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diff --git a/old/sonsa11.txt b/old/sonsa11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4fc969 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sonsa11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,23283 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Sons and Lovers, by D. H. Lawrence + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Sons and Lovers by David Herbert Lawrence [D. H. Lawrence] + +February, 1995 [Etext #217] + + +"To my beautiful, dearest mater, Lucinda Leigh Veeck - from +her loving son, Alan Charles Veeck, Jr." + + +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Sons and Lovers, by D. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois + Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Illinois Benedictine College". + +This "Small Print!" by Charles B. Kramer, Attorney +Internet (72600.2026@compuserve.com); TEL: (212-254-5093) +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +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. +The 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-l'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 +be 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 comers 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 be 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 be 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 be 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 ready any?" he asked. + +"Yes, I did," she replied. + +"How much?" + +"l 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 DOEScome?" 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!" be 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, be 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 1, 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 be 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 bat 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 be 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 +an 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 feet 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 prefering +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 +mo-notonously. 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 + +You have reached the end of Project Gutenberg's edition of Sons and Lovers, +by David Herbert Lawrence [D. H. Lawrence]. + + |