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Sons and Lovers

Occasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam and Edgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very much the same with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her presence. One evening she was alone when he accompanied her. They began by talking books: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. Morel had said that his and Miriam's affair was like a fire fed on books—if there were no more volumes it would die out. Miriam, for her part, boasted that she could read him like a book, could place her finger any minute on the chapter and the line. He, easily taken in, believed that Miriam knew more about him than anyone else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself, like the simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his own doings. It flattered him immensely that he was of such supreme interest. "And what have you been doing lately?" "I—oh, not much! I made a sketch of Bestwood from the garden, that is nearly right at last. It's the hundredth try." So they went on. Then she said: "You've not been out, then, lately?" "Yes; I went up Clifton Grove on Monday afternoon with Clara." "It was not very nice weather," said Miriam, "was it?" "But I wanted to go out, and it was all right. The Trent IS full." "And did you go to Barton?" she asked. "No; we had tea in Clifton." "DID you! That would be nice." "It was! The jolliest old woman! She gave us several pompom dahlias, as pretty as you like." Miriam bowed her head and brooded. He was quite unconscious of concealing anything from her. "What made her give them you?" she asked. He laughed. "Because she liked us—because we were jolly, I should think." Miriam put her finger in her mouth. "Were you late home?" she asked. At last he resented her tone. "I caught the seven-thirty." "Ha!" They walked on in silence, and he was angry. "And how IS Clara?" asked Miriam. "Quite all right, I think." "That's good!" she said, with a tinge of irony. "By the way, what of her husband? One never hears anything of him." "He's got some other woman, and is also quite all right," he replied. "At least, so I think." "I see—you don't know for certain. Don't you think a position like that is hard on a woman?" "Rottenly hard!" "It's so unjust!" said Miriam. "The man does as he likes—" "Then let the woman also," he said. "How can she? And if she does, look at her position!" "What of it?" "Why, it's impossible! You don't understand what a woman forfeits—" "No, I don't. But if a woman's got nothing but her fair fame to feed on, why, it's thin tack, and a donkey would die of it!" So she understood his moral attitude, at least, and she knew he would act accordingly. She never asked him anything direct, but she got to know enough. Another day, when he saw Miriam, the conversation turned to marriage, then to Clara's marriage with Dawes. "You see," he said, "she never knew the fearful importance of marriage. She thought it was all in the day's march—it would have to come—and Dawes—well, a good many women would have given their souls to get him; so why not him? Then she developed into the femme incomprise, and treated him badly, I'll bet my boots." "And she left him because he didn't understand her?" "I suppose so. I suppose she had to. It isn't altogether a question of understanding; it's a question of living. With him, she was only half-alive; the rest was dormant, deadened. And the dormant woman was the femme incomprise, and she HAD to be awakened." "And what about him." "I don't know. I rather think he loves her as much as he can, but he's a fool." "It was something like your mother and father," said Miriam. "Yes; but my mother, I believe, got real joy and satisfaction out of my father at first. I believe she had a passion for him; that's why she stayed with him. After all, they were bound to each other." "Yes," said Miriam. "That's what one MUST HAVE, I think," he continued—"the real, real flame of feeling through another person—once, only once, if it only lasts three months. See, my mother looks as if she'd HAD everything that was necessary for her living and developing. There's not a tiny bit of feeling of sterility about her." "No," said Miriam. "And with my father, at first, I'm sure she had the real thing. She knows; she has been there. You can feel it about her, and about him, and about hundreds of people you meet every day; and, once it has happened to you, you can go on with anything and ripen." "What happened, exactly?" asked Miriam. "It's so hard to say, but the something big and intense that changes you when you really come together with somebody else. It almost seems to fertilise your soul and make it that you can go on and mature." "And you think your mother had it with your father?" "Yes; and at the bottom she feels grateful to him for giving it her, even now, though they are miles apart." "And you think Clara never had it?" "I'm sure." Miriam pondered this. She saw what he was seeking—a sort of baptism of fire in passion, it seemed to her. She realised that he would never be satisfied till he had it. Perhaps it was essential to him, as to some men, to sow wild oats; and afterwards, when he was satisfied, he would not rage with restlessness any more, but could settle down and give her his life into her hands. Well, then, if he must go, let him go and have his fill—something big and intense, he called it. At any rate, when he had got it, he would not want it—that he said himself; he would want the other thing that she could give him. He would want to be owned, so that he could work. It seemed to her a bitter thing that he must go, but she could let him go into an inn for a glass of whisky, so she could let him go to Clara, so long as it was something that would satisfy a need in him, and leave him free for herself to possess. "Have you told your mother about Clara?" she asked. She knew this would be a test of the seriousness of his feeling for the other woman: she knew he was going to Clara for something vital, not as a man goes for pleasure to a prostitute, if he told his mother. "Yes," he said, "and she is coming to tea on Sunday." "To your house?" "Yes; I want mater to see her." "Ah!" There was a silence. Things had gone quicker than she thought. She felt a sudden bitterness that he could leave her so soon and so entirely. And was Clara to be accepted by his people, who had been so hostile to herself? "I may call in as I go to chapel," she said. "It is a long time since I saw Clara." "Very well," he said, astonished, and unconsciously angry. On the Sunday afternoon he went to Keston to meet Clara at the station. As he stood on the platform he was trying to examine in himself if he had a premonition. "Do I FEEL as if she'd come?" he said to himself, and he tried to find out. His heart felt queer and contracted. That seemed like foreboding. Then he HAD a foreboding she would not come! Then she would not come, and instead of taking her over the fields home, as he had imagined, he would have to go alone. The train was late; the afternoon would be wasted, and the evening. He hated her for not coming. Why had she promised, then, if she could not keep her promise? Perhaps she had missed her train—he himself was always missing trains—but that was no reason why she should miss this particular one. He was angry with her; he was furious. Suddenly he saw the train crawling, sneaking round the corner. Here, then, was the train, but of course she had not come. The green engine hissed along the platform, the row of brown carriages drew up, several doors opened. No; she had not come! No! Yes; ah, there she was! She had a big black hat on! He was at her side in a moment. "I thought you weren't coming," he said. She was laughing rather breathlessly as she put out her hand to him; their eyes met. He took her quickly along the platform, talking at a great rate to hide his feeling. She looked beautiful. In her hat were large silk roses, coloured like tarnished gold. Her costume of dark cloth fitted so beautifully over her breast and shoulders. His pride went up as he walked with her. He felt the station people, who knew him, eyed her with awe and admiration. "I was sure you weren't coming," he laughed shakily. She laughed in answer, almost with a little cry. "And I wondered, when I was in the train, WHATEVER I should do if you weren't there!" she said. He caught her hand impulsively, and they went along the narrow twitchel. They took the road into Nuttall and over the Reckoning House Farm. It was a blue, mild day. Everywhere the brown leaves lay scattered; many scarlet hips stood upon the hedge beside the wood. He gathered a few for her to wear. "Though, really," he said, as he fitted them into the breast of her coat, "you ought to object to my getting them, because of the birds. But they don't care much for rose-hips in this part, where they can get plenty of stuff. You often find the berries going rotten in the springtime." So he chattered, scarcely aware of what he said, only knowing he was putting berries in the bosom of her coat, while she stood patiently for him. And she watched his quick hands, so full of life, and it seemed to her she had never SEEN anything before. Till now, everything had been indistinct. They came near to the colliery. It stood quite still and black among the corn-fields, its immense heap of slag seen rising almost from the oats. "What a pity there is a coal-pit here where it is so pretty!" said Clara. "Do you think so?" he answered. "You see, I am so used to it I should miss it. No; and I like the pits here and there. I like the rows of trucks, and the headstocks, and the steam in the daytime, and the lights at night. When I was a boy, I always thought a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, and its lights, and the burning bank,—and I thought the Lord was always at the pit-top." As they drew near home she walked in silence, and seemed to hang back. He pressed her fingers in his own. She flushed, but gave no response. "Don't you want to come home?" he asked. "Yes, I want to come," she replied. It did not occur to him that her position in his home would be rather a peculiar and difficult one. To him it seemed just as if one of his men friends were going to be introduced to his mother, only nicer. The Morels lived in a house in an ugly street that ran down a steep hill. The street itself was hideous. The house was rather superior to most. It was old, grimy, with a big bay window, and it was semi-detached; but it looked gloomy. Then Paul opened the door to the garden, and all was different. The sunny afternoon was there, like another land. By the path grew tansy and little trees. In front of the window was a plot of sunny grass, with old lilacs round it. And away went the garden, with heaps of dishevelled chrysanthemums in the sunshine, down to the sycamore-tree, and the field, and beyond one looked over a few red-roofed cottages to the hills with all the glow of the autumn afternoon. Mrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her black silk blouse. Her grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her brow and her high temples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering, followed Paul into the kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thought her a lady, even rather stiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look, almost resigned. "Mother—Clara," said Paul. Mrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled. "He has told me a good deal about you," she said. The blood flamed in Clara's cheek. "I hope you don't mind my coming," she faltered. "I was pleased when he said he would bring you," replied Mrs. Morel. Paul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His mother looked so small, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara. "It's such a pretty day, mother!" he said. "And we saw a jay." His mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thought what a man he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale and detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart glowed; then she was sorry for Clara. "Perhaps you'll leave your things in the parlour," said Mrs. Morel nicely to the young woman. "Oh, thank you," she replied. "Come on," said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room, with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and drawing-boards. "I leave my things lying about," he said. "It's so much easier." She loved his artist's paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of people. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William's young lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being taken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow black-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her head. She looked rather stately and reserved. "You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?" said Mrs. Morel. "When I was a girl—girl, I say!—when I was a young woman WE lived in Minerva Terrace." "Oh, did you!" said Clara. "I have a friend in number 6." And the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottingham people; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs. Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very clear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paul saw. Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found herself easily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul's surprising regard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting, expecting someone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this little interested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as she felt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs. Morel's way. There was something so hard and certain in his mother, as if she never had a misgiving in her life. Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoon sleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he plodded in his stocking feet, his waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous. "This is Mrs. Dawes, father," said Paul. Then Morel pulled himself together. Clara saw Paul's manner of bowing and shaking hands. "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Morel. "I am very glad to see you—I am, I assure you. But don't disturb yourself. No, no make yourself quite comfortable, and be very welcome." Clara was astonished at this flood of hospitality from the old collier. He was so courteous, so gallant! She thought him most delightful. "And may you have come far?" he asked. "Only from Nottingham," she said. "From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful day for your journey." Then he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face, and from force of habit came on to the hearth with the towel to dry himself. At tea Clara felt the refinement and sang-froid of the household. Mrs. Morel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea and attending to the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in her talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark blue willow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little bowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the circle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the self-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone; there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where everyone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a fear deep at the bottom of her. Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was conscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming blown quickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and thither of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him. By the way she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see she was possessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman was sorry for her. Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two women to talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced through the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums. She felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet he seemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as he tied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wanted to shriek in her helplessness. Mrs. Morel rose. "You will let me help you wash up," said Clara. "Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute," said the other. Clara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be on such good terms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow him down the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if a rope were taken off her ankle. The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood across in the other garden, beside a bush of pale Michaelmas daisies, watching the last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming, he turned to her with an easy motion, saying: "It's the end of the run with these chaps." Clara stood near him. Over the low red wall in front was the country and the far-off hills, all golden dim. At that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door. She saw Clara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come to rest together. Something in their perfect isolation together made her know that it was accomplished between them, that they were, as she put it, married. She walked very slowly down the cinder-track of the long garden. Clara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breaking it to get the seeds. Above her bowed head the pink flowers stared, as if defending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive. "Count your money," laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seeds one by one from the roll of coin. She looked at him. "I'm well off," she said, smiling. "How much? Pf!" He snapped his fingers. "Can I turn them into gold?" "I'm afraid not," she laughed. They looked into each other's eyes, laughing. At that moment they became aware of Miriam. There was a click, and everything had altered. "Hello, Miriam!" he exclaimed. "You said you'd come!" "Yes. Had you forgotten?" She shook hands with Clara, saying: "It seems strange to see you here." "Yes," replied the other; "it seems strange to be here." There was a hesitation. "This is pretty, isn't it?" said Miriam. "I like it very much," replied Clara. Then Miriam realised that Clara was accepted as she had never been. "Have you come down alone?" asked Paul. "Yes; I went to Agatha's to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called in for a moment to see Clara." "You should have come in here to tea," he said. Miriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside. "Do you like the chrysanthemums?" he asked. "Yes; they are very fine," replied Miriam. "Which sort do you like best?" he asked. "I don't know. The bronze, I think." "I don't think you've seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see which are YOUR favourites, Clara." He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsled bushes of flowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path down to the field. The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge. "Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden. They aren't so fine here, are they?" "No," said Miriam. "But they're hardier. You're so sheltered; things grow big and tender, and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?" While they were out there the bells began to ring in the church, sounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at the tower, proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he had brought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her even yet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors. "What! is that Miriam?" asked his mother coldly. "Yes; she said she'd call and see Clara." "You told her, then?" came the sarcastic answer. "Yes; why shouldn't I?" "There's certainly no reason why you shouldn't," said Mrs. Morel, and she returned to her book. He winced from his mother's irony, frowned irritably, thinking: "Why can't I do as I like?" "You've not seen Mrs. Morel before?" Miriam was saying to Clara. "No; but she's so nice!" "Yes," said Miriam, dropping her head; "in some ways she's very fine." "I should think so." "Had Paul told you much about her?" "He had talked a good deal." "Ha!" There was silence until he returned with the book. "When will you want it back?" Miriam asked. "When you like," he answered. Clara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriam to the gate. "When will you come up to Willey Farm?" the latter asked. "I couldn't say," replied Clara. "Mother asked me to say she'd be pleased to see you any time, if you cared to come." "Thank you; I should like to, but I can't say when." "Oh, very well!" exclaimed Miriam rather bitterly, turning away. She went down the path with her mouth to the flowers he had given her. "You're sure you won't come in?" he said. "No, thanks." "We are going to chapel." "Ah, I shall see you, then!" Miriam was very bitter. "Yes." They parted. He felt guilty towards her. She was bitter, and she scorned him. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could have Clara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give her the same hymn-book he had given herself years before. She heard him running quickly indoors. But he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass, he heard his mother's voice, then Clara's answer: "What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam." "Yes," said his mother quickly, "yes; DOESN'T it make you hate her, now!" His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about the girl. What right had they to say that? Something in the speech itself stung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heart rebelled furiously at Clara's taking the liberty of speaking so about Miriam. After all, the girl was the better woman of the two, he thought, if it came to goodness. He went indoors. His mother looked excited. She was beating with her hand rhythmically on the sofa-arm, as women do who are wearing out. He could never bear to see the movement. There was a silence; then he began to talk. In chapel Miriam saw him find the place in the hymn-book for Clara, in exactly the same way as he used for herself. And during the sermon he could see the girl across the chapel, her hat throwing a dark shadow over her face. What did she think, seeing Clara with him? He did not stop to consider. He felt himself cruel towards Miriam. After chapel he went over Pentrich with Clara. It was a dark autumn night. They had said good-bye to Miriam, and his heart had smitten him as he left the girl alone. "But it serves her right," he said inside himself, and it almost gave him pleasure to go off under her eyes with this other handsome woman. There was a scent of damp leaves in the darkness. Clara's hand lay warm and inert in his own as they walked. He was full of conflict. The battle that raged inside him made him feel desperate. Up Pentrich Hill Clara leaned against him as he went. He slid his arm round her waist. Feeling the strong motion of her body under his arm as she walked, the tightness in his chest because of Miriam relaxed, and the hot blood bathed him. He held her closer and closer. Then: "You still keep on with Miriam," she said quietly. "Only talk. There never WAS a great deal more than talk between us," he said bitterly. "Your mother doesn't care for her," said Clara. "No, or I might have married her. But it's all up really!" Suddenly his voice went passionate with hate. "If I was with her now, we should be jawing about the 'Christian Mystery', or some such tack. Thank God, I'm not!" They walked on in silence for some time. "But you can't really give her up," said Clara. "I don't give her up, because there's nothing to give," he said. "There is for her." "I don't know why she and I shouldn't be friends as long as we live," he said. "But it'll only be friends." Clara drew away from him, leaning away from contact with him. "What are you drawing away for?" he asked. She did not answer, but drew farther from him. "Why do you want to walk alone?" he asked. Still there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head. "Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!" he exclaimed. She would not answer him anything. "I tell you it's only words that go between us," he persisted, trying to take her again. She resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring her way. "Damn it!" he said. "What do you want now?" "You'd better run after Miriam," mocked Clara. The blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She drooped sulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her in his arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss of rage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard and relentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall of his chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, and kissed her. He heard people coming down the hill. "Stand up! stand up!" he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. If he had let go, she would have sunk to the ground. She sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence. "We will go over the fields," he said; and then she woke up. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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