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Sons and Lovers

<h2> CHAPTER XIV </h2> <h3> THE RELEASE </h3> "By the way," said Dr. Ansell one evening when Morel was in Sheffield, "we've got a man in the fever hospital here who comes from Nottingham—Dawes. He doesn't seem to have many belongings in this world." "Baxter Dawes!" Paul exclaimed. "That's the man—has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think. Been in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?" "He used to work at the place where I am." "Did he? Do you know anything about him? He's just sulking, or he'd be a lot better than he is by now." "I don't know anything of his home circumstances, except that he's separated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell him about me, will you? Tell him I'll come and see him." The next time Morel saw the doctor he said: "And what about Dawes?" "I said to him," answered the other, "'Do you know a man from Nottingham named Morel?' and he looked at me as if he'd jump at my throat. So I said: 'I see you know the name; it's Paul Morel.' Then I told him about your saying you would go and see him. 'What does he want?' he said, as if you were a policeman." "And did he say he would see me?" asked Paul. "He wouldn't say anything—good, bad or indifferent," replied the doctor. "Why not?" "That's what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in, day out. Can't get a word of information out of him." "Do you think I might go?" asked Paul. "You might." There was a feeling of connection between the rival men, more than ever since they had fought. In a way Morel felt guilty towards the other, and more or less responsible. And being in such a state of soul himself, he felt an almost painful nearness to Dawes, who was suffering and despairing, too. Besides, they had met in a naked extremity of hate, and it was a bond. At any rate, the elemental man in each had met. He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. Ansell's card. This sister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him down the ward. "A visitor to see you, Jim Crow," she said. Dawes turned over suddenly with a startled grunt. "Eh?" "Caw!" she mocked. "He can only say 'Caw!' I have brought you a gentleman to see you. Now say 'Thank you,' and show some manners." Dawes looked swiftly with his dark, startled eyes beyond the sister at Paul. His look was full of fear, mistrust, hate, and misery. Morel met the swift, dark eyes, and hesitated. The two men were afraid of the naked selves they had been. "Dr. Ansell told me you were here," said Morel, holding out his hand. Dawes mechanically shook hands. "So I thought I'd come in," continued Paul. There was no answer. Dawes lay staring at the opposite wall. "Say 'Caw!"' mocked the nurse. "Say 'Caw!' Jim Crow." "He is getting on all right?" said Paul to her. "Oh yes! He lies and imagines he's going to die," said the nurse, "and it frightens every word out of his mouth." "And you MUST have somebody to talk to," laughed Morel. "That's it!" laughed the nurse. "Only two old men and a boy who always cries. It is hard lines! Here am I dying to hear Jim Crow's voice, and nothing but an odd 'Caw!' will he give!" "So rough on you!" said Morel. "Isn't it?" said the nurse. "I suppose I am a godsend," he laughed. "Oh, dropped straight from heaven!" laughed the nurse. Presently she left the two men alone. Dawes was thinner, and handsome again, but life seemed low in him. As the doctor said, he was lying sulking, and would not move forward towards convalescence. He seemed to grudge every beat of his heart. "Have you had a bad time?" asked Paul. Suddenly again Dawes looked at him. "What are you doing in Sheffield?" he asked. "My mother was taken ill at my sister's in Thurston Street. What are you doing here?" There was no answer. "How long have you been in?" Morel asked. "I couldn't say for sure," Dawes answered grudgingly. He lay staring across at the wall opposite, as if trying to believe Morel was not there. Paul felt his heart go hard and angry. "Dr. Ansell told me you were here," he said coldly. The other man did not answer. "Typhoid's pretty bad, I know," Morel persisted. Suddenly Dawes said: "What did you come for?" "Because Dr. Ansell said you didn't know anybody here. Do you?" "I know nobody nowhere," said Dawes. "Well," said Paul, "it's because you don't choose to, then." There was another silence. "We s'll be taking my mother home as soon as we can," said Paul. "What's a-matter with her?" asked Dawes, with a sick man's interest in illness. "She's got a cancer." There was another silence. "But we want to get her home," said Paul. "We s'll have to get a motor-car." Dawes lay thinking. "Why don't you ask Thomas Jordan to lend you his?" said Dawes. "It's not big enough," Morel answered. Dawes blinked his dark eyes as he lay thinking. "Then ask Jack Pilkington; he'd lend it you. You know him." "I think I s'll hire one," said Paul. "You're a fool if you do," said Dawes. The sick man was gaunt and handsome again. Paul was sorry for him because his eyes looked so tired. "Did you get a job here?" he asked. "I was only here a day or two before I was taken bad," Dawes replied. "You want to get in a convalescent home," said Paul. The other's face clouded again. "I'm goin' in no convalescent home," he said. "My father's been in the one at Seathorpe, an' he liked it. Dr. Ansell would get you a recommend." Dawes lay thinking. It was evident he dared not face the world again. "The seaside would be all right just now," Morel said. "Sun on those sandhills, and the waves not far out." The other did not answer. "By Gad!" Paul concluded, too miserable to bother much; "it's all right when you know you're going to walk again, and swim!" Dawes glanced at him quickly. The man's dark eyes were afraid to meet any other eyes in the world. But the real misery and helplessness in Paul's tone gave him a feeling of relief. "Is she far gone?" he asked. "She's going like wax," Paul answered; "but cheerful—lively!" He bit his lip. After a minute he rose. "Well, I'll be going," he said. "I'll leave you this half-crown." "I don't want it," Dawes muttered. Morel did not answer, but left the coin on the table. "Well," he said, "I'll try and run in when I'm back in Sheffield. Happen you might like to see my brother-in-law? He works in Pyecrofts." "I don't know him," said Dawes. "He's all right. Should I tell him to come? He might bring you some papers to look at." The other man did not answer. Paul went. The strong emotion that Dawes aroused in him, repressed, made him shiver. He did not tell his mother, but next day he spoke to Clara about this interview. It was in the dinner-hour. The two did not often go out together now, but this day he asked her to go with him to the Castle grounds. There they sat while the scarlet geraniums and the yellow calceolarias blazed in the sunlight. She was now always rather protective, and rather resentful towards him. "Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?" he asked. She looked at him with startled grey eyes, and her face went pale. "No," she said, frightened. "He's getting better. I went to see him yesterday—the doctor told me." Clara seemed stricken by the news. "Is he very bad?" she asked guiltily. "He has been. He's mending now." "What did he say to you?" "Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking." There was a distance between the two of them. He gave her more information. She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk together, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance from him. He was wanting her comfort badly. "Won't you be nice with me?" he asked. She did not answer. "What's the matter?" he said, putting his arm across her shoulder. "Don't!" she said, disengaging herself. He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding. "Is it Baxter that upsets you?" he asked at length. "I HAVE been VILE to him!" she said. "I've said many a time you haven't treated him well," he replied. And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of thought. "I've treated him—no, I've treated him badly," she said. "And now you treat ME badly. It serves me right." "How do I treat you badly?" he said. "It serves me right," she repeated. "I never considered him worth having, and now you don't consider ME. But it serves me right. He loved me a thousand times better than you ever did." "He didn't!" protested Paul. "He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that's what you don't do." "It looked as if he respected you!" he said. "He did! And I MADE him horrid—I know I did! You've taught me that. And he loved me a thousand times better than ever you do." "All right," said Paul. He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was almost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He was not sorry when he left her. She went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. The meeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money. She wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As she looked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only she wanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now to be self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel really love her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So she kneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distance between them was still very great—too great. It frightened the man. It almost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him across an insuperable distance. She was proud now. Morel went to see Dawes once or twice. There was a sort of friendship between the two men, who were all the while deadly rivals. But they never mentioned the woman who was between them. Mrs. Morel got gradually worse. At first they used to carry her downstairs, sometimes even into the garden. She sat propped in her chair, smiling, and so pretty. The gold wedding-ring shone on her white hand; her hair was carefully brushed. And she watched the tangled sunflowers dying, the chrysanthemums coming out, and the dahlias. Paul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that she was dying. But they kept up a pretence of cheerfulness. Every morning, when he got up, he went into her room in his pyjamas. "Did you sleep, my dear?" he asked. "Yes," she answered. "Not very well?" "Well, yes!" Then he knew she had lain awake. He saw her hand under the bedclothes, pressing the place on her side where the pain was. "Has it been bad?" he asked. "No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention." And she sniffed in her old scornful way. As she lay she looked like a girl. And all the while her blue eyes watched him. But there were the dark pain-circles beneath that made him ache again. "It's a sunny day," he said. "It's a beautiful day." "Do you think you'll be carried down?" "I shall see." Then he went away to get her breakfast. All day long he was conscious of nothing but her. It was a long ache that made him feverish. Then, when he got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window. She was not there; she had not got up. He ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask: "Didn't you get up, pigeon?" "No," she said, "it was that morphia; it made me tired." "I think he gives you too much," he said. "I think he does," she answered. He sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying on her side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear. "Doesn't it tickle you?" he said, gently putting it back. "It does," she replied. His face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like a girl's—warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror, agony, and love. "You want your hair doing in a plait," he said. "Lie still." And going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. It was like fine long silk of brown and grey. Her head was snuggled between her shoulders. As he lightly brushed and plaited her hair, he bit his lip and felt dazed. It all seemed unreal, he could not understand it. At night he often worked in her room, looking up from time to time. And so often he found her blue eyes fixed on him. And when their eyes met, she smiled. He worked away again mechanically, producing good stuff without knowing what he was doing. Sometimes he came in, very pale and still, with watchful, sudden eyes, like a man who is drunk almost to death. They were both afraid of the veils that were ripping between them. Then she pretended to be better, chattered to him gaily, made a great fuss over some scraps of news. For they had both come to the condition when they had to make much of the trifles, lest they should give in to the big thing, and their human independence would go smash. They were afraid, so they made light of things and were gay. Sometimes as she lay he knew she was thinking of the past. Her mouth gradually shut hard in a line. She was holding herself rigid, so that she might die without ever uttering the great cry that was tearing from her. He never forgot that hard, utterly lonely and stubborn clenching of her mouth, which persisted for weeks. Sometimes, when it was lighter, she talked about her husband. Now she hated him. She did not forgive him. She could not bear him to be in the room. And a few things, the things that had been most bitter to her, came up again so strongly that they broke from her, and she told her son. He felt as if his life were being destroyed, piece by piece, within him. Often the tears came suddenly. He ran to the station, the tear-drops falling on the pavement. Often he could not go on with his work. The pen stopped writing. He sat staring, quite unconscious. And when he came round again he felt sick, and trembled in his limbs. He never questioned what it was. His mind did not try to analyse or understand. He merely submitted, and kept his eyes shut; let the thing go over him. His mother did the same. She thought of the pain, of the morphia, of the next day; hardly ever of the death. That was coming, she knew. She had to submit to it. But she would never entreat it or make friends with it. Blind, with her face shut hard and blind, she was pushed towards the door. The days passed, the weeks, the months. Sometimes, in the sunny afternoons, she seemed almost happy. "I try to think of the nice times—when we went to Mablethorpe, and Robin Hood's Bay, and Shanklin," she said. "After all, not everybody has seen those beautiful places. And wasn't it beautiful! I try to think of that, not of the other things." Then, again, for a whole evening she spoke not a word; neither did he. They were together, rigid, stubborn, silent. He went into his room at last to go to bed, and leaned against the doorway as if paralysed, unable to go any farther. His consciousness went. A furious storm, he knew not what, seemed to ravage inside him. He stood leaning there, submitting, never questioning. In the morning they were both normal again, though her face was grey with the morphia, and her body felt like ash. But they were bright again, nevertheless. Often, especially if Annie or Arthur were at home, he neglected her. He did not see much of Clara. Usually he was with men. He was quick and active and lively; but when his friends saw him go white to the gills, his eyes dark and glittering, they had a certain mistrust of him. Sometimes he went to Clara, but she was almost cold to him. "Take me!" he said simply. Occasionally she would. But she was afraid. When he had her then, there was something in it that made her shrink away from him—something unnatural. She grew to dread him. He was so quiet, yet so strange. She was afraid of the man who was not there with her, whom she could feel behind this make-belief lover; somebody sinister, that filled her with horror. She began to have a kind of horror of him. It was almost as if he were a criminal. He wanted her—he had her—and it made her feel as if death itself had her in its grip. She lay in horror. There was no man there loving her. She almost hated him. Then came little bouts of tenderness. But she dared not pity him. Dawes had come to Colonel Seely's Home near Nottingham. There Paul visited him sometimes, Clara very occasionally. Between the two men the friendship developed peculiarly. Dawes, who mended very slowly and seemed very feeble, seemed to leave himself in the hands of Morel. In the beginning of November Clara reminded Paul that it was her birthday. "I'd nearly forgotten," he said. "I'd thought quite," she replied. "No. Shall we go to the seaside for the week-end?" They went. It was cold and rather dismal. She waited for him to be warm and tender with her, instead of which he seemed hardly aware of her. He sat in the railway-carriage, looking out, and was startled when she spoke to him. He was not definitely thinking. Things seemed as if they did not exist. She went across to him. "What is it dear?" she asked. "Nothing!" he said. "Don't those windmill sails look monotonous?" He sat holding her hand. He could not talk nor think. It was a comfort, however, to sit holding her hand. She was dissatisfied and miserable. He was not with her; she was nothing. And in the evening they sat among the sandhills, looking at the black, heavy sea. "She will never give in," he said quietly. Clara's heart sank. "No," she replied. "There are different ways of dying. My father's people are frightened, and have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into a slaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother's people are pushed from behind, inch by inch. They are stubborn people, and won't die." "Yes," said Clara. "And she won't die. She can't. Mr. Renshaw, the parson, was in the other day. 'Think!' he said to her; 'you will have your mother and father, and your sisters, and your son, in the Other Land.' And she said: 'I have done without them for a long time, and CAN do without them now. It is the living I want, not the dead.' She wants to live even now." "Oh, how horrible!" said Clara, too frightened to speak. "And she looks at me, and she wants to stay with me," he went on monotonously. "She's got such a will, it seems as if she would never go—never!" "Don't think of it!" cried Clara. "And she was religious—she is religious now—but it is no good. She simply won't give in. And do you know, I said to her on Thursday: 'Mother, if I had to die, I'd die. I'd WILL to die.' And she said to me, sharp: 'Do you think I haven't? Do you think you can die when you like?'" His voice ceased. He did not cry, only went on speaking monotonously. Clara wanted to run. She looked round. There was the black, re-echoing shore, the dark sky down on her. She got up terrified. She wanted to be where there was light, where there were other people. She wanted to be away from him. He sat with his head dropped, not moving a muscle. "And I don't want her to eat," he said, "and she knows it. When I ask her: 'Shall you have anything' she's almost afraid to say 'Yes.' 'I'll have a cup of Benger's,' she says. 'It'll only keep your strength up,' I said to her. 'Yes'—and she almost cried—'but there's such a gnawing when I eat nothing, I can't bear it.' So I went and made her the food. It's the cancer that gnaws like that at her. I wish she'd die!" "Come!" said Clara roughly. "I'm going." He followed her down the darkness of the sands. He did not come to her. He seemed scarcely aware of her existence. And she was afraid of him, and disliked him. In the same acute daze they went back to Nottingham. He was always busy, always doing something, always going from one to the other of his friends. On the Monday he went to see Baxter Dawes. Listless and pale, the man rose to greet the other, clinging to his chair as he held out his hand. "You shouldn't get up," said Paul. Dawes sat down heavily, eyeing Morel with a sort of suspicion. "Don't you waste your time on me," he said, "if you've owt better to do." "I wanted to come," said Paul. "Here! I brought you some sweets." The invalid put them aside. "It's not been much of a week-end," said Morel. "How's your mother?" asked the other. "Hardly any different." "I thought she was perhaps worse, being as you didn't come on Sunday." "I was at Skegness," said Paul. "I wanted a change." The other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be waiting, not quite daring to ask, trusting to be told. "I went with Clara," said Paul. "I knew as much," said Dawes quietly. "It was an old promise," said Paul. "You have it your own way," said Dawes. This was the first time Clara had been definitely mentioned between them. "Nay," said Morel slowly; "she's tired of me." Again Dawes looked at him. "Since August she's been getting tired of me," Morel repeated. The two men were very quiet together. Paul suggested a game of draughts. They played in silence. "I s'll go abroad when my mother's dead," said Paul. "Abroad!" repeated Dawes. "Yes; I don't care what I do." They continued the game. Dawes was winning. "I s'll have to begin a new start of some sort," said Paul; "and you as well, I suppose." He took one of Dawes's pieces. "I dunno where," said the other. "Things have to happen," Morel said. "It's no good doing anything—at least—no, I don't know. Give me some toffee." The two men ate sweets, and began another game of draughts. "What made that scar on your mouth?" asked Dawes. Paul put his hand hastily to his lips, and looked over the garden. "I had a bicycle accident," he said. Dawes's hand trembled as he moved the piece. "You shouldn't ha' laughed at me," he said, very low. "When?" "That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me—you with your hand on her shoulder." "I never laughed at you," said Paul. Dawes kept his fingers on the draught-piece. "I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed," said Morel. "It was that as did me," Dawes said, very low. Paul took another sweet. "I never laughed," he said, "except as I'm always laughing." They finished the game. That night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have something to do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the black clouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles of highroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the black levels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick-room. If he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to. He was not tired when he got near home, or He did not know it. Across the field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window. "When she's dead," he said to himself, "that fire will go out." He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mothers door was wide open, because she slept alone still. The red firelight dashed its glow on the landing. Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway. "Paul!" she murmured. His heart seemed to break again. He went in and sat by the bed. "How late you are!" she murmured. "Not very," he said. "Why, what time is it?" The murmur came plaintive and helpless. "It's only just gone eleven." That was not true; it was nearly one o'clock. "Oh!" she said; "I thought it was later." And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go. "Can't you sleep, my pigeon?" he said. "No, I can't," she wailed. "Never mind, Little!" He said crooning. "Never mind, my love. I'll stop with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better." And he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her brows with his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding her fingers in his free hand. They could hear the sleepers' breathing in the other rooms. "Now go to bed," she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers and his love. "Will you sleep?" he asked. "Yes, I think so." "You feel better, my Little, don't you?" "Yes," she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child. Still the days and the weeks went by. He hardly ever went to see Clara now. But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for some help, and there was none anywhere. Miriam had written to him tenderly. He went to see her. Her heart was very sore when she saw him, white, gaunt, with his eyes dark and bewildered. Her pity came up, hurting her till she could not bear it. "How is she?" she asked. "The same—the same!" he said. "The doctor says she can't last, but I know she will. She'll be here at Christmas." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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