 CHAPTER IX. PART II At the wood's edge they met limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenet of strally 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 vigor. Lim pulled up before them. "'Til your father mislivers,' he said, in a peculiar piping voice, that his young beast is as broke that bottom fence three days in runnin'—' "'Witch!' 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 Lim. "'I'll show you.' The man in the stallion went forward. It danced sideways, shaking its white fat locks 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. Lim stopped and pointed to the fence under some willows. "'There! You see where they got through,' he said. "'My man's drove him back three times.' "'Yes,' answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault. "'How 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 winnies of pleasure at being so near home. "'He is glad to be back,' said Clara, who was interested in the creature. "'Yes, he'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 gray. Her dark eyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As it saw her, the big-base stallion winnied 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 Lim looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul. "'Oh, good evening, Miss Livers,' 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 Lim. "'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.' "'Moral,' 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. Morrell?' "'No,' said Paul. "'Because if you do, you might come and fish any time,' said Miss Lim. "'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 Lim. "'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 Lim. "'Do you swim?' said Paul. Miss Lim was just saying we could come when we liked.' "'Of course there's the farmhands,' said Miss Lim. They talked a few moments, then went 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 Lim?' asked Miriam. "'Yes.' "'What's the 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 hold by the rabbits. The field itself was coarse, and crowded with tall, big cow slips 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 cow slips disconsolently. 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 disconsolently. 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-cloths. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some scent from the cow's lips. 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 them because you'll want them, 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 cow's lips over her hair and neck, saying, Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, if the Lord won't have you, the devil must. The chilled flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him with almost pitiful, scared, gray 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 cow's lips 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 queely. 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 Crossley Bank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly, her face and 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 ascent. 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 laying Couchon above the plane. 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 in pink and downy, but crows 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 crows feet near her eyes, and her mouth shut so hard, made him feel he would go mad. The 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 icky! I'll chow 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 bound 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 hardly 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. Morrill 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 weekend when he was home, she had said to him, You don't look very well, my lad. I don't know, he said. I feel anyhow or know-how, 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 winter when you have to put on your clothes. But pour your own tea out, and nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and suck it up. It somehow takes the taste out of it. Mrs. Morrill laughed. And so it knocks you up, she said. I don't know. 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 spend-thrift. She saved no more than eleven pounds, and I know, lad, you haven't had much chance. He colored 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 any to feel handicapped. He said, struggling. My lad, she said, you are 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. Moral called her a fool for getting married, and was cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Moral had white tips in her bonnet, and some white honour 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 legubriously 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. Moral cried a little, then patted her on the back and said, But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you. Moral stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonard looked white and overwrought. Mrs. Moral said to him, I shall 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 Moral 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 shall never marry, he said. Hi, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet, only wait a year or two. But I shat, Mary-mother, I shall live with you and we'll have a servant. Ah, 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. Morrell 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 to 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 shall perhaps be rich with my painting. Will you go to bed? And then you shall 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. Morrell 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 realize 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 mustache, 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. Morrell 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. Mrs. Morrill 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 bitrus wild, 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 and soldiers, and the rest of the time together, Arthur taking her arm and soldiers 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, and 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, that does not! I'll give thee a smoke kiss if tears of mind. I wanted to whiff no kiss at all, she answered. Well, and that she'll have a whiff, he said, along with the kiss. I want to 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. How give thee a smoke kiss, he said. Thou art a naïvee nuisance, Artie Morrell, she said, sitting back. Have thee a smoke kiss? The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near hers. Shona, 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 mustache 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 through 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, especially done for him, would come down. She stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb between his knees. I nuggut it! he said. The cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke. Liar! she said. It's true as I'm here! he laughed, showing his hands. You brazen imp! she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the comb what she 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 singing 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. That 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 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, poor thing! she mocked. He lifted his face, smiling curiously. Keese! he invited her. Darin' die! 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 Willie 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 Morrill. 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 hay-field. 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 Morris 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. Pucks his ears for me, she cried to Edgar. Nay, Edgar laughed. I dare it. 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 moral. 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's 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 become in place 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 foir. Merriam 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? Au mist immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her, at the same time, a little Omar Kayam. I'm 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 foir. 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 Merriam had overrefined 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 center of consciousness, warning him that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But he belonged to Merriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed her right. End of Chapter. Chapter 10 Part 1 of Sons and Lovers. This lever-box recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers. By D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 10 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 hearth rug, 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 around 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. Morrill rushed to the door. His pictures got first prize, Fred, she cried, and his sold for twenty guineas. My word, that's something like, said the young postman, whom they had known all his life. A major morrington has bought it, she cried. It looks like meaning something that does, Mrs. Morrill, said the postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky letter. Mrs. Morrill went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter and might be disappointed after all. He scrutinized 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, 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'd 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 cavalled 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 quarreling. Moral 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 were sure it wore a lie. But they said thou had told Fred Hodgson. 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. Moral. The miner sat heavily in his chair. How's he a guy? he exclaimed. He stared across the room fixedly. But as for fifty pounds, such nonsense! She was silent a while. Major Morton bought it for twenty guineas. That's true. Twenty guineas? That never says, exclaimed Moral. Yes, and it was worth it. Hi! he said. I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a painting as he knocked off in an hour or two. He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Moral sniffed as if it were nothing. And when does he handle the money? asked the Collier. That I couldn't tell you when the picture is sent home, I suppose. There was silence. Moral stared at the sugar-base and 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 cold dust on his black face. Yes, and that other lad had done as much if they had not had killed him. He said quietly. The thought of William went through Mrs. Moral 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 Williams, she continued, that I know cost four pounds ten in which he had 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 Williams. 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 7.30 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 Moriton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only moral remained unchanged, or rather lapsed slowly. Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was fading into the background. He had shoveled away 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 realize 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 unrecognized 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 begin 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! As 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 gave 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, mother, 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. Morrill 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. As long as you don't feel life's paltry in 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. Hey, my dear, say rather you want me to live. Mrs. Morrill 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. Morrell 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 Nighton 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 this rough pavement where the feet of the passers-by 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 parlor 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 parlor 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 hearth rug. 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 genny for carding the lace. There was a pack of brown-carbored 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, shameedly. 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 color 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 in 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 should be glad to smell a bit of smoke in the house again. A house of women is as dead as a house with no fire to my thinking. 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 done 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. I will, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to ask me for one of my toffees. 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 not. 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 sanctuade 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 Livers? 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, Jenny-ing? he asked. What can a woman do? she replied bitterly. Is it sweated? More or less. Isn't all women'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 baddens. That's what I say. No man was ever that bad with me, but what he got it back again. Not but what there a lousy lot, there's no deny in 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 forever on that high horse of hers, and it's backs that thin and starved it'll cut her into 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 should never have been bowed. She seemed to be stranded there among the refuse that life has thrown away, doing her geni-ing. 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. Hodgkesson to Huckknoll? He was talking quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her gray 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 realizing 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. Shant I, you can believe it, though. I'd rather stop here a thousand times. Paul was perturbed. Why, Susan? The girl's color was high, and her eyes flashed. That's why. And must you? For answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candor 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. Yay, there's makin' 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 gennying. The white lace leaped in little jumps and bounds onto the card. He waited for her. Without raising her head, she said it 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 icky, reserved and superior. She had never mixed with the girls as one of themselves. If she had occasioned 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, overstrong 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 peaked 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. 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 and 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 Lettre de Montmoulin from her workbench. 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 score in the work she mechanically produced, yet the hose she made was 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. Pa! 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. End of Part 1 of Chapter 10 Chapter 10 Part 2 of Sons and Lovers This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence Chapter 10 Part 2 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 workbench 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 Cooley. 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, many, 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 them. 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 Scarlett. 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 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 clamored round. Pussy drew back from her mates. Come out, she cried. I can't have first pick, can't I, Paul? Be nice with them, he said, and went away. You are a dear, the girls cried. Ten pence, 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 23rd 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 eight thirty. 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 even 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 don't think we'd forgotten 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 twenty-one, 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 spoony, he said. There you are mistaken, she cried indignant. I couldn't 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 a 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. Hand 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. Joe, 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 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 dinnertime. 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 in the rubber right through. She lingered. He instantly caught at her wish. You were 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. Doughty and dress and drooping, she showed to great disadvantage. He could scarcely recognize 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 shattered, 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 preen 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 in 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, scarped cliffs across the river looked puny. Great stretches of country darkened with trees and faintly brightened with cornland, spread towards the haze where the hills rose blue beyond gray. 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 makeshift 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. That 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 them? Paul asked. They have been plotting something for a week now, and today 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 stiff and 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. She 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 shape and 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 smelled of ironing, the evening postman came in. Mr. Paul Morrell, he said, smiling, handing Paul a package. A lady's handwriting. Don't let the girl see it! The postman, himself a favorite, was pleased to make fun of the girl's 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 sympathize and wish you well. C.D. Paul flushed hot. Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes! She can't afford it! Good Lord! Who'd ever 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 fervor 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 Lambly for tea. Suddenly they came to a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate. She sat on the style. 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 seem to have been asleep nearly all my life. Some nambule. 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 in 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 parlor. 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's 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 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, sometime 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 the 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 prey? 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 into the concert on Sunday afternoon? Clara asked him just after Christmas. I promise to go up to Willy 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. Once you how? Once 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.