxter knew?" he asked. + +"Perhaps not as much." + +He felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry. There she walked unknown to +him, though they had been through such experience together. + +"But you know ME pretty well," he said. + +She did not answer. + +"Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?" he asked. + +"He wouldn't let me," she said. + +"And I have let you know me?" + +"It's what men WON'T let you do. They won't let you get really near to +them," she said. + +"And haven't I let you?" + +"Yes," she answered slowly; "but you've never come near to me. You can't +come out of yourself, you can't. Baxter could do that better than you." + +He walked on pondering. He was angry with her for preferring Baxter to +him. + +"You begin to value Baxter now you've not got him," he said. + +"No; I can only see where he was different from you." + +But he felt she had a grudge against him. + +One evening, as they were coming home over the fields, she startled him +by asking: + +"Do you think it's worth it--the--the sex part?" + +"The act of loving, itself?" + +"Yes; is it worth anything to you?" + +"But how can you separate it?" he said. "It's the culmination of +everything. All our intimacy culminates then." + +"Not for me," she said. + +He was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all, she was +dissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought they fulfilled each +other. But he believed her too implicitly. + +"I feel," she continued slowly, "as if I hadn't got you, as if all of +you weren't there, and as if it weren't ME you were taking--" + +"Who, then?" + +"Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that I daren't think +of it. But is it ME you want, or is it IT?" + +He again felt guilty. Did he leave Clara out of count, and take simply +women? But he thought that was splitting a hair. + +"When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I DID feel as if I had all of +him," she said. + +"And it was better?" he asked. + +"Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don't say you haven't given me more than +he ever gave me." + +"Or could give you." + +"Yes, perhaps; but you've never given me yourself." + +He knitted his brows angrily. + +"If I start to make love to you," he said, "I just go like a leaf down +the wind." + +"And leave me out of count," she said. + +"And then is it nothing to you?" he asked, almost rigid with chagrin. + +"It's something; and sometimes you have carried me away--right away--I +know--and--I reverence you for it--but--" + +"Don't 'but' me," he said, kissing her quickly, as a fire ran through +him. + +She submitted, and was silent. + +It was true as he said. As a rule, when he started love-making, the +emotion was strong enough to carry with it everything--reason, soul, +blood--in a great sweep, like the Trent carries bodily its back-swirls +and intertwinings, noiselessly. Gradually the little criticisms, the +little sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything borne along +in one flood. He became, not a man with a mind, but a great instinct. +His hands were like creatures, living; his limbs, his body, were +all life and consciousness, subject to no will of his, but living in +themselves. Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous, wintry stars were +strong also with life. He and they struck with the same pulse of fire, +and the same joy of strength which held the bracken-frond stiff near +his eyes held his own body firm. It was as if he, and the stars, and the +dark herbage, and Clara were licked up in an immense tongue of flame, +which tore onwards and upwards. Everything rushed along in living beside +him; everything was still, perfect in itself, along with him. This +wonderful stillness in each thing in itself, while it was being borne +along in a very ecstasy of living, seemed the highest point of bliss. + +And Clara knew this held him to her, so she trusted altogether to the +passion. It, however, failed her very often. They did not often reach +again the height of that once when the peewits had called. Gradually, +some mechanical effort spoilt their loving, or, when they had splendid +moments, they had them separately, and not so satisfactorily. So often +he seemed merely to be running on alone; often they realised it had been +a failure, not what they had wanted. He left her, knowing THAT evening +had only made a little split between them. Their loving grew more +mechanical, without the marvellous glamour. Gradually they began to +introduce novelties, to get back some of the feeling of satisfaction. +They would be very near, almost dangerously near to the river, so that +the black water ran not far from his face, and it gave a little thrill; +or they loved sometimes in a little hollow below the fence of the path +where people were passing occasionally, on the edge of the town, and +they heard footsteps coming, almost felt the vibration of the tread, +and they heard what the passersby said--strange little things that +were never intended to be heard. And afterwards each of them was rather +ashamed, and these things caused a distance between the two of them. He +began to despise her a little, as if she had merited it! + +One night he left her to go to Daybrook Station over the fields. It +was very dark, with an attempt at snow, although the spring was so far +advanced. Morel had not much time; he plunged forward. The town ceases +almost abruptly on the edge of a steep hollow; there the houses with +their yellow lights stand up against the darkness. He went over the +stile, and dropped quickly into the hollow of the fields. Under the +orchard one warm window shone in Swineshead Farm. Paul glanced round. +Behind, the houses stood on the brim of the dip, black against the +sky, like wild beasts glaring curiously with yellow eyes down into the +darkness. It was the town that seemed savage and uncouth, glaring on the +clouds at the back of him. Some creature stirred under the willows of +the farm pond. It was too dark to distinguish anything. + +He was close up to the next stile before he saw a dark shape leaning +against it. The man moved aside. + +"Good-evening!" he said. + +"Good-evening!" Morel answered, not noticing. + +"Paul Morel?" said the man. + +Then he knew it was Dawes. The man stopped his way. + +"I've got yer, have I?" he said awkwardly. + +"I shall miss my train," said Paul. + +He could see nothing of Dawes's face. The man's teeth seemed to chatter +as he talked. + +"You're going to get it from me now," said Dawes. + +Morel attempted to move forward; the other man stepped in front of him. + +"Are yer goin' to take that top-coat off," he said, "or are you goin' to +lie down to it?" + +Paul was afraid the man was mad. + +"But," he said, "I don't know how to fight." + +"All right, then," answered Dawes, and before the younger man knew where +he was, he was staggering backwards from a blow across the face. + +The whole night went black. He tore off his overcoat and coat, dodging +a blow, and flung the garments over Dawes. The latter swore savagely. +Morel, in his shirt-sleeves, was now alert and furious. He felt his +whole body unsheath itself like a claw. He could not fight, so he would +use his wits. The other man became more distinct to him; he could see +particularly the shirt-breast. Dawes stumbled over Paul's coats, then +came rushing forward. The young man's mouth was bleeding. It was the +other man's mouth he was dying to get at, and the desire was anguish +in its strength. He stepped quickly through the stile, and as Dawes was +coming through after him, like a flash he got a blow in over the other's +mouth. He shivered with pleasure. Dawes advanced slowly, spitting. Paul +was afraid; he moved round to get to the stile again. Suddenly, from +out of nowhere, came a great blow against his ear, that sent him falling +helpless backwards. He heard Dawes's heavy panting, like a wild beast's, +then came a kick on the knee, giving him such agony that he got up and, +quite blind, leapt clean under his enemy's guard. He felt blows and +kicks, but they did not hurt. He hung on to the bigger man like a wild +cat, till at last Dawes fell with a crash, losing his presence of mind. +Paul went down with him. Pure instinct brought his hands to the man's +neck, and before Dawes, in frenzy and agony, could wrench him free, +he had got his fists twisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug in the +throat of the other man. He was a pure instinct, without reason or +feeling. His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against the +struggling body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He was +quite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to kill this +other man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He lay +pressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itself to its one +pure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactly at the right +moment, with exactly the right amount of strength, the struggles of +the other, silent, intent, unchanging, gradually pressing its knuckles +deeper, feeling the struggles of the other body become wilder and +more frenzied. Tighter and tighter grew his body, like a screw that is +gradually increasing in pressure, till something breaks. + +Then suddenly he relaxed, full of wonder and misgiving. Dawes had been +yielding. Morel felt his body flame with pain, as he realised what he +was doing; he was all bewildered. Dawes's struggles suddenly renewed +themselves in a furious spasm. Paul's hands were wrenched, torn out of +the scarf in which they were knotted, and he was flung away, helpless. +He heard the horrid sound of the other's gasping, but he lay stunned; +then, still dazed, he felt the blows of the other's feet, and lost +consciousness. + +Dawes, grunting with pain like a beast, was kicking the prostrate body +of his rival. Suddenly the whistle of the train shrieked two fields +away. He turned round and glared suspiciously. What was coming? He saw +the lights of the train draw across his vision. It seemed to him people +were approaching. He made off across the field into Nottingham, and +dimly in his consciousness as he went, he felt on his foot the place +where his boot had knocked against one of the lad's bones. The knock +seemed to re-echo inside him; he hurried to get away from it. + +Morel gradually came to himself. He knew where he was and what had +happened, but he did not want to move. He lay still, with tiny bits of +snow tickling his face. It was pleasant to lie quite, quite still. The +time passed. It was the bits of snow that kept rousing him when he did +not want to be roused. At last his will clicked into action. + +"I mustn't lie here," he said; "it's silly." + +But still he did not move. + +"I said I was going to get up," he repeated. "Why don't I?" + +And still it was some time before he had sufficiently pulled himself +together to stir; then gradually he got up. Pain made him sick and +dazed, but his brain was clear. Reeling, he groped for his coats and got +them on, buttoning his overcoat up to his ears. It was some time before +he found his cap. He did not know whether his face was still bleeding. +Walking blindly, every step making him sick with pain, he went back to +the pond and washed his face and hands. The icy water hurt, but helped +to bring him back to himself. He crawled back up the hill to the tram. +He wanted to get to his mother--he must get to his mother--that was his +blind intention. He covered his face as much as he could, and struggled +sickly along. Continually the ground seemed to fall away from him as +he walked, and he felt himself dropping with a sickening feeling into +space; so, like a nightmare, he got through with the journey home. + +Everybody was in bed. He looked at himself. His face was discoloured +and smeared with blood, almost like a dead man's face. He washed it, and +went to bed. The night went by in delirium. In the morning he found his +mother looking at him. Her blue eyes--they were all he wanted to see. +She was there; he was in her hands. + +"It's not much, mother," he said. "It was Baxter Dawes." + +"Tell me where it hurts you," she said quietly. + +"I don't know--my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother." + +He could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant, came +upstairs with some tea. + +"Your mother's nearly frightened me out of my wits--fainted away," she +said. + +He felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he told her about +it. + +"And now I should have done with them all," she said quietly. + +"I will, mother." + +She covered him up. + +"And don't think about it," she said--"only try to go to sleep. The +doctor won't be here till eleven." + +He had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bronchitis set +in. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She would sit and +look at him, then away into space. There was something between them that +neither dared mention. Clara came to see him. Afterwards he said to his +mother: + +"She makes me tired, mother." + +"Yes; I wish she wouldn't come," Mrs. Morel replied. + +Another day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a stranger to him. + +"You know, I don't care about them, mother," he said. + +"I'm afraid you don't, my son," she replied sadly. + +It was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon he +was able to go to work again, but now there was a constant sickness and +gnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, as it were, +nobody there. He could not work. He and his mother seemed almost to +avoid each other. There was some secret between them which they could +not bear. He was not aware of it. He only knew that his life seemed +unbalanced, as if it were going to smash into pieces. + +Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised that he +seemed unaware of her. Even when he came to her he seemed unaware of +her; always he was somewhere else. She felt she was clutching for him, +and he was somewhere else. It tortured her, and so she tortured him. For +a month at a time she kept him at arm's length. He almost hated her, and +was driven to her in spite of himself. He went mostly into the company +of men, was always at the George or the White Horse. His mother was ill, +distant, quiet, shadowy. He was terrified of something; he dared not +look at her. Her eyes seemed to grow darker, her face more waxen; still +she dragged about at her work. + +At Whitsuntide he said he would go to Blackpool for four days with his +friend Newton. The latter was a big, jolly fellow, with a touch of the +bounder about him. Paul said his mother must go to Sheffield to stay a +week with Annie, who lived there. Perhaps the change would do her good. +Mrs. Morel was attending a woman's doctor in Nottingham. He said her +heart and her digestion were wrong. She consented to go to Sheffield, +though she did not want to; but now she would do everything her son +wished of her. Paul said he would come for her on the fifth day, and +stay also in Sheffield till the holiday was up. It was agreed. + +The two young men set off gaily for Blackpool. Mrs. Morel was quite +lively as Paul kissed her and left her. Once at the station, he forgot +everything. Four days were clear--not an anxiety, not a thought. The two +young men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was like another man. None of +himself remained--no Clara, no Miriam, no mother that fretted him. He +wrote to them all, and long letters to his mother; but they were jolly +letters that made her laugh. He was having a good time, as young fellows +will in a place like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadow for +her. + +Paul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with his mother in +Sheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their train was late. +Joking, laughing, with their pipes between their teeth, the young men +swung their bags on to the tram-car. Paul had bought his mother a little +collar of real lace that he wanted to see her wear, so that he could +tease her about it. + +Annie lived in a nice house, and had a little maid. Paul ran gaily up +the steps. He expected his mother laughing in the hall, but it was +Annie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He stood a second in +dismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek. + +"Is my mother ill?" he said. + +"Yes; she's not very well. Don't upset her." + +"Is she in bed?" + +"Yes." + +And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine had +gone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag and ran +upstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat up in bed, +wearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked at him almost as +if she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashy +look about her. + +"Mother!" he said. + +"I thought you were never coming," she answered gaily. + +But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face in the +bedclothes, crying in agony, and saying: + +"Mother--mother--mother!" + +She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand. + +"Don't cry," she said. "Don't cry--it's nothing." + +But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried in +terror and pain. + +"Don't--don't cry," his mother faltered. + +Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, and the +tears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, but he dared +not lift his face out of the bedclothes. + +"You ARE late. Where have you been?" his mother asked. + +"The train was late," he replied, muffled in the sheet. + +"Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?" + +"Yes." + +"I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting." + +With a wrench he looked up at her. + +"What is it, mother?" he asked brutally. + +She averted her eyes as she answered: + +"Only a bit of a tumour, my boy. You needn't trouble. It's been +there--the lump has--a long time." + +Up came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard, but his body was +crying. + +"Where?" he said. + +She put her hand on her side. + +"Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away." + +He stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thought perhaps it +was as she said. Yes; he reassured himself it was so. But all the while +his blood and his body knew definitely what it was. He sat down on +the bed, and took her hand. She had never had but the one ring--her +wedding-ring. + +"When were you poorly?" he asked. + +"It was yesterday it began," she answered submissively. + +"Pains?" + +"Yes; but not more than I've often had at home. I believe Dr. Ansell is +an alarmist." + +"You ought not to have travelled alone," he said, to himself more than +to her. + +"As if that had anything to do with it!" she answered quickly. + +They were silent for a while. + +"Now go and have your dinner," she said. "You MUST be hungry." + +"Have you had yours?" + +"Yes; a beautiful sole I had. Annie IS good to me." + +They talked a little while, then he went downstairs. He was very white +and strained. Newton sat in miserable sympathy. + +After dinner he went into the scullery to help Annie to wash up. The +little maid had gone on an errand. + +"Is it really a tumour?" he asked. + +Annie began to cry again. + +"The pain she had yesterday--I never saw anybody suffer like it!" she +cried. "Leonard ran like a madman for Dr. Ansell, and when she'd got to +bed she said to me: 'Annie, look at this lump on my side. I wonder what +it is?' And there I looked, and I thought I should have dropped. Paul, +as true as I'm here, it's a lump as big as my double fist. I said: 'Good +gracious, mother, whenever did that come?' 'Why, child,' she said, 'it's +been there a long time.' I thought I should have died, our Paul, I did. +She's been having these pains for months at home, and nobody looking +after her." + +The tears came to his eyes, then dried suddenly. + +"But she's been attending the doctor in Nottingham--and she never told +me," he said. + +"If I'd have been at home," said Annie, "I should have seen for myself." + +He felt like a man walking in unrealities. In the afternoon he went to +see the doctor. The latter was a shrewd, lovable man. + +"But what is it?" he said. + +The doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers. + +"It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane," he said +slowly, "and which we MAY be able to make go away." + +"Can't you operate?" asked Paul. + +"Not there," replied the doctor. + +"Are you sure?" + +"QUITE!" + +Paul meditated a while. + +"Are you sure it's a tumour?" he asked. "Why did Dr. Jameson in +Nottingham never find out anything about it? She's been going to him for +weeks, and he's treated her for heart and indigestion." + +"Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump," said the doctor. + +"And do you KNOW it's a tumour?" + +"No, I am not sure." + +"What else MIGHT it be? You asked my sister if there was cancer in the +family. Might it be cancer?" + +"I don't know." + +"And what shall you do?" + +"I should like an examination, with Dr. Jameson." + +"Then have one." + +"You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn't be less than ten guineas +to come here from Nottingham." + +"When would you like him to come?" + +"I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over." + +Paul went away, biting his lip. + +His mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her son went +upstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressing-gown that Leonard +had given Annie, and, with a little colour in her face, was quite young +again. + +"But you look quite pretty in that," he said. + +"Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself," she answered. + +But when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped her, +half-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He lifted her +up and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the couch. She was +light and frail. Her face looked as if she were dead, with blue lips +shut tight. Her eyes opened--her blue, unfailing eyes--and she looked at +him pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive her. He held brandy to +her lips, but her mouth would not open. All the time she watched him +lovingly. She was only sorry for him. The tears ran down his face +without ceasing, but not a muscle moved. He was intent on getting +a little brandy between her lips. Soon she was able to swallow a +teaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. The tears continued to run down his +face. + +"But," she panted, "it'll go off. Don't cry!" + +"I'm not doing," he said. + +After a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the couch. +They looked into each other's eyes. + +"I don't want you to make a trouble of it," she said. + +"No, mother. You'll have to be quite still, and then you'll get better +soon." + +But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at each +other understood. Her eyes were so blue--such a wonderful forget-me-not +blue! He felt if only they had been of a different colour he could have +borne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping slowly in his breast. He +kneeled there, holding her hand, and neither said anything. Then Annie +came in. + +"Are you all right?" she murmured timidly to her mother. + +"Of course," said Mrs. Morel. + +Paul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious. + +A day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham, to arrange +for a consultation. Paul had practically no money in the world. But he +could borrow. + +His mother had been used to go to the public consultation on Saturday +morning, when she could see the doctor for only a nominal sum. Her son +went on the same day. The waiting-room was full of poor women, who sat +patiently on a bench around the wall. Paul thought of his mother, in her +little black costume, sitting waiting likewise. The doctor was late. The +women all looked rather frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendance +if he could see the doctor immediately he came. It was arranged so. The +women sitting patiently round the walls of the room eyed the young man +curiously. + +At last the doctor came. He was about forty, good-looking, +brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he, who had loved her, had +specialised on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his mother's. +The doctor did not remember. + +"Number forty-six M.," said the nurse; and the doctor looked up the case +in his book. + +"There is a big lump that may be a tumour," said Paul. "But Dr. Ansell +was going to write you a letter." + +"Ah, yes!" replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. He +was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Sheffield the +next day. + +"What is your father?" he asked. + +"He is a coal-miner," replied Paul. + +"Not very well off, I suppose?" + +"This--I see after this," said Paul. + +"And you?" smiled the doctor. + +"I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory." + +The doctor smiled at him. + +"Er--to go to Sheffield!" he said, putting the tips of his fingers +together, and smiling with his eyes. "Eight guineas?" + +"Thank you!" said Paul, flushing and rising. "And you'll come +to-morrow?" + +"To-morrow--Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time there is a +train in the afternoon?" + +"There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen." + +"And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to +walk?" The doctor smiled. + +"There is the tram," said Paul; "the Western Park tram." + +The doctor made a note of it. + +"Thank you!" he said, and shook hands. + +Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the charge of +Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging +in the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with his +father. + +"Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?" said the father. + +"Yes," replied the son. "But I'm going back to-night." + +"Are ter, beguy!" exclaimed the collier. "An' has ter eaten owt?" + +"No." + +"That's just like thee," said Morel. "Come thy ways in." + +The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The two went indoors. +Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands, and sleeves rolled +up, sat in the arm-chair opposite and looked at him. + +"Well, an' how is she?" asked the miner at length, in a little voice. + +"She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea," said Paul. + +"That's a blessin'!" exclaimed Morel. "I hope we s'll soon be havin' her +whoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?" + +"He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her." + +"Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!" + +"Eight guineas." + +"Eight guineas!" the miner spoke breathlessly. "Well, we mun find it +from somewhere." + +"I can pay that," said Paul. + +There was silence between them for some time. + +"She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie," Paul said. + +"Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was," answered Morel. "But +Minnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!" He sat looking dismal. + +"I s'll have to be going at half-past three," said Paul. + +"It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dost think she'll +be able to get as far as this?" + +"We must see what the doctors say to-morrow," Paul said. + +Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and Paul thought +his father looked lost, forlorn, and old. + +"You'll have to go and see her next week, father," he said. + +"I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time," said Morel. + +"If she's not," said Paul, "then you must come." + +"I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money," said Morel. + +"And I'll write to you what the doctor says," said Paul. + +"But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out," said Morel. + +"Well, I'll write plain." + +It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do more +than write his own name. + +The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The +examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard were +waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at +them. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself. + +"It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see," said Dr. Jameson. + +"And if it is," said Annie, "can you sweal it away?" + +"Probably," said the doctor. + +Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor +counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down. + +"Thank you!" he said. "I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see +what we can do." + +"There can't be an operation?" said Paul. + +The doctor shook his head. + +"No," he said; "and even if there could, her heart wouldn't stand it." + +"Is her heart risky?" asked Paul. + +"Yes; you must be careful with her." + +"Very risky?" + +"No--er--no, no! Just take care." + +And the doctor was gone. + +Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply, like a +child. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms round his neck, +clinging. + +"I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs," she said. + +And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do it another time. He +felt he could not carry her. + +"He thinks it's only a tumour!" cried Annie to her mother. "And he can +sweal it away." + +"I KNEW he could," protested Mrs. Morel scornfully. + +She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat +in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ash off his +coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It was +so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The +long grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness of the chimney. + +The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early +in the morning, and they were alone. + +"You won't fret, my boy!" she said. + +"No, mother." + +"No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself." + +"Yes," he answered. Then, after a while: "And I shall come next +Saturday, and shall bring my father?" + +"I suppose he wants to come," she replied. "At any rate, if he does +you'll have to let him." + +He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gently, +tenderly, as if she were a lover. + +"Shan't you be late?" she murmured. + +"I'm going," he said, very low. + +Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hair from her +temples. + +"And you won't be any worse, mother?" + +"No, my son." + +"You promise me?" + +"Yes; I won't be any worse." + +He kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. In the +early sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way; he +did not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and staring as she +thought of him. + +In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They sat in the little wood +where bluebells were standing. He took her hand. + +"You'll see," he said to Clara, "she'll never be better." + +"Oh, you don't know!" replied the other. + +"I do," he said. + +She caught him impulsively to her breast. + +"Try and forget it, dear," she said; "try and forget it." + +"I will," he answered. + +Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. It was +comforting, and he held his arms round her. But he did not forget. He +only talked to Clara of something else. And it was always so. When she +felt it coming, the agony, she cried to him: + +"Don't think of it, Paul! Don't think of it, my darling!" + +And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed him like a +child. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take it up again +immediately he was alone. All the time, as he went about, he cried +mechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried, he did not know +why. It was his blood weeping. He was just as much alone whether he was +with Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and this +pressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read sometimes. He +had to keep his mind occupied. And Clara was a way of occupying his +mind. + +On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was a forlorn figure, +looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs. + +"My father's come," he said, kissing his mother. + +"Has he?" she answered wearily. + +The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom. + +"How dun I find thee, lass?" he said, going forward and kissing her in a +hasty, timid fashion. + +"Well, I'm middlin'," she replied. + +"I see tha art," he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wiped +his eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as if nobody owned him, he +looked. + +"Have you gone on all right?" asked the wife, rather wearily, as if it +were an effort to talk to him. + +"Yis," he answered. "'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, as yer might +expect." + +"Does she have your dinner ready?" asked Mrs. Morel. + +"Well, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice," he said. + +"And you MUST shout at her if she's not ready. She WILL leave things to +the last minute." + +She gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her as if she were +almost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkward and humble, and +also as if he had lost his presence of mind, and wanted to run. This +feeling that he wanted to run away, that he was on thorns to be gone +from so trying a situation, and yet must linger because it looked +better, made his presence so trying. He put up his eyebrows for misery, +and clenched his fists on his knees, feeling so awkward in presence of +big trouble. + +Mrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed in Sheffield for two months. +If anything, at the end she was rather worse. But she wanted to go home. +Annie had her children. Mrs. Morel wanted to go home. So they got a +motor-car from Nottingham--for she was too ill to go by train--and she +was driven through the sunshine. It was just August; everything was +bright and warm. Under the blue sky they could all see she was dying. +Yet she was jollier than she had been for weeks. They all laughed and +talked. + +"Annie," she exclaimed, "I saw a lizard dart on that rock!" + +Her eyes were so quick; she was still so full of life. + +Morel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. Everybody was on +tiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heard the sound of the great +motor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove home down the street. + +"And just look at them all come out to see me!" she said. "But there, +I suppose I should have done the same. How do you do, Mrs. Mathews? How +are you, Mrs. Harrison?" + +They none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. And +they all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great event in the +street. + +Morel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur took her +as if she were a child. They had set her a big, deep chair by the +hearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she was unwrapped and +seated, and had drunk a little brandy, she looked round the room. + +"Don't think I don't like your house, Annie," she said; "but it's nice +to be in my own home again." + +And Morel answered huskily: + +"It is, lass, it is." + +And Minnie, the little quaint maid, said: + +"An' we glad t' 'ave yer." + +There was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. She looked +out of the window. + +"There are my sunflowers!" she said. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE RELEASE + +"By the way," said Dr. Ansell one evening when Morel was in +Sheffield, "we've got a man in the fever hospital here who comes from +Nottingham--Dawes. He doesn't seem to have many belongings in this +world." + +"Baxter Dawes!" Paul exclaimed. + +"That's the man--has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think. +Been in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?" + +"He used to work at the place where I am." + +"Did he? Do you know anything about him? He's just sulking, or he'd be a +lot better than he is by now." + +"I don't know anything of his home circumstances, except that he's +separated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell him +about me, will you? Tell him I'll come and see him." + +The next time Morel saw the doctor he said: + +"And what about Dawes?" + +"I said to him," answered the other, "'Do you know a man from Nottingham +named Morel?' and he looked at me as if he'd jump at my throat. So I +said: 'I see you know the name; it's Paul Morel.' Then I told him about +your saying you would go and see him. 'What does he want?' he said, as +if you were a policeman." + +"And did he say he would see me?" asked Paul. + +"He wouldn't say anything--good, bad or indifferent," replied the +doctor. + +"Why not?" + +"That's what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in, day out. +Can't get a word of information out of him." + +"Do you think I might go?" asked Paul. + +"You might." + +There was a feeling of connection between the rival men, more than ever +since they had fought. In a way Morel felt guilty towards the other, and +more or less responsible. And being in such a state of soul himself, +he felt an almost painful nearness to Dawes, who was suffering and +despairing, too. Besides, they had met in a naked extremity of hate, and +it was a bond. At any rate, the elemental man in each had met. + +He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. Ansell's card. This +sister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him down the ward. + +"A visitor to see you, Jim Crow," she said. + +Dawes turned over suddenly with a startled grunt. + +"Eh?" + +"Caw!" she mocked. "He can only say 'Caw!' I have brought you a +gentleman to see you. Now say 'Thank you,' and show some manners." + +Dawes looked swiftly with his dark, startled eyes beyond the sister at +Paul. His look was full of fear, mistrust, hate, and misery. Morel met +the swift, dark eyes, and hesitated. The two men were afraid of the +naked selves they had been. + +"Dr. Ansell told me you were here," said Morel, holding out his hand. + +Dawes mechanically shook hands. + +"So I thought I'd come in," continued Paul. + +There was no answer. Dawes lay staring at the opposite wall. + +"Say 'Caw!"' mocked the nurse. "Say 'Caw!' Jim Crow." + +"He is getting on all right?" said Paul to her. + +"Oh yes! He lies and imagines he's going to die," said the nurse, "and +it frightens every word out of his mouth." + +"And you MUST have somebody to talk to," laughed Morel. + +"That's it!" laughed the nurse. "Only two old men and a boy who always +cries. It is hard lines! Here am I dying to hear Jim Crow's voice, and +nothing but an odd 'Caw!' will he give!" + +"So rough on you!" said Morel. + +"Isn't it?" said the nurse. + +"I suppose I am a godsend," he laughed. + +"Oh, dropped straight from heaven!" laughed the nurse. + +Presently she left the two men alone. Dawes was thinner, and handsome +again, but life seemed low in him. As the doctor said, he was lying +sulking, and would not move forward towards convalescence. He seemed to +grudge every beat of his heart. + +"Have you had a bad time?" asked Paul. + +Suddenly again Dawes looked at him. + +"What are you doing in Sheffield?" he asked. + +"My mother was taken ill at my sister's in Thurston Street. What are you +doing here?" + +There was no answer. + +"How long have you been in?" Morel asked. + +"I couldn't say for sure," Dawes answered grudgingly. + +He lay staring across at the wall opposite, as if trying to believe +Morel was not there. Paul felt his heart go hard and angry. + +"Dr. Ansell told me you were here," he said coldly. + +The other man did not answer. + +"Typhoid's pretty bad, I know," Morel persisted. + +Suddenly Dawes said: + +"What did you come for?" + +"Because Dr. Ansell said you didn't know anybody here. Do you?" + +"I know nobody nowhere," said Dawes. + +"Well," said Paul, "it's because you don't choose to, then." + +There was another silence. + +"We s'll be taking my mother home as soon as we can," said Paul. + +"What's a-matter with her?" asked Dawes, with a sick man's interest in +illness. + +"She's got a cancer." + +There was another silence. + +"But we want to get her home," said Paul. "We s'll have to get a +motor-car." + +Dawes lay thinking. + +"Why don't you ask Thomas Jordan to lend you his?" said Dawes. + +"It's not big enough," Morel answered. + +Dawes blinked his dark eyes as he lay thinking. + +"Then ask Jack Pilkington; he'd lend it you. You know him." + +"I think I s'll hire one," said Paul. + +"You're a fool if you do," said Dawes. + +The sick man was gaunt and handsome again. Paul was sorry for him +because his eyes looked so tired. + +"Did you get a job here?" he asked. + +"I was only here a day or two before I was taken bad," Dawes replied. + +"You want to get in a convalescent home," said Paul. + +The other's face clouded again. + +"I'm goin' in no convalescent home," he said. + +"My father's been in the one at Seathorpe, an' he liked it. Dr. Ansell +would get you a recommend." + +Dawes lay thinking. It was evident he dared not face the world again. + +"The seaside would be all right just now," Morel said. "Sun on those +sandhills, and the waves not far out." + +The other did not answer. + +"By Gad!" Paul concluded, too miserable to bother much; "it's all right +when you know you're going to walk again, and swim!" + +Dawes glanced at him quickly. The man's dark eyes were afraid to meet +any other eyes in the world. But the real misery and helplessness in +Paul's tone gave him a feeling of relief. + +"Is she far gone?" he asked. + +"She's going like wax," Paul answered; "but cheerful--lively!" + +He bit his lip. After a minute he rose. + +"Well, I'll be going," he said. "I'll leave you this half-crown." + +"I don't want it," Dawes muttered. + +Morel did not answer, but left the coin on the table. + +"Well," he said, "I'll try and run in when I'm back in Sheffield. Happen +you might like to see my brother-in-law? He works in Pyecrofts." + +"I don't know him," said Dawes. + +"He's all right. Should I tell him to come? He might bring you some +papers to look at." + +The other man did not answer. Paul went. The strong emotion that Dawes +aroused in him, repressed, made him shiver. + +He did not tell his mother, but next day he spoke to Clara about this +interview. It was in the dinner-hour. The two did not often go out +together now, but this day he asked her to go with him to the Castle +grounds. There they sat while the scarlet geraniums and the yellow +calceolarias blazed in the sunlight. She was now always rather +protective, and rather resentful towards him. + +"Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?" he asked. + +She looked at him with startled grey eyes, and her face went pale. + +"No," she said, frightened. + +"He's getting better. I went to see him yesterday--the doctor told me." + +Clara seemed stricken by the news. + +"Is he very bad?" she asked guiltily. + +"He has been. He's mending now." + +"What did he say to you?" + +"Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking." + +There was a distance between the two of them. He gave her more +information. + +She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk +together, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance +from him. He was wanting her comfort badly. + +"Won't you be nice with me?" he asked. + +She did not answer. + +"What's the matter?" he said, putting his arm across her shoulder. + +"Don't!" she said, disengaging herself. + +He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding. + +"Is it Baxter that upsets you?" he asked at length. + +"I HAVE been VILE to him!" she said. + +"I've said many a time you haven't treated him well," he replied. + +And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of +thought. + +"I've treated him--no, I've treated him badly," she said. "And now you +treat ME badly. It serves me right." + +"How do I treat you badly?" he said. + +"It serves me right," she repeated. "I never considered him worth +having, and now you don't consider ME. But it serves me right. He loved +me a thousand times better than you ever did." + +"He didn't!" protested Paul. + +"He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that's what you don't do." + +"It looked as if he respected you!" he said. + +"He did! And I MADE him horrid--I know I did! You've taught me that. And +he loved me a thousand times better than ever you do." + +"All right," said Paul. + +He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was +almost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He +was not sorry when he left her. + +She went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. The +meeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money. +She wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As she +looked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only she +wanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now to +be self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel really +love her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So she +kneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distance +between them was still very great--too great. It frightened the man. It +almost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him across +an insuperable distance. She was proud now. + +Morel went to see Dawes once or twice. There was a sort of friendship +between the two men, who were all the while deadly rivals. But they +never mentioned the woman who was between them. + +Mrs. Morel got gradually worse. At first they used to carry her +downstairs, sometimes even into the garden. She sat propped in her +chair, smiling, and so pretty. The gold wedding-ring shone on her +white hand; her hair was carefully brushed. And she watched the tangled +sunflowers dying, the chrysanthemums coming out, and the dahlias. + +Paul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that she +was dying. But they kept up a pretence of cheerfulness. Every morning, +when he got up, he went into her room in his pyjamas. + +"Did you sleep, my dear?" he asked. + +"Yes," she answered. + +"Not very well?" + +"Well, yes!" + +Then he knew she had lain awake. He saw her hand under the bedclothes, +pressing the place on her side where the pain was. + +"Has it been bad?" he asked. + +"No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention." + +And she sniffed in her old scornful way. As she lay she looked like a +girl. And all the while her blue eyes watched him. But there were the +dark pain-circles beneath that made him ache again. + +"It's a sunny day," he said. + +"It's a beautiful day." + +"Do you think you'll be carried down?" + +"I shall see." + +Then he went away to get her breakfast. All day long he was conscious of +nothing but her. It was a long ache that made him feverish. Then, when +he got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window. +She was not there; she had not got up. + +He ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask: + +"Didn't you get up, pigeon?" + +"No," she said, "it was that morphia; it made me tired." + +"I think he gives you too much," he said. + +"I think he does," she answered. + +He sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying on +her side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear. + +"Doesn't it tickle you?" he said, gently putting it back. + +"It does," she replied. + +His face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like a +girl's--warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror, +agony, and love. + +"You want your hair doing in a plait," he said. "Lie still." + +And going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. It +was like fine long silk of brown and grey. Her head was snuggled between +her shoulders. As he lightly brushed and plaited her hair, he bit his +lip and felt dazed. It all seemed unreal, he could not understand it. + +At night he often worked in her room, looking up from time to time. And +so often he found her blue eyes fixed on him. And when their eyes met, +she smiled. He worked away again mechanically, producing good stuff +without knowing what he was doing. + +Sometimes he came in, very pale and still, with watchful, sudden eyes, +like a man who is drunk almost to death. They were both afraid of the +veils that were ripping between them. + +Then she pretended to be better, chattered to him gaily, made a great +fuss over some scraps of news. For they had both come to the condition +when they had to make much of the trifles, lest they should give in to +the big thing, and their human independence would go smash. They were +afraid, so they made light of things and were gay. + +Sometimes as she lay he knew she was thinking of the past. Her mouth +gradually shut hard in a line. She was holding herself rigid, so that +she might die without ever uttering the great cry that was tearing from +her. He never forgot that hard, utterly lonely and stubborn clenching +of her mouth, which persisted for weeks. Sometimes, when it was lighter, +she talked about her husband. Now she hated him. She did not forgive +him. She could not bear him to be in the room. And a few things, the +things that had been most bitter to her, came up again so strongly that +they broke from her, and she told her son. + +He felt as if his life were being destroyed, piece by piece, within him. +Often the tears came suddenly. He ran to the station, the tear-drops +falling on the pavement. Often he could not go on with his work. The +pen stopped writing. He sat staring, quite unconscious. And when he came +round again he felt sick, and trembled in his limbs. He never questioned +what it was. His mind did not try to analyse or understand. He merely +submitted, and kept his eyes shut; let the thing go over him. + +His mother did the same. She thought of the pain, of the morphia, of the +next day; hardly ever of the death. That was coming, she knew. She had +to submit to it. But she would never entreat it or make friends with +it. Blind, with her face shut hard and blind, she was pushed towards the +door. The days passed, the weeks, the months. + +Sometimes, in the sunny afternoons, she seemed almost happy. + +"I try to think of the nice times--when we went to Mablethorpe, and +Robin Hood's Bay, and Shanklin," she said. "After all, not everybody has +seen those beautiful places. And wasn't it beautiful! I try to think of +that, not of the other things." + +Then, again, for a whole evening she spoke not a word; neither did he. +They were together, rigid, stubborn, silent. He went into his room +at last to go to bed, and leaned against the doorway as if paralysed, +unable to go any farther. His consciousness went. A furious storm, he +knew not what, seemed to ravage inside him. He stood leaning there, +submitting, never questioning. + +In the morning they were both normal again, though her face was grey +with the morphia, and her body felt like ash. But they were bright +again, nevertheless. Often, especially if Annie or Arthur were at home, +he neglected her. He did not see much of Clara. Usually he was with +men. He was quick and active and lively; but when his friends saw him +go white to the gills, his eyes dark and glittering, they had a certain +mistrust of him. Sometimes he went to Clara, but she was almost cold to +him. + +"Take me!" he said simply. + +Occasionally she would. But she was afraid. When he had her then, +there was something in it that made her shrink away from him--something +unnatural. She grew to dread him. He was so quiet, yet so strange. She +was afraid of the man who was not there with her, whom she could feel +behind this make-belief lover; somebody sinister, that filled her with +horror. She began to have a kind of horror of him. It was almost as if +he were a criminal. He wanted her--he had her--and it made her feel as +if death itself had her in its grip. She lay in horror. There was no +man there loving her. She almost hated him. Then came little bouts of +tenderness. But she dared not pity him. + +Dawes had come to Colonel Seely's Home near Nottingham. There Paul +visited him sometimes, Clara very occasionally. Between the two men +the friendship developed peculiarly. Dawes, who mended very slowly and +seemed very feeble, seemed to leave himself in the hands of Morel. + +In the beginning of November Clara reminded Paul that it was her +birthday. + +"I'd nearly forgotten," he said. + +"I'd thought quite," she replied. + +"No. Shall we go to the seaside for the week-end?" + +They went. It was cold and rather dismal. She waited for him to be warm +and tender with her, instead of which he seemed hardly aware of her. +He sat in the railway-carriage, looking out, and was startled when she +spoke to him. He was not definitely thinking. Things seemed as if they +did not exist. She went across to him. + +"What is it dear?" she asked. + +"Nothing!" he said. "Don't those windmill sails look monotonous?" + +He sat holding her hand. He could not talk nor think. It was a comfort, +however, to sit holding her hand. She was dissatisfied and miserable. He +was not with her; she was nothing. + +And in the evening they sat among the sandhills, looking at the black, +heavy sea. + +"She will never give in," he said quietly. + +Clara's heart sank. + +"No," she replied. + +"There are different ways of dying. My father's people are frightened, +and have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into a +slaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother's people are pushed +from behind, inch by inch. They are stubborn people, and won't die." + +"Yes," said Clara. + +"And she won't die. She can't. Mr. Renshaw, the parson, was in the other +day. 'Think!' he said to her; 'you will have your mother and father, and +your sisters, and your son, in the Other Land.' And she said: 'I have +done without them for a long time, and CAN do without them now. It is +the living I want, not the dead.' She wants to live even now." + +"Oh, how horrible!" said Clara, too frightened to speak. + +"And she looks at me, and she wants to stay with me," he went on +monotonously. "She's got such a will, it seems as if she would never +go--never!" + +"Don't think of it!" cried Clara. + +"And she was religious--she is religious now--but it is no good. She +simply won't give in. And do you know, I said to her on Thursday: +'Mother, if I had to die, I'd die. I'd WILL to die.' And she said to +me, sharp: 'Do you think I haven't? Do you think you can die when you +like?'" + +His voice ceased. He did not cry, only went on speaking monotonously. +Clara wanted to run. She looked round. There was the black, re-echoing +shore, the dark sky down on her. She got up terrified. She wanted to be +where there was light, where there were other people. She wanted to be +away from him. He sat with his head dropped, not moving a muscle. + +"And I don't want her to eat," he said, "and she knows it. When I ask +her: 'Shall you have anything' she's almost afraid to say 'Yes.' 'I'll +have a cup of Benger's,' she says. 'It'll only keep your strength up,' +I said to her. 'Yes'--and she almost cried--'but there's such a gnawing +when I eat nothing, I can't bear it.' So I went and made her the food. +It's the cancer that gnaws like that at her. I wish she'd die!" + +"Come!" said Clara roughly. "I'm going." + +He followed her down the darkness of the sands. He did not come to her. +He seemed scarcely aware of her existence. And she was afraid of him, +and disliked him. + +In the same acute daze they went back to Nottingham. He was always +busy, always doing something, always going from one to the other of his +friends. + +On the Monday he went to see Baxter Dawes. Listless and pale, the man +rose to greet the other, clinging to his chair as he held out his hand. + +"You shouldn't get up," said Paul. + +Dawes sat down heavily, eyeing Morel with a sort of suspicion. + +"Don't you waste your time on me," he said, "if you've owt better to +do." + +"I wanted to come," said Paul. "Here! I brought you some sweets." + +The invalid put them aside. + +"It's not been much of a week-end," said Morel. + +"How's your mother?" asked the other. + +"Hardly any different." + +"I thought she was perhaps worse, being as you didn't come on Sunday." + +"I was at Skegness," said Paul. "I wanted a change." + +The other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be waiting, not +quite daring to ask, trusting to be told. + +"I went with Clara," said Paul. + +"I knew as much," said Dawes quietly. + +"It was an old promise," said Paul. + +"You have it your own way," said Dawes. + +This was the first time Clara had been definitely mentioned between +them. + +"Nay," said Morel slowly; "she's tired of me." + +Again Dawes looked at him. + +"Since August she's been getting tired of me," Morel repeated. + +The two men were very quiet together. Paul suggested a game of draughts. +They played in silence. + +"I s'll go abroad when my mother's dead," said Paul. + +"Abroad!" repeated Dawes. + +"Yes; I don't care what I do." + +They continued the game. Dawes was winning. + +"I s'll have to begin a new start of some sort," said Paul; "and you as +well, I suppose." + +He took one of Dawes's pieces. + +"I dunno where," said the other. + +"Things have to happen," Morel said. "It's no good doing anything--at +least--no, I don't know. Give me some toffee." + +The two men ate sweets, and began another game of draughts. + +"What made that scar on your mouth?" asked Dawes. + +Paul put his hand hastily to his lips, and looked over the garden. + +"I had a bicycle accident," he said. + +Dawes's hand trembled as he moved the piece. + +"You shouldn't ha' laughed at me," he said, very low. + +"When?" + +"That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me--you with +your hand on her shoulder." + +"I never laughed at you," said Paul. + +Dawes kept his fingers on the draught-piece. + +"I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed," said +Morel. + +"It was that as did me," Dawes said, very low. + +Paul took another sweet. + +"I never laughed," he said, "except as I'm always laughing." + +They finished the game. + +That night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have something +to do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the black +clouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles of +highroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the black +levels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick-room. +If he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to. + +He was not tired when he got near home, or He did not know it. Across +the field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window. + +"When she's dead," he said to himself, "that fire will go out." + +He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mothers door was +wide open, because she slept alone still. The red firelight dashed its +glow on the landing. Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway. + +"Paul!" she murmured. + +His heart seemed to break again. He went in and sat by the bed. + +"How late you are!" she murmured. + +"Not very," he said. + +"Why, what time is it?" The murmur came plaintive and helpless. + +"It's only just gone eleven." + +That was not true; it was nearly one o'clock. + +"Oh!" she said; "I thought it was later." + +And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go. + +"Can't you sleep, my pigeon?" he said. + +"No, I can't," she wailed. + +"Never mind, Little!" He said crooning. "Never mind, my love. I'll stop +with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better." + +And he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her brows +with his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding her +fingers in his free hand. They could hear the sleepers' breathing in the +other rooms. + +"Now go to bed," she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers and +his love. + +"Will you sleep?" he asked. + +"Yes, I think so." + +"You feel better, my Little, don't you?" + +"Yes," she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child. + +Still the days and the weeks went by. He hardly ever went to see Clara +now. But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for some +help, and there was none anywhere. Miriam had written to him tenderly. +He went to see her. Her heart was very sore when she saw him, white, +gaunt, with his eyes dark and bewildered. Her pity came up, hurting her +till she could not bear it. + +"How is she?" she asked. + +"The same--the same!" he said. "The doctor says she can't last, but I +know she will. She'll be here at Christmas." + +Miriam shuddered. She drew him to her; she pressed him to her bosom; she +kissed him and kissed him. He submitted, but it was torture. She could +not kiss his agony. That remained alone and apart. She kissed his face, +and roused his blood, while his soul was apart writhing with the agony +of death. And she kissed him and fingered his body, till at last, +feeling he would go mad, he got away from her. It was not what he wanted +just then--not that. And she thought she had soothed him and done him +good. + +December came, and some snow. He stayed at home all the while now. +They could not afford a nurse. Annie came to look after her mother; the +parish nurse, whom they loved, came in morning and evening. Paul shared +the nursing with Annie. Often, in the evenings, when friends were in the +kitchen with them, they all laughed together and shook with laughter. It +was reaction. Paul was so comical, Annie was so quaint. The whole party +laughed till they cried, trying to subdue the sound. And Mrs. Morel, +lying alone in the darkness heard them, and among her bitterness was a +feeling of relief. + +Then Paul would go upstairs gingerly, guiltily, to see if she had heard. + +"Shall I give you some milk?" he asked. + +"A little," she replied plaintively. + +And he would put some water with it, so that it should not nourish her. +Yet he loved her more than his own life. + +She had morphia every night, and her heart got fitful. Annie slept +beside her. Paul would go in in the early morning, when his sister +got up. His mother was wasted and almost ashen in the morning with the +morphia. Darker and darker grew her eyes, all pupil, with the torture. +In the mornings the weariness and ache were too much to bear. Yet she +could not--would not--weep, or even complain much. + +"You slept a bit later this morning, little one," he would say to her. + +"Did I?" she answered, with fretful weariness. + +"Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock." + +He stood looking out of the window. The whole country was bleak and +pallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse. There was a strong stroke +and a weak one, like a sound and its echo. That was supposed to betoken +the end. She let him feel her wrist, knowing what he wanted. + +Sometimes they looked in each other's eyes. Then they almost seemed to +make an agreement. It was almost as if he were agreeing to die also. +But she did not consent to die; she would not. Her body was wasted to a +fragment of ash. Her eyes were dark and full of torture. + +"Can't you give her something to put an end to it?" he asked the doctor +at last. + +But the doctor shook his head. + +"She can't last many days now, Mr. Morel," he said. + +Paul went indoors. + +"I can't bear it much longer; we shall all go mad," said Annie. + +The two sat down to breakfast. + +"Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie," said Annie. But +the girl was frightened. + +Paul went through the country, through the woods, over the snow. He saw +the marks of rabbits and birds in the white snow. He wandered miles +and miles. A smoky red sunset came on slowly, painfully, lingering. He +thought she would die that day. There was a donkey that came up to him +over the snow by the wood's edge, and put its head against him, and +walked with him alongside. He put his arms round the donkey's neck, and +stroked his cheeks against his ears. + +His mother, silent, was still alive, with her hard mouth gripped grimly, +her eyes of dark torture only living. + +It was nearing Christmas; there was more snow. Annie and he felt as if +they could go on no more. Still her dark eyes were alive. Morel, silent +and frightened, obliterated himself. Sometimes he would go into the +sick-room and look at her. Then he backed out, bewildered. + +She kept her hold on life still. The miners had been out on strike, and +returned a fortnight or so before Christmas. Minnie went upstairs with +the feeding-cup. It was two days after the men had been in. + +"Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?" she asked, +in the faint, querulous voice that would not give in. Minnie stood +surprised. + +"Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel," she answered. + +"But I'll bet they are sore," said the dying woman, as she moved her +head with a sigh of weariness. "But, at any rate, there'll be something +to buy in with this week." + +Not a thing did she let slip. + +"Your father's pit things will want well airing, Annie," she said, when +the men were going back to work. + +"Don't you bother about that, my dear," said Annie. + +One night Annie and Paul were alone. Nurse was upstairs. + +"She'll live over Christmas," said Annie. They were both full of horror. +"She won't," he replied grimly. "I s'll give her morphia." + +"Which?" said Annie. + +"All that came from Sheffield," said Paul. + +"Ay--do!" said Annie. + +The next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to be asleep. +He stepped softly backwards and forwards at his painting. Suddenly her +small voice wailed: + +"Don't walk about, Paul." + +He looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles in her face, were looking +at him. + +"No, my dear," he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap in his +heart. + +That evening he got all the morphia pills there were, and took them +downstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder. + +"What are you doing?" said Annie. + +"I s'll put 'em in her night milk." + +Then they both laughed together like two conspiring children. On top of +all their horror flicked this little sanity. + +Nurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul went up +with the hot milk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock. + +She was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between her lips +that he would have died to save from any hurt. She took a sip, then put +the spout of the cup away and looked at him with her dark, wondering +eyes. He looked at her. + +"Oh, it IS bitter, Paul!" she said, making a little grimace. + +"It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you," he said. "He +thought it would leave you in such a state in the morning." + +"And I hope it won't," she said, like a child. + +She drank some more of the milk. + +"But it IS horrid!" she said. + +He saw her frail fingers over the cup, her lips making a little move. + +"I know--I tasted it," he said. "But I'll give you some clean milk +afterwards." + +"I think so," she said, and she went on with the draught. She was +obedient to him like a child. He wondered if she knew. He saw her +poor wasted throat moving as she drank with difficulty. Then he ran +downstairs for more milk. There were no grains in the bottom of the cup. + +"Has she had it?" whispered Annie. + +"Yes--and she said it was bitter." + +"Oh!" laughed Annie, putting her under lip between her teeth. + +"And I told her it was a new draught. Where's that milk?" + +They both went upstairs. + +"I wonder why nurse didn't come to settle me down?" complained the +mother, like a child, wistfully. + +"She said she was going to a concert, my love," replied Annie. + +"Did she?" + +They were silent a minute. Mrs. Morel gulped the little clean milk. + +"Annie, that draught WAS horrid!" she said plaintively. + +"Was it, my love? Well, never mind." + +The mother sighed again with weariness. Her pulse was very irregular. + +"Let US settle you down," said Annie. "Perhaps nurse will be so late." + +"Ay," said the mother--"try." + +They turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl curled up +in her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half of the bed, moved +her, made the other, straightened her nightgown over her small feet, and +covered her up. + +"There," said Paul, stroking her softly. "There!--now you'll sleep." + +"Yes," she said. "I didn't think you could do the bed so nicely," she +added, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her hand, her +head snugged between her shoulders. Paul put the long thin plait of grey +hair over her shoulder and kissed her. + +"You'll sleep, my love," he said. + +"Yes," she answered trustfully. "Good-night." + +They put out the light, and it was still. + +Morel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came to look at her +at about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual after her draught. +Her mouth had come a bit open. + +"Shall we sit up?" said Paul. + +"I s'll lie with her as I always do," said Annie. "She might wake up." + +"All right. And call me if you see any difference." + +"Yes." + +They lingered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big and black +and snowy outside, their two selves alone in the world. At last he went +into the next room and went to bed. + +He slept almost immediately, but kept waking every now and again. Then +he went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie's whispered, "Paul, +Paul!" He saw his sister in her white nightdress, with her long plait of +hair down her back, standing in the darkness. + +"Yes?" he whispered, sitting up. + +"Come and look at her." + +He slipped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick chamber. +His mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up as she had gone +to sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she breathed with great, +hoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were long intervals between. + +"She's going!" he whispered. + +"Yes," said Annie. + +"How long has she been like it?" + +"I only just woke up." + +Annie huddled into the dressing-gown, Paul wrapped himself in a brown +blanket. It was three o'clock. He mended the fire. Then the two sat +waiting. The great, snoring breath was taken--held awhile--then given +back. There was a space--a long space. Then they started. The great, +snoring breath was taken again. He bent close down and looked at her. + +"Isn't it awful!" whispered Annie. + +He nodded. They sat down again helplessly. Again came the great, snoring +breath. Again they hung suspended. Again it was given back, long and +harsh. The sound, so irregular, at such wide intervals, sounded through +the house. Morel, in his room, slept on. Paul and Annie sat crouched, +huddled, motionless. The great snoring sound began again--there was a +painful pause while the breath was held--back came the rasping breath. +Minute after minute passed. Paul looked at her again, bending low over +her. + +"She may last like this," he said. + +They were both silent. He looked out of the window, and could faintly +discern the snow on the garden. + +"You go to my bed," he said to Annie. "I'll sit up." + +"No," she said, "I'll stop with you." + +"I'd rather you didn't," he said. + +At last Annie crept out of the room, and he was alone. He hugged himself +in his brown blanket, crouched in front of his mother, watching. She +looked dreadful, with the bottom jaw fallen back. He watched. Sometimes +he thought the great breath would never begin again. He could not bear +it--the waiting. Then suddenly, startling him, came the great harsh +sound. He mended the fire again, noiselessly. She must not be disturbed. +The minutes went by. The night was going, breath by breath. Each time +the sound came he felt it wring him, till at last he could not feel so +much. + +His father got up. Paul heard the miner drawing his stockings on, +yawning. Then Morel, in shirt and stockings, entered. + +"Hush!" said Paul. + +Morel stood watching. Then he looked at his son, helplessly, and in +horror. + +"Had I better stop a-whoam?" he whispered. + +"No. Go to work. She'll last through to-morrow." + +"I don't think so." + +"Yes. Go to work." + +The miner looked at her again, in fear, and went obediently out of the +room. Paul saw the tape of his garters swinging against his legs. + +After another half-hour Paul went downstairs and drank a cup of tea, +then returned. Morel, dressed for the pit, came upstairs again. + +"Am I to go?" he said. + +"Yes." + +And in a few minutes Paul heard his father's heavy steps go thudding +over the deadening snow. Miners called in the streets as they +tramped in gangs to work. The terrible, long-drawn breaths +continued--heave--heave--heave; then a long pause--then--ah-h-h-h-h! +as it came back. Far away over the snow sounded the hooters of the +ironworks. One after another they crowed and boomed, some small and far +away, some near, the blowers of the collieries and the other works. +Then there was silence. He mended the fire. The great breaths broke the +silence--she looked just the same. He put back the blind and peered out. +Still it was dark. Perhaps there was a lighter tinge. Perhaps the snow +was bluer. He drew up the blind and got dressed. Then, shuddering, he +drank brandy from the bottle on the wash-stand. The snow WAS growing +blue. He heard a cart clanking down the street. Yes, it was seven +o'clock, and it was coming a little bit light. He heard some people +calling. The world was waking. A grey, deathly dawn crept over the snow. +Yes, he could see the houses. He put out the gas. It seemed very dark. +The breathing came still, but he was almost used to it. He could see +her. She was just the same. He wondered if he piled heavy clothes on top +of her it would stop. He looked at her. That was not her--not her a bit. +If he piled the blanket and heavy coats on her-- + +Suddenly the door opened, and Annie entered. She looked at him +questioningly. + +"Just the same," he said calmly. + +They whispered together a minute, then he went downstairs to get +breakfast. It was twenty to eight. Soon Annie came down. + +"Isn't it awful! Doesn't she look awful!" she whispered, dazed with +horror. + +He nodded. + +"If she looks like that!" said Annie. + +"Drink some tea," he said. + +They went upstairs again. Soon the neighbours came with their frightened +question: + +"How is she?" + +It went on just the same. She lay with her cheek in her hand, her mouth +fallen open, and the great, ghastly snores came and went. + +At ten o'clock nurse came. She looked strange and woebegone. + +"Nurse," cried Paul, "she'll last like this for days?" + +"She can't, Mr. Morel," said nurse. "She can't." + +There was a silence. + +"Isn't it dreadful!" wailed the nurse. "Who would have thought she could +stand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down." + +At last, at about eleven o'clock, he went downstairs and sat in the +neighbour's house. Annie was downstairs also. Nurse and Arthur were +upstairs. Paul sat with his head in his hand. Suddenly Annie came flying +across the yard crying, half mad: + +"Paul--Paul--she's gone!" + +In a second he was back in his own house and upstairs. She lay curled +up and still, with her face on her hand, and nurse was wiping her mouth. +They all stood back. He kneeled down, and put his face to hers and his +arms round her: + +"My love--my love--oh, my love!" he whispered again and again. "My +love--oh, my love!" + +Then he heard the nurse behind him, crying, saying: + +"She's better, Mr. Morel, she's better." + +When he took his face up from his warm, dead mother he went straight +downstairs and began blacking his boots. + +There was a good deal to do, letters to write, and so on. The doctor +came and glanced at her, and sighed. + +"Ay--poor thing!" he said, then turned away. "Well, call at the surgery +about six for the certificate." + +The father came home from work at about four o'clock. He dragged +silently into the house and sat down. Minnie bustled to give him his +dinner. Tired, he laid his black arms on the table. There were swede +turnips for his dinner, which he liked. Paul wondered if he knew. It was +some time, and nobody had spoken. At last the son said: + +"You noticed the blinds were down?" + +Morel looked up. + +"No," he said. "Why--has she gone?" + +"Yes." + +"When wor that?" + +"About twelve this morning." + +"H'm!" + +The miner sat still for a moment, then began his dinner. It was as +if nothing had happened. He ate his turnips in silence. Afterwards he +washed and went upstairs to dress. The door of her room was shut. + +"Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him when he came down. + +"No," he said. + +In a little while he went out. Annie went away, and Paul called on the +undertaker, the clergyman, the doctor, the registrar. It was a long +business. He got back at nearly eight o'clock. The undertaker was coming +soon to measure for the coffin. The house was empty except for her. He +took a candle and went upstairs. + +The room was cold, that had been warm for so long. Flowers, bottles, +plates, all sick-room litter was taken away; everything was harsh and +austere. She lay raised on the bed, the sweep of the sheet from the +raised feet was like a clean curve of snow, so silent. She lay like a +maiden asleep. With his candle in his hand, he bent over her. She lay +like a girl asleep and dreaming of her love. The mouth was a little open +as if wondering from the suffering, but her face was young, her brow +clear and white as if life had never touched it. He looked again at the +eyebrows, at the small, winsome nose a bit on one side. She was young +again. Only the hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples was +mixed with silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulders +were filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift her +eyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately. +But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror. +Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He stroked +the hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumb +and wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering to +her: + +"Mother, mother!" + +He was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who had +been to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet, +businesslike fashion. They did not look at her. He watched jealously. He +and Annie guarded her fiercely. They would not let anybody come to see +her, and the neighbours were offended. + +After a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at a +friend's. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from the +couch as he entered, saying in a plaintive way: + +"I thought tha wor niver comin', lad." + +"I didn't think you'd sit up," said Paul. + +His father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without fear--simply +nothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start that he had been +afraid to go to bed, alone in the house with his dead. He was sorry. + +"I forgot you'd be alone, father," he said. + +"Dost want owt to eat?" asked Morel. + +"No." + +"Sithee--I made thee a drop o' hot milk. Get it down thee; it's cold +enough for owt." + +Paul drank it. + +After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, and +left his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in to +kiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they had +kept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she would +be cold. + +"My dear!" he whispered. "My dear!" + +And he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange to him. +It eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her door softly, not to +wake her, and went to bed. + +In the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie downstairs and +Paul coughing in the room across the landing. He opened her door, and +went into the darkened room. He saw the white uplifted form in the +twilight, but her he dared not see. Bewildered, too frightened to +possess any of his faculties, he got out of the room again and left her. +He never looked at her again. He had not seen her for months, because he +had not dared to look. And she looked like his young wife again. + +"Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him sharply after breakfast. + +"Yes," he said. + +"And don't you think she looks nice?" + +"Yes." + +He went out of the house soon after. And all the time he seemed to be +creeping aside to avoid it. + +Paul went about from place to place, doing the business of the death. He +met Clara in Nottingham, and they had tea together in a cafe, when they +were quite jolly again. She was infinitely relieved to find he did not +take it tragically. + +Later, when the relatives began to come for the funeral, the affair +became public, and the children became social beings. They put +themselves aside. They buried her in a furious storm of rain and wind. +The wet clay glistened, all the white flowers were soaked. Annie +gripped his arm and leaned forward. Down below she saw a dark corner +of William's coffin. The oak box sank steadily. She was gone. The +rain poured in the grave. The procession of black, with its umbrellas +glistening, turned away. The cemetery was deserted under the drenching +cold rain. + +Paul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with drinks. +His father sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Morel's relatives, "superior" +people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'd +tried to do everything he could for her--everything. He had striven +all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach +himself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped his +eyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for, +he repeated. All his life he'd done his best for her. + +And that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought of her +personally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated his father +for sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would do it in +the public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel in spite of +himself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, white +and cowering. + +"I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother," he said in a small voice. + +"Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was when +she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural, +as if nothing had altered." + +But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror. + +The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhaps +a little relief, mostly a _nuit blanche_. Paul went restless from place +to place. For some months, since his mother had been worse, he had not +made love to Clara. She was, as it were, dumb to him, rather distant. +Dawes saw her very occasionally, but the two could not get an inch +across the great distance between them. The three of them were drifting +forward. + +Dawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home at Skegness at +Christmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the seaside for a few days. +His father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes came to Paul's lodgings. +His time in the home was up. The two men, between whom was such a big +reserve, seemed faithful to each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. He +knew Paul and Clara had practically separated. + +Two days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. The evening +before he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire. + +"You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?" he said. + +The other man glanced at him. + +"Yes, you told me," he replied. + +Paul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky. + +"I told the landlady your wife was coming," he said. + +"Did you?" said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself in the +other's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for Morel's glass. + +"Let me fill you up," he said. + +Paul jumped up. + +"You sit still," he said. + +But Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink. + +"Say when," he said. + +"Thanks!" replied the other. "But you've no business to get up." + +"It does me good, lad," replied Dawes. "I begin to think I'm right +again, then." + +"You are about right, you know." + +"I am, certainly I am," said Dawes, nodding to him. + +"And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield." + +Dawes glanced at him again, with dark eyes that agreed with everything +the other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by him. + +"It's funny," said Paul, "starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess +than you." + +"In what way, lad?" + +"I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort of hole, +rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere." + +"I know--I understand it," Dawes said, nodding. "But you'll find it'll +come all right." + +He spoke caressingly. + +"I suppose so," said Paul. + +Dawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion. + +"You've not done for yourself like I have," he said. + +Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man gripping the +stem of the pipe and knocking out the ash, as if he had given up. + +"How old are you?" Paul asked. + +"Thirty-nine," replied Dawes, glancing at him. + +Those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleading +for reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warm +him, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul. + +"You'll just be in your prime," said Morel. "You don't look as if much +life had gone out of you." + +The brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly. + +"It hasn't," he said. "The go is there." + +Paul looked up and laughed. + +"We've both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly," he said. + +The eyes of the two men met. They exchanged one look. Having recognised +the stress of passion each in the other, they both drank their whisky. + +"Yes, begod!" said Dawes, breathless. + +There was a pause. + +"And I don't see," said Paul, "why you shouldn't go on where you left +off." + +"What--" said Dawes, suggestively. + +"Yes--fit your old home together again." + +Dawes hid his face and shook his head. + +"Couldn't be done," he said, and looked up with an ironic smile. + +"Why? Because you don't want?" + +"Perhaps." + +They smoked in silence. Dawes showed his teeth as he bit his pipe stem. + +"You mean you don't want her?" asked Paul. + +Dawes stared up at the picture with a caustic expression on his face. + +"I hardly know," he said. + +The smoke floated softly up. + +"I believe she wants you," said Paul. + +"Do you?" replied the other, soft, satirical, abstract. + +"Yes. She never really hitched on to me--you were always there in the +background. That's why she wouldn't get a divorce." + +Dawes continued to stare in a satirical fashion at the picture over the +mantelpiece. + +"That's how women are with me," said Paul. "They want me like mad, but +they don't want to belong to me. And she BELONGED to you all the time. I +knew." + +The triumphant male came up in Dawes. He showed his teeth more +distinctly. + +"Perhaps I was a fool," he said. + +"You were a big fool," said Morel. + +"But perhaps even THEN you were a bigger fool," said Dawes. + +There was a touch of triumph and malice in it. + +"Do you think so?" said Paul. + +They were silent for some time. + +"At any rate, I'm clearing out to-morrow," said Morel. + +"I see," answered Dawes. + +Then they did not talk any more. The instinct to murder each other had +returned. They almost avoided each other. + +They shared the same bedroom. When they retired Dawes seemed abstract, +thinking of something. He sat on the side of the bed in his shirt, +looking at his legs. + +"Aren't you getting cold?" asked Morel. + +"I was lookin' at these legs," replied the other. + +"What's up with 'em? They look all right," replied Paul, from his bed. + +"They look all right. But there's some water in 'em yet." + +"And what about it?" + +"Come and look." + +Paul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather handsome +legs of the other man that were covered with glistening, dark gold hair. + +"Look here," said Dawes, pointing to his shin. "Look at the water under +here." + +"Where?" said Paul. + +The man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that filled +up slowly. + +"It's nothing," said Paul. + +"You feel," said Dawes. + +Paul tried with his fingers. It made little dents. + +"H'm!" he said. + +"Rotten, isn't it?" said Dawes. + +"Why? It's nothing much." + +"You're not much of a man with water in your legs." + +"I can't see as it makes any difference," said Morel. "I've got a weak +chest." + +He returned to his own bed. + +"I suppose the rest of me's all right," said Dawes, and he put out the +light. + +In the morning it was raining. Morel packed his bag. The sea was grey +and shaggy and dismal. He seemed to be cutting himself off from life +more and more. It gave him a wicked pleasure to do it. + +The two men were at the station. Clara stepped out of the train, and +came along the platform, very erect and coldly composed. She wore a long +coat and a tweed hat. Both men hated her for her composure. Paul shook +hands with her at the barrier. Dawes was leaning against the bookstall, +watching. His black overcoat was buttoned up to the chin because of the +rain. He was pale, with almost a touch of nobility in his quietness. He +came forward, limping slightly. + +"You ought to look better than this," she said. + +"Oh, I'm all right now." + +The three stood at a loss. She kept the two men hesitating near her. + +"Shall we go to the lodging straight off," said Paul, "or somewhere +else?" + +"We may as well go home," said Dawes. + +Paul walked on the outside of the pavement, then Dawes, then Clara. They +made polite conversation. The sitting-room faced the sea, whose tide, +grey and shaggy, hissed not far off. + +Morel swung up the big arm-chair. + +"Sit down, Jack," he said. + +"I don't want that chair," said Dawes. + +"Sit down!" Morel repeated. + +Clara took off her things and laid them on the couch. She had a slight +air of resentment. Lifting her hair with her fingers, she sat down, +rather aloof and composed. Paul ran downstairs to speak to the landlady. + +"I should think you're cold," said Dawes to his wife. "Come nearer to +the fire." + +"Thank you, I'm quite warm," she answered. + +She looked out of the window at the rain and at the sea. + +"When are you going back?" she asked. + +"Well, the rooms are taken until to-morrow, so he wants me to stop. He's +going back to-night." + +"And then you're thinking of going to Sheffield?" + +"Yes." + +"Are you fit to start work?" + +"I'm going to start." + +"You've really got a place?" + +"Yes--begin on Monday." + +"You don't look fit." + +"Why don't I?" + +She looked again out of the window instead of answering. + +"And have you got lodgings in Sheffield?" + +"Yes." + +Again she looked away out of the window. The panes were blurred with +streaming rain. + +"And can you manage all right?" she asked. + +"I s'd think so. I s'll have to!" + +They were silent when Morel returned. + +"I shall go by the four-twenty," he said as he entered. + +Nobody answered. + +"I wish you'd take your boots off," he said to Clara. + +"There's a pair of slippers of mine." + +"Thank you," she said. "They aren't wet." + +He put the slippers near her feet. She left them there. + +Morel sat down. Both the men seemed helpless, and each of them had a +rather hunted look. But Dawes now carried himself quietly, seemed to +yield himself, while Paul seemed to screw himself up. Clara thought she +had never seen him look so small and mean. He was as if trying to +get himself into the smallest possible compass. And as he went about +arranging, and as he sat talking, there seemed something false about him +and out of tune. Watching him unknown, she said to herself there was +no stability about him. He was fine in his way, passionate, and able to +give her drinks of pure life when he was in one mood. And now he looked +paltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about him. Her +husband had more manly dignity. At any rate HE did not waft about with +any wind. There was something evanescent about Morel, she thought, +something shifting and false. He would never make sure ground for any +woman to stand on. She despised him rather for his shrinking together, +getting smaller. Her husband at least was manly, and when he was beaten +gave in. But this other would never own to being beaten. He would shift +round and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet she +watched him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three fates lay +in his hands. She hated him for it. + +She seemed to understand better now about men, and what they could or +would do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself. That +they were not the small egoists she had imagined them made her more +comfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as much as she wanted +to learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full as she could +carry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he was gone. + +They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Not +a serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel was +withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay with her +husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all, to take what +he wanted and then give her back. She did not remember that she herself +had had what she wanted, and really, at the bottom of her heart, wished +to be given back. + +Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really supported his +life. He had loved her; they two had, in fact, faced the world together. +Now she was gone, and for ever behind him was the gap in life, the tear +in the veil, through which his life seemed to drift slowly, as if he +were drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiative +to help him. The lesser things he began to let go from him, for fear of +this big thing, the lapse towards death, following in the wake of his +beloved. Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him, +but not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not the +real him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; he +dared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed. +So, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, because his own hold +on life was so unsure, because nobody held him, feeling unsubstantial, +shadowy, as if he did not count for much in this concrete world, he drew +himself together smaller and smaller. He did not want to die; he would +not give in. But he was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, he +would go on alone. + +Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was afraid. He +could go to the brink of death, he could lie on the edge and look in. +Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and like a beggar take what +offered. There was a certain nobility in it. As Clara saw, he owned +himself beaten, and he wanted to be taken back whether or not. That she +could do for him. It was three o'clock. + +"I am going by the four-twenty," said Paul again to Clara. "Are you +coming then or later?" + +"I don't know," she said. + +"I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen," he said. + +"Then," she answered, "I'll come later." + +Dawes jerked suddenly, as if he had been held on a strain. He looked out +over the sea, but he saw nothing. + +"There are one or two books in the corner," said Morel. "I've done with +'em." + +At about four o'clock he went. + +"I shall see you both later," he said, as he shook hands. + +"I suppose so," said Dawes. "An' perhaps--one day--I s'll be able to pay +you back the money as--" + +"I shall come for it, you'll see," laughed Paul. "I s'll be on the rocks +before I'm very much older." + +"Ay--well--" said Dawes. + +"Good-bye," he said to Clara. + +"Good-bye," she said, giving him her hand. Then she glanced at him for +the last time, dumb and humble. + +He was gone. Dawes and his wife sat down again. + +"It's a nasty day for travelling," said the man. + +"Yes," she answered. + +They talked in a desultory fashion until it grew dark. The landlady +brought in the tea. Dawes drew up his chair to the table without being +invited, like a husband. Then he sat humbly waiting for his cup. She +served him as she would, like a wife, not consulting his wish. + +After tea, as it drew near to six o'clock, he went to the window. All +was dark outside. The sea was roaring. + +"It's raining yet," he said. + +"Is it?" she answered. + +"You won't go to-night, shall you?" he said, hesitating. + +She did not answer. He waited. + +"I shouldn't go in this rain," he said. + +"Do you WANT me to stay?" she asked. + +His hand as he held the dark curtain trembled. + +"Yes," he said. + +He remained with his back to her. She rose and went slowly to him. He +let go the curtain, turned, hesitating, towards her. She stood with +her hands behind her back, looking up at him in a heavy, inscrutable +fashion. + +"Do you want me, Baxter?" she asked. + +His voice was hoarse as he answered: + +"Do you want to come back to me?" + +She made a moaning noise, lifted her arms, and put them round his +neck, drawing him to her. He hid his face on her shoulder, holding her +clasped. + +"Take me back!" she whispered, ecstatic. "Take me back, take me back!" +And she put her fingers through his fine, thin dark hair, as if she were +only semi-conscious. He tightened his grasp on her. + +"Do you want me again?" he murmured, broken. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +DERELICT + +CLARA went with her husband to Sheffield, and Paul scarcely saw her +again. Walter Morel seemed to have let all the trouble go over him, and +there he was, crawling about on the mud of it, just the same. There was +scarcely any bond between father and son, save that each felt he must +not let the other go in any actual want. As there was no one to keep on +the home, and as they could neither of them bear the emptiness of the +house, Paul took lodgings in Nottingham, and Morel went to live with a +friendly family in Bestwood. + +Everything seemed to have gone smash for the young man. He could not +paint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's death--one +that satisfied him--was the last thing he did. At work there was no +Clara. When he came home he could not take up his brushes again. There +was nothing left. + +So he was always in the town at one place or another, drinking, +knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked to +barmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark, strained look in +his eyes, as if he were hunting something. + +Everything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemed no reason why +people should go along the street, and houses pile up in the daylight. +There seemed no reason why these things should occupy the space, instead +of leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and +he answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could not +understand. + +He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and mechanically +at the factory. In the latter case there was pure forgetfulness, when he +lapsed from consciousness. But it had to come to an end. It hurt him so, +that things had lost their reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw the +tiny drop-pearls among the grey. They would have given him the liveliest +emotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean +anything. In a few moments they would cease to occupy that place, and +just the space would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant tram-cars +ran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder they should +trouble to rustle backwards and forwards. "Why trouble to go tilting +down to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams. It seemed they just +as well might NOT be as be. + +The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed to him +whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself to it. +Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blew along down the +pavement. He stood still, rigid, with clenched fists, a flame of agony +going over him. And he saw again the sick-room, his mother, her eyes. +Unconsciously he had been with her, in her company. The swift hop of +the paper reminded him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wanted +everything to stand still, so that he could be with her again. + +The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused, gone +into a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one day from another, one +week from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was distinct +or distinguishable. Often he lost himself for an hour at a time, could +not remember what he had done. + +One evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire was burning low; +everybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal, glanced at the table, +and decided he wanted no supper. Then he sat down in the arm-chair. It +was perfectly still. He did not know anything, yet he saw the dim +smoke wavering up the chimney. Presently two mice came out, cautiously, +nibbling the fallen crumbs. He watched them as it were from a long +way off. The church clock struck two. Far away he could hear the sharp +clinking of the trucks on the railway. No, it was not they that were far +away. They were there in their places. But where was he himself? + +The time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scampered cheekily over +his slippers. He had not moved a muscle. He did not want to move. He +was not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench of +knowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other consciousness, +working mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases. + +"What am I doing?" + +And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer: + +"Destroying myself." + +Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was +wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question: + +"Why wrong?" + +Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside his +chest resisted his own annihilation. + +There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenly +the electric light went out; there was a bruising thud in the +penny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazing in front of +him. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red in the dark +room. + +Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation began +again inside him. + +"She's dead. What was it all for--her struggle?" + +That was his despair wanting to go after her. + +"You're alive." + +"She's not." + +"She is--in you." + +Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it. + +"You've got to keep alive for her sake," said his will in him. + +Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse. + +"You've got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on +with it." + +But he did not want to. He wanted to give up. + +"But you can go on with your painting," said the will in him. "Or else +you can beget children. They both carry on her effort." + +"Painting is not living." + +"Then live." + +"Marry whom?" came the sulky question. + +"As best you can." + +"Miriam?" + +But he did not trust that. + +He rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got inside his bedroom +and closed the door, he stood with clenched fist. + +"Mater, my dear--" he began, with the whole force of his soul. Then he +stopped. He would not say it. He would not admit that he wanted to die, +to have done. He would not own that life had beaten him, or that death +had beaten him. Going straight to bed, he slept at once, abandoning +himself to the sleep. + +So the weeks went on. Always alone, his soul oscillated, first on the +side of death, then on the side of life, doggedly. The real agony +was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and WAS +nothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were mad: +sometimes he was mad; things weren't there, things were there. It made +him pant. Sometimes he stood before the bar of the public-house where he +called for a drink. Everything suddenly stood back away from him. He +saw the face of the barmaid, the gobbling drinkers, his own glass on the +slopped, mahogany board, in the distance. There was something between +him and them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them; he did +not want his drink. Turning abruptly, he went out. On the threshold he +stood and looked at the lighted street. But he was not of it or in it. +Something separated him. Everything went on there below those lamps, +shut away from him. He could not get at them. He felt he couldn't touch +the lamp-posts, not if he reached. Where could he go? There was nowhere +to go, neither back into the inn, or forward anywhere. He felt stifled. +There was nowhere for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt he should +smash. + +"I mustn't," he said; and, turning blindly, he went in and drank. +Sometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. He ran +down the road. For ever restless, he went here, there, everywhere. He +determined to work. But when he had made six strokes, he loathed the +pencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried off to a club where he +could play cards or billiards, to a place where he could flirt with a +barmaid who was no more to him than the brass pump-handle she drew. + +He was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his own eyes +in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away from +himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In despair he thought of +Miriam. Perhaps--perhaps--? + +Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening, when +they stood up to sing the second hymn he saw her before him. The light +glistened on her lower lip as she sang. She looked as if she had got +something, at any rate: some hope in heaven, if not in earth. Her +comfort and her life seemed in the after-world. A warm, strong feeling +for her came up. She seemed to yearn, as she sang, for the mystery and +comfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over, to +speak to her. + +The throng carried her out just before him. He could nearly touch her. +She did not know he was there. He saw the brown, humble nape of her neck +under its black curls. He would leave himself to her. She was better and +bigger than he. He would depend on her. + +She went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngs of +people outside the church. She always looked so lost and out of place +among people. He went forward and put his hand on her arm. She started +violently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear, then went questioning +at the sight of him. He shrank slightly from her. + +"I didn't know--" she faltered. + +"Nor I," he said. + +He looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again. + +"What are you doing in town?" he asked. + +"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's." + +"Ha! For long?" + +"No; only till to-morrow." + +"Must you go straight home?" + +She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim. + +"No," she said--"no; it's not necessary." + +He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through the throng +of church people. The organ was still sounding in St. Mary's. Dark +figures came through the lighted doors; people were coming down the +steps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church was +like a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took +the car for the Bridges. + +"You will just have supper with me," he said: "then I'll bring you +back." + +"Very well," she replied, low and husky. + +They scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark and +full under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was black night. He +lived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of the town, facing across the +river meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the steep scrap of Colwick +Wood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness spread away +on their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses. + +Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowl +of freesias and scarlet anemones on the table. She bent to them. Still +touching them with her finger-tips, she looked up at him, saying: + +"Aren't they beautiful?" + +"Yes," he said. "What will you drink--coffee?" + +"I should like it," she said. + +"Then excuse me a moment." + +He went out to the kitchen. + +Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, severe +room. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked on +the drawing-board to see what he was doing. There were only a few +meaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading. +Evidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she saw +were from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know. +Everything he had touched, everything that was in the least personal to +him, she examined with lingering absorption. He had been gone from her +for so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he was +now. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made her +feel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless. + +She was curiously examining a sketch-book when he returned with the +coffee. + +"There's nothing new in it," he said, "and nothing very interesting." + +He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned the +pages slowly, intent on examining everything. + +"H'm!" he said, as she paused at a sketch. "I'd forgotten that. It's not +bad, is it?" + +"No," she said. "I don't quite understand it." + +He took the book from her and went through it. Again he made a curious +sound of surprise and pleasure. + +"There's some not bad stuff in there," he said. + +"Not at all bad," she answered gravely. + +He felt again her interest in his work. Or was it for himself? Why was +she always most interested in him as he appeared in his work? + +They sat down to supper. + +"By the way," he said, "didn't I hear something about your earning your +own living?" + +"Yes," she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. "And what of it?" + +"I'm merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three months, +and I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there." + +"I say--that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to be +independent." + +"Yes. + +"Why didn't you tell me?" + +"I only knew last week." + +"But I heard a month ago," he said. + +"Yes; but nothing was settled then." + +"I should have thought," he said, "you'd have told me you were trying." + +She ate her food in the deliberate, constrained way, almost as if she +recoiled a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew so well. + +"I suppose you're glad," he said. + +"Very glad." + +"Yes--it will be something." + +He was rather disappointed. + +"I think it will be a great deal," she said, almost haughtily, +resentfully. + +He laughed shortly. + +"Why do you think it won't?" she asked. + +"Oh, I don't think it won't be a great deal. Only you'll find earning +your own living isn't everything." + +"No," she said, swallowing with difficulty; "I don't suppose it is." + +"I suppose work CAN be nearly everything to a man," he said, "though it +isn't to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real and +vital part is covered up." + +"But a man can give ALL himself to work?" she asked. + +"Yes, practically." + +"And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?" + +"That's it." + +She looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger. + +"Then," she said, "if it's true, it's a great shame." + +"It is. But I don't know everything," he answered. + +After supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair facing him, +and they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret colour, that +suited her dark complexion and her large features. Still, the curls +were fine and free, but her face was much older, the brown throat much +thinner. She seemed old to him, older than Clara. Her bloom of youth had +quickly gone. A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come upon +her. She meditated a little while, then looked at him. + +"And how are things with you?" she asked. + +"About all right," he answered. + +She looked at him, waiting. + +"Nay," she said, very low. + +Her brown, nervous hands were clasped over her knee. They had still the +lack of confidence or repose, the almost hysterical look. He winced as +he saw them. Then he laughed mirthlessly. She put her fingers between +her lips. His slim, black, tortured body lay quite still in the chair. +She suddenly took her finger from her mouth and looked at him. + +"And you have broken off with Clara?" + +"Yes." + +His body lay like an abandoned thing, strewn in the chair. + +"You know," she said, "I think we ought to be married." + +He opened his eyes for the first time since many months, and attended to +her with respect. + +"Why?" he said. + +"See," she said, "how you waste yourself! You might be ill, you might +die, and I never know--be no more then than if I had never known you." + +"And if we married?" he asked. + +"At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a prey to +other women--like--like Clara." + +"A prey?" he repeated, smiling. + +She bowed her head in silence. He lay feeling his despair come up again. + +"I'm not sure," he said slowly, "that marriage would be much good." + +"I only think of you," she replied. + +"I know you do. But--you love me so much, you want to put me in your +pocket. And I should die there smothered." + +She bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while the +bitterness surged up in her heart. + +"And what will you do otherwise?" she asked. + +"I don't know--go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go abroad." + +The despairing doggedness in his tone made her go on her knees on the +rug before the fire, very near to him. There she crouched as if she were +crushed by something, and could not raise her head. His hands lay quite +inert on the arms of his chair. She was aware of them. She felt that +now he lay at her mercy. If she could rise, take him, put her arms round +him, and say, "You are mine," then he would leave himself to her. +But dare she? She could easily sacrifice herself. But dare she assert +herself? She was aware of his dark-clothed, slender body, that seemed +one stroke of life, sprawled in the chair close to her. But no; she +dared not put her arms round it, take it up, and say, "It is mine, this +body. Leave it to me." And she wanted to. It called to all her woman's +instinct. But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he would +not let her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body, +abandoned. She knew she ought to take it up and claim it, and claim +every right to it. But--could she do it? Her impotence before him, +before the strong demand of some unknown thing in him, was her +extremity. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes, +shuddering, appealing, gone, almost distracted, pleaded to him suddenly. +His heart caught with pity. He took her hands, drew her to him, and +comforted her. + +"Will you have me, to marry me?" he said very low. + +Oh, why did not he take her? Her very soul belonged to him. Why would he +not take what was his? She had borne so long the cruelty of belonging to +him and not being claimed by him. Now he was straining her again. It +was too much for her. She drew back her head, held his face between her +hands, and looked him in the eyes. No, he was hard. He wanted something +else. She pleaded to him with all her love not to make it her choice. +She could not cope with it, with him, she knew not with what. But it +strained her till she felt she would break. + +"Do you want it?" she asked, very gravely. + +"Not much," he replied, with pain. + +She turned her face aside; then, raising herself with dignity, she took +his head to her bosom, and rocked him softly. She was not to have him, +then! So she could comfort him. She put her fingers through his hair. +For her, the anguished sweetness of self-sacrifice. For him, the hate +and misery of another failure. He could not bear it--that breast which +was warm and which cradled him without taking the burden of him. So much +he wanted to rest on her that the feint of rest only tortured him. He +drew away. + +"And without marriage we can do nothing?" he asked. + +His mouth was lifted from his teeth with pain. She put her little finger +between her lips. + +"No," she said, low and like the toll of a bell. "No, I think not." + +It was the end then between them. She could not take him and relieve him +of the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself to +him--sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He +wanted her to hold him and say, with joy and authority: "Stop all this +restlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate." She +had not the strength. Or was it a mate she wanted? or did she want a +Christ in him? + +He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew +that, in staying, stilling the inner, desperate man, he was denying his +own life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own. + +She sat very quiet. He lit a cigarette. The smoke went up from it, +wavering. He was thinking of his mother, and had forgotten Miriam. She +suddenly looked at him. Her bitterness came surging up. Her sacrifice, +then, was useless. He lay there aloof, careless about her. Suddenly +she saw again his lack of religion, his restless instability. He would +destroy himself like a perverse child. Well, then, he would! + +"I think I must go," she said softly. + +By her tone he knew she was despising him. He rose quietly. + +"I'll come along with you," he answered. + +She stood before the mirror pinning on her hat. How bitter, how +unutterably bitter, it made her that he rejected her sacrifice! Life +ahead looked dead, as if the glow were gone out. She bowed her face over +the flowers--the freesias so sweet and spring-like, the scarlet anemones +flaunting over the table. It was like him to have those flowers. + +He moved about the room with a certain sureness of touch, swift and +relentless and quiet. She knew she could not cope with him. He would +escape like a weasel out of her hands. Yet without him her life would +trail on lifeless. Brooding, she touched the flowers. + +"Have them!" he said; and he took them out of the jar, dripping as they +were, and went quickly into the kitchen. She waited for him, took the +flowers, and they went out together, he talking, she feeling dead. + +She was going from him now. In her misery she leaned against him as they +sat on the car. He was unresponsive. Where would he go? What would +be the end of him? She could not bear it, the vacant feeling where he +should be. He was so foolish, so wasteful, never at peace with himself. +And now where would he go? And what did he care that he wasted her? He +had no religion; it was all for the moment's attraction that he cared, +nothing else, nothing deeper. Well, she would wait and see how it turned +out with him. When he had had enough he would give in and come to her. + +He shook hands and left her at the door of her cousin's house. When he +turned away he felt the last hold for him had gone. The town, as he sat +upon the car, stretched away over the bay of railway, a level fume of +lights. Beyond the town the country, little smouldering spots for +more towns--the sea--the night--on and on! And he had no place in it! +Whatever spot he stood on, there he stood alone. From his breast, +from his mouth, sprang the endless space, and it was there behind him, +everywhere. The people hurrying along the streets offered no obstruction +to the void in which he found himself. They were small shadows whose +footsteps and voices could be heard, but in each of them the same night, +the same silence. He got off the car. In the country all was dead +still. Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away in the +flood-waters, a firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and terror of +the immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while by +the day, but which returns, and will remain at last eternal, holding +everything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no Time, only +Space. Who could say his mother had lived and did not live? She had been +in one place, and was in another; that was all. And his soul could not +leave her, wherever she was. Now she was gone abroad into the night, and +he was with her still. They were together. But yet there was his body, +his chest, that leaned against the stile, his hands on the wooden bar. +They seemed something. Where was he?--one tiny upright speck of flesh, +less than an ear of wheat lost in the field. He could not bear it. +On every side the immense dark silence seemed pressing him, so tiny +a spark, into extinction, and yet, almost nothing, he could not be +extinct. Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond +stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning round +for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness +that outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and +himself, infinitesimal, at the core a nothingness, and yet not nothing. + +"Mother!" he whispered--"mother!" + +She was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. And +she was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch him, have him +alongside with her. + +But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the +city's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He +would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked +towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sons and Lovers, by David Herbert Lawrence + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONS AND LOVERS *** + +***** This file should be named 217.txt or 217.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/217/ + +Produced by Alan Charles Veeck, Jr. and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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