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Sons and Lovers

<h2> CHAPTER XII </h2> <h3> PASSION </h3> 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." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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