•JolMaWiiSit 
 
URIS LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924010564429 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 6023.A96S6 1913 
 
 Sons and lovers / 
 
 3 1924 010 564 429 
 
SONS AND LOVERS 
 
Sons and Lovers 
 
 D. H. LAWRENCE 
 
 URIO LiBRARYTHE viking press 
 m 2 1983 ^'"^ ^^'^ 
 
COPYMGHT 1913 BY THOMAS SELTZER, INC. 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 <&iCA,^^' 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 1. The Early Married Life of the Morels 3 
 
 2. The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle 29 
 
 3. The Castmg Off of Morel-The Taking on of William 48 
 
 4. The Young Life of Paul 61 
 
 5. Paul Launches into Life 87 
 
 6. Death in the Family 118 
 
 PART n 
 
 7. Lad-and-Girl Love 151 
 
 8. Strife in Love 189 
 
 9. Defeat of Miriam 226 
 
 10. Clara 264 
 
 11. The Test on Miriam 290 
 
 12. Passion 313 
 
 13. Baxter Dawes 355 
 
 14. The Release 393 
 
 15. DereUct 425 
 
SONS AND LOVERS 
 
PART ONE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 The Early Married Life of the Morels 
 
 "The Bottoms" succeeded to "Hell Row". Hell Row was a block 
 of thatched, bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Green- 
 hill Lane. There Uved the colliers who worked in the Uttle gin-pits 
 two fields away. The brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled 
 by these small mines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by don- 
 keys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the 
 countryside were these same pits, some of which had been worked 
 in the time of Charles II, the few colliers and the donkeys burrow- 
 ing down like ants into the earth, making queer mounds and little 
 black places among the corn-fields and the meadows. And the cot- 
 tages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs here and there, to- 
 gether with odd farms and homes of the stockingers, straymg over 
 the parish, formed the village of Bestwood. 
 
 Then, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place. The 
 gin-pits were elbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The 
 coal and uron field of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discov- 
 ered. Carston, Waite and Co. appeared. Amid tremendous excite- 
 ment. Lord Palmerston formally opened the company's first mine 
 at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood Forest. 
 
 About this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing 
 old had acquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much 
 dirt was cleansed away. 
 
 Carston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, 
 down the valleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines 
 were sunk, until soon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, 
 high up on the sandstone among the woods, the railway ran, past 
 the ruined priory of the Carthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, 
 down to Spinney Park, then on to Minton, a large mine among 
 corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands of the valleyside to 
 
4 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and running north to Beggarlee 
 and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of Derbyshire: six 
 mines Uke black studs on the countryside, linked by a loop of fine 
 chain, the railway. 
 
 To accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and 
 Co. built the Squares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hill- 
 side of Bestwood, and then, in the brook valley, on the site of HeU 
 Row, they erected the Bottoms. 
 
 The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two 
 rows of three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve 
 houses m a block. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of 
 the rather sharp slope from Bestwood, and looked out, from the 
 attic windows at least, on the slow chmb of the valley towards Selby. 
 
 The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One 
 could walk all round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and 
 saxifrage in the shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and 
 pinks in the sunny top block; seeing neat front windows, little 
 porches, little privet hedges, and dormer wmdows for the attics. 
 But that was outside; that was the view on to the iminhabited par- 
 lours of all the colliers' wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was 
 at the back of the house, facing inward between the blocks, look- 
 ing at a scrubby back garden, and then at the ash-pits. And between 
 the rows, between the long Unes of ash-pits, went the alley, where 
 the children played and the women gossiped and the men smoked. 
 So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, that was so 
 well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury because 
 people must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that 
 nasty alley of ash-pits. 
 
 Mis. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which 
 was already twelve years old and on the downward path, when 
 she descended to it from Bestwood. But it was the best she could 
 do. Moreover, she had an end house in one of the top blocks, and 
 thus had only one neighbour; on the other side an extra strip of 
 garden. And, having an end house, she enjoyed a kind of aristoc- 
 racy among the other women of the "between" houses, because 
 her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead of five shillings a 
 week. But this superiority in station was not much consolation to 
 Mrs. Morel. 
 
 She was thirty-one years old, and had been married eigjit years. 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 5 
 
 A rather small woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she 
 shrank a little from the first contact with the Bottoms women. She 
 came down in the July, and in the September expected her third 
 baby. 
 
 Her husband was a miner. They had only been in their new 
 home three weeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she 
 knew, was sure to make a hoUday of it. He went off early on the 
 Monday morning, the day of the fair. The two children were highly 
 excited. William, a boy of seven, fled off immediately after break- 
 fast, to prowl round the wakes ground, leaving Annie, who was 
 only five, to whine aU morning to go also. Mrs. Morel did her work. 
 She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew no one with whom 
 to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her to the wakes af- 
 ter dinner. 
 
 William appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad, 
 fak-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about 
 him. 
 
 "Can I have my dinner, mother?" he cried, rushing in with his 
 cap on. " 'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so." 
 
 "You can have your dinner as soon as it's done," repUed the 
 mother, 
 
 "Isn't it done?" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indigna- 
 tion. "Then I'm goin' be-out it." 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. 
 It is only half-past twelve." 
 
 "They'll be beginnin'," the boy half cried, half shouted. 
 
 "You won't die if they do," said the mother. "Besides, it's 
 only half-past twelve, so you've a full hour." 
 
 The lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat 
 down. They were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy 
 jimiped off his chair and stood perfectly still. Some distance away 
 could be heard the first small braying of a merry-go-round, and 
 the tooting of a horn. His face quivered as he looked at his mother. 
 
 "I told you!" he said, running to the dresser for his cap. 
 
 "Take your pudding in your hand— and it's only five past one, 
 so you were wrong— you haven't got your twopence," cried the 
 mother in a breath. 
 
 The boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then 
 went off without a word. 
 
6 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I want to go, I want to go," said Annie, beginning to cry. 
 
 "Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!" said 
 the mother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill 
 under the tall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from 
 the fields, and catde were turned on to the eddish. It was 
 warm, peaceful. 
 
 Mrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of 
 horses, one going by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three or- 
 gans were grinding, and there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, 
 fearful screeching of the cocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt 
 Sally man, screeches from the peep-show lady. The mother per- 
 ceived her son gazing enraptured outside the Lion Wallace booth, 
 at the pictures of this famous Uon that had killed a negro and 
 maimed for life two white men. She left him alone, and went to 
 get Annie a spin of tofiEee. Presently the lad stood in front of her, 
 wildly excited. 
 
 "You never said you was coming— isn't the' a lot of things?— 
 that lion's killed three men— I've spent my tuppence— an' look 
 here." 
 
 He pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses 
 on them. 
 
 "I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles in 
 them holes. An' I got these two in two goes— 'aepenny a go— they've 
 got moss-roses on, look here. I wanted these." 
 
 She knew he wanted them for her. 
 
 "H'm!" she said, pleased. "They are pretty!" 
 
 "Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?" 
 
 He was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about 
 the ground, showed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she 
 explained the pictures, in a sort of story, to which he Ustened as if 
 spellbound. He would not leave her. All the time he stuck close to 
 her, bristling with a small boy's pride of her. For no other woman 
 looked such a lady as she did, in her little black boimet and her 
 cloak. She smiled when she saw women she knew. When she was 
 tired she said to her son: 
 
 "Well, are you coming now, or later?" 
 
 "Are you goin' a'ready?" he cried, his face full of reproach. 
 
 "Already? It is past four, / know." 
 
 "What are you goin' a'ready for?" he lamented. 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 7 
 
 "You needn't come if you don't want," she said. 
 
 And she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son 
 stood watching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable 
 to leave the wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the 
 Moon and Stars she heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, 
 and hurried a little, thinking her husband was probably in the bar. 
 
 At about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather 
 pale, and somewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did 
 not know it, because he had let her go alone. Since she had gone, 
 he had not enjoyed his wakes. 
 
 "Has my dad been?" he asked. 
 
 "No," said the mother. 
 
 "He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through 
 that black tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves 
 rolled up." 
 
 "Ha!" exclaimed the mother shortly. "He's got no money. An' 
 he'll be satisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him 
 more or not." 
 
 When the Ught was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more 
 to sew, she rose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound 
 of excitement, the restlessness of the holiday, that at last infected 
 her. She went out into the side garden. Women were coming home 
 from the wakes, the children hugging a white lamb with green legs, 
 or a wooden horse. Occasionally a man lurched past, almost as 
 full as he could carry. Sometimes a good husband came along with 
 his family, peacefully. But usually the women and children were 
 alone. The stay-at-home mothers stood gossiping at the comers 
 of the alley, as the twiUght sank, folding their arms under their 
 white aprons. 
 
 Mrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her 
 little girl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind 
 her, fixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. 
 The world seemed a dreary place, where nothing else would hap- 
 pen for her— at least imtU William grew up. But for herself, nothing 
 but this dreary endurance— till the children grew up. And the chil- 
 dren! She could not afford to have this third. She did not want it. 
 The father was serving beer in a public house, swilling himself 
 drunk. She despised him, and was tied to him. This coming child 
 was too much for her. If it were not for William and Annie, she 
 
8 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 was sick of it, the struggle with poverty and ugliness and meanness. 
 
 She went into the front garden, feehng too heavy to take herself 
 out, yet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And look- 
 ing ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she 
 were buried alive. 
 
 The front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There 
 she stood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and 
 the fading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the 
 stile that led uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow 
 of the cut pastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with 
 light. The glow sank quickly off the field; the earth and the hedges 
 smoked dusk. As it grew dark, a ruddy glare came out on the hill- 
 top, and out of the glare the diminished conmiotion of the fair. 
 
 Sometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path 
 under the hedges, men came lurching home. One young man 
 lapsed mto a run down the steep bit that ended the hill, and went 
 with a crash into the stile. Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked him- 
 self up, swearing viciously, rather pathetically, as if he thought the 
 stile had wanted to hurt him. 
 
 She went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. 
 She was beginning by now to realise that they would not. She 
 seemed so far away from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the 
 same person walking heavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as 
 had run so lightly up the breakwater at Sheemess ten years before. 
 
 "What have / to do with it?" she said to herself. "What have I 
 to do with all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't 
 seem as if / were taken into account." 
 
 Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accom- 
 plishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it 
 were slurred over. 
 
 "I wait," Mrs. Morel said to herself— "I wait, and what I wait 
 for can never come." 
 
 Then she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, 
 looked out the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After 
 which she sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her 
 needle flashed regularly through the stuff. OccasionaUy she sighed, 
 moving to reUeve herself. And all the time she was thinking how 
 to make the most of what she had, for the children's sakes. 
 
 At half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 9 
 
 red and very shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded 
 sUghtly. He was pleased with himself. 
 
 "Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpm' Anthony, an' 
 what's think he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'f-crown, an' that's 
 ivry penny — " 
 
 "He thinks you've made the rest up in beer," she said shortly. 
 
 "An' I 'aven't-that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very Uttle 
 this day, I have an' all." His voice went tender. "Here, an' I browt 
 thee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children." He laid 
 the gmgerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. 
 "Nay, tha niver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?" 
 
 As a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, 
 to see if it had any milk. 
 
 "It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' Bill 
 Hodgkisson. 'Bill,' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does 
 ter? Arena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I 
 ham, Walter, my lad,' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind.' An' 
 so I took one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is 
 eyes, but 'e says, "Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt.' An' 
 so, yer see, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, 
 'e's a nice chap!" 
 
 "A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're 
 drunk along with him," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Eh, tha mucky Uttle 'ussy, who's drunk, I sh'd like ter know?" 
 said Morel. He was extraordmarily pleased with himself, because 
 of his day's helping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered 
 on. 
 
 Mrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as 
 quickly as possible, while he raked the fire. 
 
 Mrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, famous mde- 
 pendents who had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who 
 remained stout CongregationaUsts. Her grandfather had gone 
 bankrupt in the lace-market at a time when so many lace- 
 manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Her father, George 
 Coppard, was an engineer— a large, handsome, haughty man, 
 proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of his 
 integrity. Gertrude resembled her mother m her small build. But 
 her temper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards. 
 
 George Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He be- 
 
10 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 came foreman of the engineers in the dockyard at Sheemess. Mrs. 
 Morel— Gertrude— was the second daughter. She favoured her 
 mother, loved her mother best of aU; but she had the Coppards' 
 clear, defiant blue eyes and their broad brow. She remembered to 
 have hated her father's overbearing manner towards her gentle, 
 humorous, kindly-souled mother. She remembered running over 
 the breakwater at Sheemess and finding the boat. She remembered 
 to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she had gone 
 to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. She 
 remembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had be- 
 come, whom she had loved to help in the private school. And she 
 stUl had the Bible that John Field had given her. She used to walk 
 home from chapel with John Field when she was nineteen. He was 
 the son of a well-to-do tradesman, had been to college in London, 
 and was to devote himself to business. 
 
 She could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, 
 when they had sat under the vine at the back of her father's house. 
 The sun came through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made 
 beautiful patterns, like a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some 
 of the leaves were clean yellow, like yellow flat flowers. 
 
 "Now sit stiU," he had cried. "Now your hair, I don't know what 
 it is like! It's as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, 
 and it has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their say- 
 ing it's brown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour." 
 
 She had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed 
 the elation which rose within her. 
 
 "But you say you don't Uke business," she pursued. 
 
 "I don't. I hate it!" he cried hotly. 
 
 "And you would like to go into the ministry," she half implored. 
 
 "I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate 
 preacher." 
 
 "Then why don't you— why donft you?" Her voice rang with de- 
 fiance. "If / were a man, nothing would stop me." 
 
 She held her head erect. He was rather timid before her. 
 
 "But my father's so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the 
 business, and I know he'll do it." 
 
 "But if you're a man?" she had cried. 
 
 "Being a man isn't everything," he replied, frowning with puz- 
 zled helplessness. 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 11 
 
 Now, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some 
 experience of what being a man meant, she knew that it was not 
 everything. 
 
 At twenty, owing to her health, she had left Sheemess. Her fa- 
 ther had retired home to Nottingham. John Field's father had been 
 ruined; the son had gone as a teacher in Norwood. She did not 
 hear of him until, two years later, she made determined inquiry. 
 He had married his landlady, a woman of forty, a widow with 
 property. 
 
 And still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's Bible. She did not 
 now believe him to be — Well, she understood pretty well what 
 he might or might not have been. So she preserved his Bible, and 
 kept his memory intact in her heart, for her own sake. To her dy- 
 ing day, for thirty-five years, she did not speak of him. 
 
 When she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas 
 party, a young man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then 
 twenty-seven years old. He was well set-up, erect, and very smart. 
 He had wavy black hair that shone again, and a vigorous black 
 beard that had never been shaved. His cheeks were ruddy, and his 
 red, moist mouth was noticeable because he laughed so often and 
 so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich, ringing laugh. Gertrude 
 Coppard had watched him, fascmated. He was so full of colour 
 and animation, his voice ran so easily into comic grotesque, he 
 was so ready and so pleasant with everybody. Her own father had 
 a rich fund of humour, but it was satiric. This man's was different: 
 soft, non-intellectual, warm, a kind of gambolling. 
 
 She herself was opposite. She had a ciuious, receptive mind 
 which found much pleasure and amusement in listening to other 
 folk. She was clever in leading folk to talk. She loved ideas, and 
 was considered very intellectual. What she liked most of all was 
 an argument on religion or philosophy or politics with some edu- 
 cated man. This she did not often enjoy. So she always had people 
 tell her about themselves, finding her pleasure so. 
 
 In her person she was rather small and delicate, with a large 
 brow, and dropping bimches of brown silk curls. Her blue eyes 
 were very straight, honest, and searching. She had the beautiful 
 hands of the Coppards. Her dress was always subdued. She wore 
 dark blue silk, with a peculiar silver chain of silver scallops. This, 
 and a heavy brooch of twisted gold, was her only ornament. She 
 
12 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 was Still perfectly intact, deeply reli^ous, and full of beautiful 
 candour. 
 
 Walter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the 
 miner that thing of mystery and fascination, a lady. When she 
 spoke to him, it was with a southern pronunciation and a purity 
 of English which thrilled him to hear. She watched Mm. He danced 
 well, as if it were natural and joyous in him to dance. His grand- 
 father was a French refugee who had married an English barmaid 
 —if it had been a marriage. Gertrude Coppard watched the young 
 miner as he danced, a certain subtle exultation like glamour in 
 his movement, and his face the flower of his body, ruddy, with 
 tumbled black hair, and laughmg alike whatever partner he bowed 
 above. She thought him rather wonderful, never having met any- 
 one like him. Her father was to her the type of all men. And 
 George Coppard, proud in his bearing, handsome, and rather 
 bitter; who preferred theology in reading, and who drew near in 
 sympathy only to one man, the Apostle Paul; who was harsh in 
 government, and in familiarity ironic; who ignored all sensuous 
 pleasure:— he was very difierent from the miner. Gertrude her- 
 self was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had not the slightest 
 inclination towards that accomplishment, and had never learned 
 even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father, high- 
 miuded, and really stem. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of 
 this man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the 
 flame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence 
 by thought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something won- 
 derful, beyond her. 
 
 He came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through 
 her as if she had drunk wine. 
 
 "Now do come and have this one wi' me," he said caressively. 
 "It's easy, you know. I'm pining to see you dance." 
 
 She had told him before she could not dance. She glanced at 
 his humility and smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It moved 
 the man so that he forgot everything. 
 
 "No, I won't dance," she said softly. Her words came clean 
 and ringing. 
 
 Not knowing what he was doing— he often did the right thing by 
 instinct— he sat beside her, inclining reverentially. 
 
 "But you mustn't miss your dance," she reproved. 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 13 
 
 "Nay, I don't want to dance that— it's not one as I care about." 
 
 "Yet you invited me to it." 
 
 He laughed very heartily at this. 
 
 "I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in takmg the curl out 
 of me." 
 
 It was her turn to laugh quickly. 
 
 "You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled," she said. 
 
 "I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it," he laughed, 
 rather boisterously. 
 
 "And you are a miner!" she exclaimed in surprise. 
 
 "Yes. I went down when I was ten." 
 
 She looked at him in wondering dismay. 
 
 "When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?" she asked. 
 
 "You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop 
 out at night to see what's gouig on." 
 
 "It makes me feel blind," she frowned. 
 
 "Like a moudiwarpl" he laughed. "Yi, an' there's some chaps 
 as does go round like moudiwarps." He thrust his face forward 
 in the blind, snout-Uke way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer 
 for direction. "They dun though!" he protested naively. "Tha niver 
 seed such a way they get in. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down 
 some time, an' tha can see for thysen." 
 
 She looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenly 
 opened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds 
 of them toiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed 
 to her noble. He risked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked 
 at him, with a touch of appeal in her pure humility. 
 
 "Shouldn't ter like it?" he asked tenderly. " 'Appen not, it 'ud 
 dirty thee." 
 
 She had never been "thee'd" and "thou'd" before. 
 
 The next Christmas they were married, and for three months 
 she was perfectly happy: for six months she was very happy. 
 
 He had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee- 
 totaller: he was nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in 
 his own house. It was small, but convenient enough, and quite 
 nicely furnished, with solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest 
 soul. The women, her neighbours, were rather foreign to her, 
 and Morel's mother and sisters were apt to sneer at her ladylike 
 
14 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 ways. But she could perfectly well live by herself, so long as she 
 had her husband close. 
 
 Sometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to 
 open her heart seriously to him. She saw him Usten deferentially, 
 but without understan^g. This killed her efforts at a finer inti- 
 macy, and she had flashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of 
 an evening: it was not enough for him just to be near her, she re- 
 alised. She was glad when he set himself to Uttle jobs. 
 
 He was a remarkably handy man— could make or mend any- 
 thing. So she would say: 
 
 "I do like that coal-rake of your mother's-4t is small and natty." 
 
 "Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee 
 one!" 
 
 "What! why, it's a steel one!" 
 
 "An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactly 
 same." 
 
 She did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He 
 was busy and happy. 
 
 But in the seventii month, when she was brushing his Sunday 
 coat, she felt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sud- 
 den curiosity, took them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock- 
 coat he was married in: and it had not occurred to her before to 
 feel curious concerning the papers. They were the bills of the 
 household furniture, still unpaid. 
 
 "Look here," she said at night, after he was washed and had 
 had his dinner. "I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. 
 Haven't you settled the bills yet?" 
 
 "No. I haven't had a chance." 
 
 "But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottmgham 
 on Saturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's 
 chairs and eating from an unpaid table." 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "I can have your bank-book, can't I?" 
 
 "Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee." 
 
 "I thought — " she began. He had told her he had a good bit of 
 money left over. But she realised it was no use asking questions. 
 She sat rigid with bitterness and indignation. 
 
 The next day she went down to see his mother. 
 
 "Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?" she asked. 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 15 
 
 "Yes, I did," tartly retorted the elder woman. 
 
 "And how much did he give you to pay for it?" 
 
 The elder woman was stung with fine indignation. 
 
 "Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin'," she replied. 
 
 "Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!" 
 
 "I can't help that." 
 
 "But where has it all gone?" 
 
 "You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look— beside ten 
 pound as he owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down 
 here." 
 
 "Six pounds!" echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her mon- 
 strous that, after her own father had paid so heavily for her wed- 
 ding, six pounds more should have been squandered in eating and 
 drinking at Walter's parents' house, at his expense. 
 
 "And how much has he sunk in his houses?" she asked. 
 
 "His houses— which houses?" 
 
 Gertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the 
 house he lived in, and the next one, was his own. 
 
 "I thought the house we live in — " she began. 
 
 "They're my houses, those two," said the mother-in-law. "And 
 not clear either. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage ia- 
 terest paid." 
 
 Gertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now. 
 
 "Then we ought to be paying you rent," she said coldly. 
 
 "Walter is paying me rent," replied the mother. 
 
 "And what rent?" asked Gertrude. 
 
 "Six and six a week," retorted the mother. 
 
 It was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head 
 erect, looked straight before her. 
 
 "It is lucky to be you," said the elder woman, bitingly, "to have 
 a husband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a 
 free hand." 
 
 The young wife was silent. 
 
 She said very little to her husband, but her manner had 
 changed towards him. Something in her proud, honourable soul 
 had crystallised out hard as rock. 
 
 When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two 
 years ago, at Christmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had 
 married him. This Christmas she would bear him a child. 
 
16 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?" asked her nearest 
 neighbour, m October, when there was great talk of opening a 
 dancmg-class over the Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood. 
 
 "No-I never had the least mcUnation to," Mrs. Morel repUed. 
 
 "Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mes- 
 ter. You know he's quite a famous one for dancing." 
 
 "I didn't know he was famous," laughed Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancmg-class in the 
 Miners' Arms club-room for over five year." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 "Yes, he did." The other woman was defiant. "An' it was 
 thronged every Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day— an' there was 
 carryin's-on, accordin' to all accounts." 
 
 This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel, and 
 she had a fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first; 
 for she was superior, though she could not help it. 
 
 He began to be rather late in coming home. 
 
 "They're working very late now, aren't they?" she said to her 
 washer-woman. 
 
 "No later than they allers do, I don't thmk. But they stop to have 
 their pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner 
 stone cold— an' it serves 'em right." 
 
 "But Mr. Morel does not take any drink." 
 
 The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then 
 went on with her work, saymg nothing. 
 
 Gertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was bom. Morel was 
 good to her, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely, miles away 
 from her own people. She felt lonely with him now, and his pres- 
 ence only made it more intense. 
 
 The boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He 
 was a beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes 
 which changed gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him 
 passionately. He came just when her own bitterness of disillusion 
 was hardest to bear; when her faith in life was shaken, and her 
 soul felt dreary and lonely. She made much of the child, and the 
 father was jealous. 
 
 At last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned to the 
 child; she turned from the father. He had begun to neglect her; 
 the novelty of his own home was gone. He had no grit, she said 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 17 
 
 bitterly to herself. What he felt just at the minute, that was all to 
 him. He could not abide by anything. There was nothing at the 
 back of all his show. 
 
 There began a battle between the husband and wife— a fearful, 
 bloody battle that ended only with the death of one. She fought to 
 make him imdertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfil 
 his obligations. But he was too different from her. His nature was 
 purely sensuous, and she strove to make him moral, rehgious. She 
 tried to force him to face things. He could not endure it— it drove 
 him out of his mind. 
 
 While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become 
 so irritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give 
 a Uttle trouble when the man began to buUy. A little more, and the 
 hard hands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed 
 her husband, loathed him for days; and he went out and drank; 
 and she cared very little what he did. Only, on his return, she 
 scathed him with her satire. 
 
 The estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or un- 
 knowmgly, grossly to offend her where he would not have done. 
 
 William was only one year old, and his mother was proud of 
 him, he was so pretty. She was not well off now, but her sisters 
 kept the boy in clothes. Then, with his little white hat cxurled with 
 an ostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twin- 
 ing wisps of hair clustering round his head. Mrs. Morel lay Usten- 
 ing, one Sunday morning, to the chatter of the father and child 
 downstairs. Then she dozed off. When she came downstairs, a 
 great fire glowed in the grate, the room was hot, the breakfast was 
 roughly laid, and seated in his arm-chair, against the chimney- 
 piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing between his legs, the 
 child— cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round poll— looking 
 wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out upon the hearth- 
 rug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a mari- 
 gold scattered in the reddening fireUght. 
 
 Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She went very 
 white, and was unable to speak. 
 
 "What dost think o' 'im?" Morel laughed uneasily. 
 
 She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward. Morel 
 shrank back. 
 
18 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I could kill you, I could!" she said. She choked with rage, her 
 two fists uplifted. 
 
 "Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im," Morel said, in a 
 frightened tone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers. His 
 attempt at laugjiter had vanished. 
 
 The mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of 
 her child. She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled 
 his head. 
 
 "Oh— my boy!" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke, 
 and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder 
 and cried painfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry; 
 whom it hurts as it hurts a man. It was like rippmg something out 
 of her, her sobbing. 
 
 Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped to- 
 gether till the knuckles were white. He gazed in the fire, feeling 
 almost stunned, as if he could not breathe. 
 
 Presentiy she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared 
 away the breakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with 
 curls, spread upon the hearth-rug. At last her husband gathered 
 it up and put it at the back of the fire. She went about her work 
 with closed mouth and very quiet. Morel was subdued. He crept 
 about wretchedly, and his meals were a misery that day. She spoke 
 to him civilly, and never alluded to what he had done. But he felt 
 something final had happened. 
 
 Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would 
 have had to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even brought 
 herself to say to her husband it was just as well he had played bar- 
 ber when he did. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had 
 caused something momentous to take place in her soul. She re- 
 membered the scene all her life, as one in which she had suffered 
 the most intensely. 
 
 This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side 
 of her love for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him 
 bitterly, she had fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from 
 her. Now she ceased to fret for his love: he was an outsider to her. 
 This made life much more bearable. 
 
 Nevertheless, she still continued to strive with him. She still 
 had her high moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. 
 It was now a religious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 19 
 
 Mm, because she loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned, she 
 tortured him. If he drank, and lied, was often a poltroon, some- 
 times a knave, she wielded the lash unmercifully. 
 
 The pity was, she was too much his opposite. She could not be 
 content with the little he might be; she would have him the much 
 that he ought to be. So, in seeking to make him nobler than 
 he could be, she destroyed him. She injured and hurt and scarred 
 herself, but she lost none of her worth. She also had the children. 
 
 He drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners, 
 and always beer, so that whilst his health was afEected, it was never 
 injured. The week-end was his chief carouse. He sat in the Miners' 
 Arms until turning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and 
 every Sunday evening. On Monday and Tuesday he had to get 
 up and reluctantiy leave towards ten o'clock. Sometimes he stayed 
 at home on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, or was only out 
 for an hoiir. He practically never had to miss work owing to his 
 drinking. 
 
 But although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off. He 
 was blab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger. Authority was hateful to him, 
 therefore he could only abuse the pit-managers. He would say, in 
 the Pahnerston: 
 
 "Th' gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an' 'e says, 
 'You know, Walter, this 'ere'll not do. What about these props?' 
 An' I says to him, 'Why, what art taUdn' about? What d'st mean 
 about th' props?' 'It'U never do, this 'ere,' 'e says. 'You'll be haviu' 
 th' roof in, one o' these days.' An' I says, 'Tha'd better stan' on a 
 bit o' climch, then, an' hold it up wi' thy 'ead.' So 'e wor that mad, 
 'e cossed an' 'e swore, an' t'other chaps they did laugh." Morel 
 was a good mimic. He imitated the manager's fat, squeaky voice, 
 with its attempt at good English. 
 
 "'I shan't have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or 
 you?' So I says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred. 
 It'll 'appen carry thee ter bed an' back.' " 
 
 So Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon compan- 
 ions. And some of this would be true. The pit-manager was not 
 an educated man. He had been a boy along with Morel, so that, 
 while the two disliked each other, they more or less took each 
 other for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth did not forgive the 
 butty these public-house sayings. Consequentiy, although Morel 
 
20 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five pounds a 
 week when he married, he came gradually to have worse and 
 worse stalls, where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and 
 unprofitable. 
 
 Also, in summer, the pits are slack. Often, on bright sunny 
 mornings, the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, 
 or twelve o'clock. No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The 
 women on the hillside look across as they shake the hearth-rug 
 against the fence, and count the wagons the engine is takmg along 
 the line up the valley. And the children, as they come from school 
 at dinner-time, looking down the fields and seeing the wheels on 
 the headstocks standing, say: 
 
 "Minton's knocked off. My dad'U be at home." 
 
 And there is a sort of shadow over all, women and children and 
 men, because money will be short at the end of the week. 
 
 Morel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week, to 
 provide everything— rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors. 
 Occasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five. But these 
 occasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty- 
 five. In winter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or 
 fifty-five shillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, 
 Saturday, and Sunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sover- 
 eign or thereabouts. And out of so much, he scarcely spared the 
 children an extra penny or bought them a pound of apples. It all 
 went in drink. In the bad times, matters were more worrying, but 
 he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs. Morel used to say: 
 
 "I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush, 
 there isn't a minute of peace." 
 
 If he earned forty shillmgs he kept ten; from thirty-five he kept 
 five; from thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept 
 three; from twenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one- 
 and-six; from eighteen he kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept 
 sixpence. He never saved a penny, and he gave his wife no op- 
 portunity of saving; mstead, she had occasionally to pay his debts; 
 not public-house debts, for those never were passed on to the 
 women, but debts when he had bought a canary, or a fancy 
 walking-stick. 
 
 At the wakes time Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel 
 was trying to save against her confinement. So it galled her bitterly 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 21 
 
 to tJunk he should be out takmg his pleasure and spending money, 
 whilst she remained at home, harassed. There were two days' hoU- 
 day. On the Tuesday morning Morel rose early. He was in good 
 spirits. Quite early, before six o'clock, she heard him whistling 
 away to himself downstairs. He had a pleasant way of whistUng, 
 Uvely and musical. He nearly always whistled hymns. He had been 
 a choir-boy with a beautiful voice, and had taken solos in South- 
 well cathedral. His morning whistling alone betrayed it. 
 
 His wife lay hstening to him tinkering away in the garden, his 
 whistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away. It always 
 gave her a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she lay 
 in bed, the children not yet awake, in the bright early morning, 
 happy in his man's fashion. 
 
 At nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were 
 sitting playing on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he 
 came in from his carpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat 
 hanging open. He was stiH a good-looking man, with black, wavy 
 hair, and a large black moustache. His face was perhaps too much 
 inflamed, and there was about him a look almost of peevishness. 
 But now he was jolly. He went straight to the sink where his wife 
 was washing up. 
 
 "What, are thee there!" he said boisterously. "Sluthe off an' let 
 me wesh mysen." 
 
 "You may wait till I've finished," said his wife. 
 
 "Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?" 
 
 This good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub." 
 
 "Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky httie 'ussy." 
 
 With which he stood watching her a moment, then went away 
 to wait for her. 
 
 When he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. 
 Usually he preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, 
 however, he made a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the 
 way he puffed and swDled as he washed himself, so much alacrity 
 with which he hurried to the mirror in the kitchen, and, bendmg 
 because it was too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet black 
 hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He put on a turn-down collar, 
 a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat. As such, he looked 
 
22 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his mstinct for making 
 the most of his good looks would. 
 
 At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry 
 was Morel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked hun. He was 
 a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems 
 to lack eyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his 
 head were on a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. 
 Generous where he intended to be generous, he seemed to be very 
 fond of Morel, and more or less to take charge of him. 
 
 Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife; who had died 
 of consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent 
 dislike of her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her 
 hasmorrhage. None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now 
 his eldest daughter, a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, 
 and looked after the two younger children. 
 
 "A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!" Mrs. Morel said of him. 
 
 "I've never known Jerry mean in my life," protested Morel. 
 "A opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find any- 
 where, accordin' to my knowledge." 
 
 "Open-handed to you," retorted Mrs. Morel. "But his fist is 
 shut tight enough to his children, poor things." 
 
 "Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like 
 to know." 
 
 But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score. 
 
 The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over 
 the scullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel's eye. 
 
 "Momin', missis! Mester in?" 
 
 "Yes-he is." 
 
 Jerry entered imasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He 
 was not invited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the 
 rights of men and husbands. 
 
 "A nice day," he said to Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Grand out this morning— grand for a walk." 
 
 "Do you mean you're going for a walk?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottmgham," he replied. 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, full 
 of assurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 23 
 
 presence of his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. 
 They were going for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Notting- 
 ham. Climbing the hillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily 
 into the morning. At the Moon and Stars they had their first drink, 
 then on to the Old Spot. Then a long five miles of drought to carry 
 them into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter. But they stayed in 
 a field with some haymakers whose gallon bottle was full, so that, 
 when they came in sight of the city. Morel was sleepy. The town 
 spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare, 
 fridging the crest away to the south with spires and factory bulks 
 and chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under an oak tree 
 and slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go forward 
 he felt queer. 
 
 The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then 
 repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement 
 of pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played cards, considering 
 them as having some occult, malevolent power— "the devil's pic- 
 tures," he called them! But he was a master of skittles and of dom- 
 inoes. He took a challenge from a Newark man, on skittles. All the 
 men in the old, long bar took sides, betting either one way or 
 the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry held the hat containing the 
 money. The men at the tables watched. Some stood with their mugs 
 in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball carefully, then 
 launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and won half 
 a crown, which restored him to solveincy. 
 
 By seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caught 
 the 7.30 tram home. 
 
 In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant 
 remaining was out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bare- 
 headed and in white aprons, gossiped in the alley between the 
 blocks. Men, having a rest between drinks, sat on their heels and 
 talked. The place smelled stale; the slate roofs glistered in the arid 
 heat. 
 
 Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the mead- 
 ows, which were not more than two hundred yards away. The 
 water ran quickly over stones and broken pots. Mother and child 
 leaned on the rail of the old sheep-bridge, watching. Up at the 
 dipping-hole, at the other end of the meadow, Mrs. Morel could 
 see the naked forms of boys flashing round the deep yellow water, 
 
24 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over the blackish stag- 
 nant meadow. She knew William was at the dippmg-hole, and it 
 was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie played 
 under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called 
 currants. The child required much attention, and the flies were 
 teasing. 
 
 The children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then she worked 
 awhile. 
 
 When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a 
 load off their minds; a railway joiurney no longer impended, so 
 they could put the finishing touches to a glorious day. They en- 
 tered the Nelson with the satisfaction of returned travellers. 
 
 The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a 
 damper on the men's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent 
 their money. Some were already rolling dismally home, to sleep 
 in preparation for the morrow. Mrs. Morel, listening to their 
 mournful singing, went indoors. Nine o'clock passed, and ten, and 
 still "the pair" had not returned. On a doorstep somewhere a man 
 was singing loudly, in a drawl: "Lead, kindly Light." Mrs. Morel 
 was always indignant with the drunken men that they must sing 
 that hynm when they got maudlin. 
 
 "As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough," she said. 
 
 The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On 
 the hob a large black saucepan steamed slowly, Mrs. Morel took 
 a panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of 
 white sugar into the bottom, and then, straining herself to the 
 weight, was pouring in the Uquor. 
 
 Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, 
 but coming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over 
 the feeUng of irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground 
 when he was so hot; and a bad conscience aflElicted him as he 
 neared the house. He did not know he was angry. But when the 
 garden gate resisted his attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke 
 the latch. He entered just as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion 
 of herbs out of the saucepan. Swaymg slightly, he lurched against 
 the table. The boiling liquor pitched. Mrs. Morel started back. 
 
 "Good gracious," she cried, "coming home in his drunkenness!" 
 
 "Comin' home in his what?" he snarled, his hat over his eye. 
 
 Suddenly her blood rose in a jet. 
 
THE EARLY MARMED LIFE OF THE MORELS 25 
 
 "Say you're not drunk!" she flashed. 
 
 She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into 
 the beer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and 
 thrust his face forwards at her. 
 
 "'Say you're not drunk,'" he repeated. "Why, nobody but a 
 nasty little bitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought." 
 
 He thrust his face forward at her. 
 
 "There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing 
 else." 
 
 "I've not spent a two-shiUin' bit this day," he said. 
 
 "You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing," she replied. 
 "And," she cried, flashing into sudden fury, "if you've been 
 sponging on your beloved Jerry, why, let him look after his chil- 
 dren, for they need it." 
 
 "It's a he, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman." 
 
 They were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the 
 hatred of the other and the battle between them. She was fiery and 
 furious as he. They went on till he called her a Uar. 
 
 "No," she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. "Don't call 
 me that— you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe- 
 leather." She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs. 
 
 "You're a liar!" he yeUed, banging the table with his fist. 
 "You're a Uar, you're a Uar." 
 
 She stiffened herself, with clenched fists. 
 
 "The house is filthy with you," she cried. 
 
 "Then get out on it— it's mine. Get out on it!" he shouted. "It's 
 me as brings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. 
 Then ger out on't— ger out on't!" 
 
 "And I would," she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of im- 
 potence. "Ah, wouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for 
 those children. Ay, haven't I repented not gomg years ago, when 
 I'd only the one"— suddenly drying into rage. "Do you think it's 
 for you I stop— do you think I'd stop one minute for you?" 
 
 "Go, then," he shouted, beside hunself. "Go!" 
 
 "No!" She faced round. "No," she cried loudly, "you shan't 
 have it all yoiu: own way; you shan't do all you Uke. I've got those 
 children to see to. My word," she laughed, "I should look weU to 
 leave them to you." 
 
26 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Go," he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. 
 "Go!" 
 
 "I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I 
 could get away from you," she replied. 
 
 He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, thrust 
 forward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled 
 to be free. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her 
 roughly to the outer door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt 
 behind her with a bang. Then he went back into the kitchen, 
 dropped into his arm-chair, his head, bursting full of blood, sink- 
 ing between his knees. Thus he dipped gradually into a stupor, 
 from exhaustion and intoxication. 
 
 The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. 
 Morel, seared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a 
 great white Ught, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her in- 
 flamed soul. She stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the 
 glistening great rhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the 
 air into her breast. She walked down the garden path, trembling 
 in every limb, while the child boiled within her. For a while she 
 could not control her consciousness; mechanically she went over 
 the last scene, then over it again, certain phrases, certain moments 
 coming each time like a brand red-hot down on her soul; and each 
 time she enacted again the past hour, each time the brand came 
 down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and the pain 
 burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half 
 an hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night 
 came again to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered 
 to the side garden, where she was walking up and down the path 
 beside the currant bushes under the long wall. The garden was a 
 narrow strip, bounded from the road, that cut transversely between 
 the blocks, by a thick thorn hedge. 
 
 She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could 
 stand as if in an immense gulf of white Ught, the moon streaming 
 high Iq face of her, the moonlight standing up from the bills in 
 front, and filling the valley where the Bottoms crouched, almost 
 bUndingly. There, pantmg and half weeping in reaction from, the 
 stress, she murmured to herself over and over again: "The nui- 
 sance! the nuisance!" 
 
 She became aware of something about her. With an effort she 
 
THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS 27 
 
 roused herself to see what it was that penetrated her conscious- 
 ness. The tall white lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the 
 air was charged with their perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. 
 Morel gasped slightly iti fear. She touched the big, pallid flowers 
 on their petals, then shivered. They seemed to be stretching in 
 the moonlight. She put her hand into one white bin: the gold 
 scarcely showed on her fingers by moonUght. She bent down to 
 look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeared dusky. 
 Then she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made her 
 diz2y. 
 
 Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and she lost 
 herself awhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a 
 slight feeling of sickness, and her consciousness in the child, her- 
 self melted out like scent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the 
 child, too, melted with her in the mixing-pot of moonlight, and 
 she rested with the hills and liUes and houses, aU swum together 
 in a kind of swoon. 
 
 When she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly 
 she looked about her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like 
 bushes spread with Unen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right 
 across the garden. Following it with her eye roused her. A few 
 whiffs of the raw, strong scent of phlox invigorated her. She passed 
 along the path, hesitating at the white rose-bush. It smelled sweet 
 and simple. She touched the white ruffles of the roses. Their fresh 
 scent and cool, soft leaves reminded her of the morning-time and 
 sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she was tired, and 
 wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt forlorn. 
 
 There was no noise anywhere. Evidentiy the children had not 
 been wakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles 
 away, roared across the valley. The night was very large, and very 
 strange, stretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the 
 silver-grey fog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corn- 
 crake not far off, sound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of 
 men. 
 
 Her quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hur- 
 ried down the side garden to the back of the house. Softly she 
 lifted the latch; the door was still bolted, and hard against her. She 
 rapped gently, waited, then rapped again. She must not rouse the 
 children, nor the neighbours. He must be asleep, and he would 
 
28 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 not wake easily. Her heart began to bum to be indoors. She clung 
 to the door-handle. Now it was cold; she would take a chill, and 
 in her present condition! 
 
 Putting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried again 
 to the side garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the 
 sUl, she could just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spread 
 out on the table, and his black head on the board. He was sleeping 
 with his face lying on the table. Something in his attitude made her 
 feel tired of things. The lamp was burning smokily; she could tell 
 by the copper colour of the Ught. She tapped at the window more 
 and more noisily. Almost it seemed as if the glass would break. 
 Still he did not wake up. 
 
 After vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact with 
 the stone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn 
 child, she wondered what she could do for warmth. She went down 
 to the coal-house, where there was an old hearth-rug she had car- 
 ried out for the rag-man the day before. This she wrapped over 
 her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy. Then she walked up and 
 down the garden path, peeping every now and then under the 
 blmd, knocking, and telling herself that in the end the very strain of 
 his position must wake him. 
 
 At last, after about an hour, she rapped long and low at the 
 window. Gradually tte sound penetrated to him. When, in despair, 
 she had ceased to tap, she saw him stir, then lift his face blindly. 
 The labouring of his heart hurt him into consciousness. She rapped 
 unperatively at the window. He started awake. Instantly she saw 
 his fists set and his eyes glare. He had not a grain of physical fear. 
 If it had been twenty burglars, he would have gone blindly for 
 them. He glared round, bewildered, but prepared to fight. 
 
 "Open the door, Walter," she said coldly. 
 
 His hands relaxed. It dawned on hun what he had done. His 
 head dropped, sullen and dogged. She saw him hurry to the door, 
 heard the bolt chock. He tried the latch. It opened— and there 
 stood the silver-grey night, fearful to him, after the tawny light of 
 the lamp. He hurried back. 
 
 When Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him almost running through 
 the door to the stairs. He had ripped his collar off his neck in his 
 haste to be gone ere she came in, and there it lay with bursten 
 button-holes. It made her angry. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 29 
 
 She warmed and soothed herself. In her weariness forgetting 
 everything, she moved about at the little tasks that remained to be 
 done, set his breakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes 
 on the hearth to warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out 
 a clean scarf and snap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went 
 to bed. He was already dead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows 
 were drawn up in a sort of peevish misery into his forehead while 
 his cheeks' down-strokes, and his sulky mouth, seemed to be say- 
 ing: "I don't care who you are nor what you are, I shall have my 
 own way." 
 
 Mrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she unfas- 
 tened her brooch at the mirror, she smiled famtly to see her face 
 all smeared with the yeUow dust of lilies. She brushed it off, and at 
 last lay down. For some time her mind continued snapping and 
 jetting sparks, but she was asleep before her husband awoke from 
 the first sleep of his drunkenness. 
 
 CHAPTER n 
 The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle 
 
 After such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days 
 abashed and ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying in- 
 difference. Yet there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his 
 assurance. Physically even, he shrank, and his fine full presence 
 waned. He never grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank from 
 his erect, assertive bearing, his physique seemed to contract along 
 with his pride and moral strength. 
 
 But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about 
 at her work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened 
 forward with his help. He came straight home from the pit, and 
 stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could not remain at 
 home. But he was back again by ten o'clock, aknost quite sober. 
 
 He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early 
 and had plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his 
 wife out of bed at six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, 
 got straight out of bed, and went downstairs. When she could not 
 deep, his wife lay waiting for this time, as for a period of peace. 
 
30 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 The only real rest seemed to be when he was out of the house. 
 
 He went downstairs m his shirt and then struggled into his pit- 
 trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There 
 was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound 
 in the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as 
 Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which 
 was fiUed and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and 
 fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the 
 table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, 
 packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught, 
 piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toasted 
 his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then 
 he put the rasher on his thick sUce of bread, and cut off chunks 
 with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. 
 With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loathed a 
 fork: it is a modem introduction which has still scarcely reached 
 common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, 
 in solitude, he ate and drank, often sittmg, in cold weather, on a 
 little stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on 
 the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's 
 newspaper— what of it he could— spelling it over laboriously. He 
 preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it 
 was dayUght; it was the habit of the mine. 
 
 At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and 
 butter, and put them in the white caUco snap-bag. He fiUed his tin 
 bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he 
 preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his 
 pit-smgjet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with 
 short sleeves like a chemise. 
 
 Then he went upstaks to his wife with a cup of tea because she 
 was ill, and because it occurred to him. 
 
 "I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass," he said. 
 
 "Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it," she replied. 
 
 "Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again." 
 
 She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip 
 it. 
 
 "I'll back my life there's no sugar in," she said. 
 
 "Yi— there's one big 'un," he replied, injured. 
 
 "It's a wonder," she said, sipping again. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 31 
 
 She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her 
 to grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, 
 and went, without any sort of leave-takmg. He never took more 
 than two slices of bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple 
 or an orange was a treat to him. He always Uked it when she put 
 one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, 
 heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, that carried his snap- 
 bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into the fresh morning 
 air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He loved the 
 early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared at the 
 pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which 
 he chewed aU day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feel- 
 ing quite as happy as when he was in the field. 
 
 Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle 
 round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the 
 fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feel- 
 ing very self-righteous, he went upstairs. 
 
 "Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stir a peg 
 aU day, but sit and read thy books." 
 
 Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation. 
 
 "And the dinner cooks itself?" she answered. 
 
 "Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner." 
 
 "You'd know if there weren't any." 
 
 "Ay, 'appen so," he answered, departing. 
 
 When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but 
 dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she 
 went down to the ash-pit with her dust-pan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, 
 would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place at that minute. 
 Then, across the wooden fence, she would call: 
 
 "So you keep wagging on, then?" 
 
 "Ay," answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. "There's nothing 
 el^e for it." 
 
 "Have you seen Hose?" called a very small woman from across 
 the road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, 
 who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting. 
 
 "I haven't," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm 
 sure I heered his bell." 
 
 "Hark! He's at the end." 
 
32 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the 
 Bottoms a man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over 
 bimdles of cream-coloured stuflE; while a cluster of women held 
 up their arms to him, some with bundles. Mrs, Anthony herself 
 had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm. 
 
 "I've done ten dozen this week," she said proudly to Mrs. 
 Morel. 
 
 "T-t-t!" went the other. "I don't know how you can find time." 
 
 "Eh!" said Mrs. Anthony. "You can find time if you make 
 time." 
 
 "I don't know how you do it," said Mrs. Morel. "And how much 
 shall you get for those many?" 
 
 "Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen," repUed the other. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Morel. "I'd starve before I'd sit down and 
 seam twenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Anthony. "You can rip along 
 with 'em." 
 
 Hose was coming along, ringing his beU. Women were waiting 
 at the yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their 
 arms. The man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to 
 swindle them, and bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard 
 disdainfully. 
 
 It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her 
 neighbour, she should put the poker in the fire and bang at the 
 back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back, would 
 make a great noise in the adjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, 
 mixing a pudding, nearly started out of her skin as she heard the 
 thud, thud, in her grate. With her hands all floury, she rushed to 
 the fence. 
 
 "Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?" 
 
 "If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk." 
 
 Mrs. Kirk cUmbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to 
 Mrs. Morel's copper, and ran in to her neighbour. 
 
 "Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried in concern. 
 
 "You might fetch Mrs. Bower," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, 
 and called: 
 
 "Ag-gie-Ag-gie!" ^ 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 33 
 
 The soTind was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. 
 At last Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, 
 whilst Mrs. Kirk left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour. 
 
 Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for 
 dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house. 
 
 "Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make 
 him an apple-charlotte pudding," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "He may go without pudding this day," said Mrs. Bower. 
 
 Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom 
 of the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four 
 o'clock, when the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, 
 a poor one, was at this time about a mile and a half away from the 
 bottom, worked usually till the first mate stopped, then he finished 
 also. This day, however, the miner was sick of the work. At two 
 o'clock he looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle- 
 he was in a safe working— and again at half-past two. He was hew- 
 ing at a piece of rock that was in the way for the next day's work. 
 As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard blows with his pick, 
 "Uszza— uszza!" he went. 
 
 "Shall ter finish. Sorry?" cried Barker, his fellow butty. 
 
 "Finish? Niver while the world stands!" growled Morel. 
 
 And he went on striking. He was tired. 
 
 "It's a heart-breaking job," said Barker. 
 
 But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to an- 
 swer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might. 
 
 "Tha might as well leave it, Walter," said Barker. "It'll do to- 
 morrow, without thee hackin' thy guts out." 
 
 "I'll lay no b — finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel. 
 
 "Oh, well, if tha vmnna, someb'dy else'U ha'e to," said Israel. 
 
 Then Morel contmued to strike. 
 
 "Hey-up ihsiQ—loose-c^!" cried the men, leaving the next stall. 
 
 Morel continued to strike. 
 
 "Tha'll happen catch me up," said Barker, departing. 
 
 When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not 
 finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, 
 wet with sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew 
 out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the 
 lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollow sound 
 of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground. 
 
34 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water 
 fell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking 
 noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable. 
 
 "It's rainin', Sorry," said old Giles, who had had the news from 
 the top. 
 
 Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he 
 loved, in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, 
 and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and 
 got his umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and- 
 six. He stood on the edge of the pit-bank for a moment, looking 
 out over the fields; grey rain was falling. The trucks stood full of 
 wet, bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the waggons, over 
 the white "C.W. and Co.". Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, 
 were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. 
 Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering 
 of the drops thereon. 
 
 All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey 
 and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also 
 walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as 
 he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or into 
 Ellen's. Morel, feeling suflBciently disagreeable to resist tempta- 
 tion, trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park 
 wall, and down the mud of Greenhill Lane. 
 
 Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the 
 colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates 
 as they went through the stile up the field. 
 
 "There's some herb beer behind the pantry door," she said. 
 "Th' master '11 want a drink, if he doesn't stop." 
 
 But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since 
 it was raining. What did he care about the child or her? 
 
 She was very ill when her children were bom. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, feeling sick to death. 
 
 "A boy." 
 
 And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the 
 mother of men was warming to her heart. She looked at the child. 
 It had blue eyes, and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love 
 came up hot, in spite of everything. She had it in bed with her. 
 
 Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, 
 wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 35 
 
 sink; then he sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. 
 Bower appeared in the inner doorway. 
 
 "Well," she said, "she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy 
 childt." 
 
 The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle 
 on the dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, 
 then came and dropped into his chair. 
 
 "Han yer got a drink?" he asked. 
 
 The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of 
 a cork. She set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table 
 before Morel. He drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the 
 end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The 
 woman would not speak to him again. She set his dinner before 
 him, and went upstairs. 
 
 "Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs. Bower. 
 
 After he had sat with his arms on the table— he resented the fact 
 that Mrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him a 
 litfle plate, instead of a full-sized dinner-plate— he began to eat. 
 The fact that his wife was iU, that he had another boy, was nothing 
 to him at that moment. He was too tired; he wanted his dinner; 
 he wanted to sit with his arms lying on the board; he did not like 
 having Mrs. Bower about. The fire was too small to please him. 
 
 After he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes; then 
 he stoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet, he went 
 reluctantly upstairs. It was a struggle to face his wife at this mo- 
 ment, and he was tired. His face was black, and smeared with 
 sweat. His singlet had dried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a 
 dirty woollen scarf round his throat. So he stood at the foot o£ the 
 bed. 
 
 "Well, how are ter, then?" he asked. 
 
 "I s'll be all right," she answered. 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and this 
 bother was rather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite know 
 where he was. 
 
 "A lad, tha says," he stammered. 
 
 She turned down the sheet and showed the child. 
 
36 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Bless Mm!" he murmured. Which made her laugh, because he 
 blessed by rote— pretending paternal emotion, which he did not 
 feel just tiien. 
 
 "Go now," she said. 
 
 "I will, my lass," he answered, turning away. 
 
 Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half 
 wanted him to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any 
 sign. She only breathed freely when he was gone out of the room 
 again, leaving behind him a famt smell of pit-dirt. 
 
 Mrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational 
 clergyman. Mr. Heaton was yoimg, and very poor. His wife had 
 died at the birth of his first baby, so he remained alone in the 
 manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Cambridge, very shy, and 
 no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, and he depended on 
 her. For hours he talked to her, when she was well. He became the 
 god-parent of the child. 
 
 Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then 
 she laid the cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green 
 rim, and hoped Morel would not come too soon; mdeed, if he 
 stayed for a pmt, she would not mind this day. She had always 
 two dinners to cook, because she believed children should have 
 their chief meal at midday, whereas Morel needed his at five 
 o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby, whilst Mrs. Morel 
 beat up a batter-pudding or peeled the potatoes, and he, watching 
 her all the time, would discuss his next sermon. His ideas were 
 quaint and fantastic. She brought him judiciously to earth. It was 
 a discussion of the wedding at Cana. 
 
 "When He changed the water into wine at Cana," he said, "that 
 is a symbol that the ordinary life, even the blood, of the married 
 husband and wife, which had before been uninspired, like water, 
 became filled with the Spirit, and was as wine, because, when love 
 enters, the whole spiritual constitution of a man changes, is 
 filled with the Holy Ghost, and almost his form is altered." 
 
 Mrs. Morel thought to herself: 
 
 "Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why he makes 
 his love into the Holy Ghost." 
 
 They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heard 
 the sluther of pit-boots. 
 
 "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 37 
 
 The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He was feel- 
 ing rather savage. He nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman, 
 who rose to shake hands with him. 
 
 "Nay," said Morel, showing his hand, "look thee at it! Tha niver 
 wants ter shake hands wi' a hand Uke that, does ter? There's too 
 much pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it." 
 
 The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs.** 
 Morel rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his 
 coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily. 
 
 "Are you tired?" asked the clergyman. 
 
 "Tured? I ham that," replied Morel. "You don't know what it 
 is to be tired, as I'm tired." 
 
 "No," replied the clergyman. 
 
 "Why, look yer 'ere," said the miner, showmg the shoulders of 
 his singlet. "It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a clout with sweat 
 even yet. Feel it." 
 
 "Goodness!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Mr. Heaton doesn't want to 
 feel your nasty smglet." 
 
 The clergyman put out his hand gingerly. 
 
 "No, perhaps he doesn't," said Morel; "but it's all come out of 
 me, whether or not. An' iv'ry day alike my singlet's wringin' wet. 
 'Aven't you got a drink. Missis, for a man when he comes home 
 barkled up from the pit?" 
 
 "You know you drank all the beer," said Mrs. Morel, pouriag 
 out his tea. 
 
 "An' was there no more to be got?" Turning to the clergyman— 
 "A man gets that caked up wi' th' dust, you know,— that clogged 
 up down a coal-mine, he needs a drink when he comes home." 
 
 "I am sure he does," said the clergyman. 
 
 "But it's ten to one if there's owt for him." 
 
 "There's water— and there's tea," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat." 
 
 He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up 
 through his great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he 
 poured out another saucerful, and stood his cup on the table. 
 
 "My cloth!" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate. 
 
 "A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths," 
 said Morel. 
 
 "Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically. 
 
38 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit- 
 clothes. 
 
 He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust for- 
 ward, his mouth very red in his black face. 
 
 "Mr. Heaton," he said, "a man as has been down the black hole 
 all day, dingm' away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harder than that 
 wall — " 
 
 "Needn't make a moan of it," put in Mrs. MoreL 
 
 She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, 
 he whined and played for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the 
 baby, hated him, with a boy's hatred for false sentiment, and for 
 the stupid treatment of his mother. Annie had never liked him; she 
 merely avoided him. 
 
 When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth. 
 
 "A fine mess!" she said. 
 
 "Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha's got 
 a parson for tea wi' thee?" he bawled. 
 
 They were both angry, but she said nothmg. The baby began to 
 cry, and Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, 
 accidentally knocked Annie on the head, whereupon the girl be- 
 gan to whine, and Morel to shout at her. In the midst of this 
 pandemonium, William looked up at the big gjazed text over the 
 mantelpiece and read distinctly: 
 
 "God Bless Our Home!" 
 
 Whereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jmnped up, 
 rushed at him, boxed his ears, saying: 
 
 "What are you putting in for?" 
 
 And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her 
 cheeks, while William kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and 
 Morel growled: 
 
 "I canna see what there is so much to laugh at." 
 
 One evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unable to 
 bear herself after another display from her husband, she took 
 Annie and the baby and went out. Morel had kicked William, and 
 the mother would never forgive him. 
 
 She went over the sheep-bridge and across a comer of the 
 meadow to the cricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space 
 of ripe, evening Ught, whispering with the distant mill-race. She 
 sat on a seat under the alders in the cricket-ground, and fronted 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 39 
 
 the evening. Before her, level and solid, spread the big green 
 cricket-field, like the bed of a sea of light. Children played in the 
 bluish shadow of the paviUon. Many rooks, high up, came caw- 
 ing home across the softly-woven sky. They stooped in a long 
 curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling, 
 like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree climip that made a 
 dark boss among the pasture. 
 
 A few gendemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear 
 the chock of the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused; 
 could see the white forms of men shitting silendy over the green, 
 upon which already the under shadows were smouldering. Away at 
 the grange, one side of the haystacks was lit up, the other sides 
 blue-grey. A waggon of sheaves rocked small across the melting 
 yellow Ught. 
 
 The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of 
 Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched 
 the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue 
 overhead, while the western space went red, as if aU the fire had 
 swum down there, leaving the bell cast flawless blue. The 
 mountain-ash berries across the field stood fierily out from the 
 dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of com in a comer of the 
 fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps her 
 son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink 
 opposite the west's scarlet. The big haystacks on the hiUside, that 
 butted into the glare, went cold. 
 
 With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the 
 smaU frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she 
 had the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again, a 
 swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with a 
 handful of alder-currants. The baby was restless on his mother's 
 knee, clambering with his hands at the light. 
 
 Mrs. Morel looked down at him. She had dreaded this baby like 
 a catastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband. And now 
 she felt strangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavy because 
 of the child, almost as if it were imhealthy, or malformed. Yet it 
 seemed quite well. But she noticed the peculiar knitting of the 
 baby's brows, and the pecuUar heaviness of its eyes, as if it were 
 trying to understand something that was pam. She felt, when she 
 
40 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 looked at her child's dark, brooding pupils, as if a burden were on 
 her heart. 
 
 "He looks as if he was thinking about something— quite sorrow- 
 ful," said Mrs. Kirk. 
 
 Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart 
 melted into passionate grief. She bowed over him, and a few tears 
 shook swiftly out of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers. 
 
 "My lamb!" she cried softly. 
 
 And at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul, 
 that she and her husband were guilty. 
 
 The baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own, 
 but its look was heavy, steady, as if it had realised something that 
 had stunned some point of its soul. 
 
 In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes, always 
 looking up at her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost 
 thoughts out of her. She no longer loved her husband; she had 
 not wanted this child to come, and there it lay in her arms 
 and pulled at her heart. She felt as if the navel string that had con- 
 nected its frail little body with hers had not been broken. A wave 
 of hot love went over her to the infant. She held it close to her face 
 and breast. With all her force, with all her soul she wotild make 
 up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. She would 
 love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Its clear, 
 knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her? 
 When it lay under her heart, had it been Ustening then? Was there 
 a reproach m the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with 
 fear and pam. 
 
 Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the 
 hill opposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands. 
 
 "Look!" she said. "Look, my pretty!" 
 
 She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, al- 
 most with relief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him 
 to her bosom agam, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him 
 back again whence he came. 
 
 "If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will become of him— 
 what will he be?" 
 
 Her heart was anxious. 
 
 "I win call him Paul," she said suddenly; she knew not why. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 41 
 
 After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the 
 deep green meadow, darkening all. 
 
 As she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel was 
 home by ten o'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully. 
 
 Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work 
 seemed to exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak 
 civilly to anybody. If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; 
 he grumbled about his dinner; if the children made a chatter he 
 shouted at them in a way that made their mother's blood boil, and 
 made them hate him. 
 
 On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock. The baby 
 was unwell, and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. 
 Morel, tired to death, and still weak, was scarcely under control. 
 
 "I wish the nuisance would come," she said wearily to herself. 
 
 The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too 
 tired to carry him to the cradle. 
 
 "But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes," she said. "It 
 only works me up; I won't say anything. But I know if he does 
 anything it'll make my blood boil," she added to herself. 
 
 She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she 
 could not bear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept 
 her head bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. 
 But it went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he 
 lurched against the dresser, setting the tins rattUng, and clutched 
 at the white pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, 
 then returned, stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat 
 bowed over the child. 
 
 "Is there nothing to eat in the house?" he asked, insolently, as 
 if to a servant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the 
 cUpped, mincmg speech of the towns. Mrs. Morel hated him most 
 in this condition. 
 
 "You know what there is in the house," she said, so coldly, it 
 sounded impersonal. 
 
 He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle. 
 
 "I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer," he said 
 affectedly. 
 
 "And you got it," she said, stiU ignoring him. 
 
 He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned 
 on the table with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table 
 
42 SONS A^^D lovers 
 
 drawer to get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he 
 pulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bod- 
 Uy, and spoons, forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed 
 with a clatter and a clang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a 
 little convulsed start. 
 
 "What are you doing, clumsy, dnmken fool?" the mother cried. 
 
 "Then tha should get the flamm' thmg thysen. Tha should get 
 up, like other women have to, an' wait on a man." 
 
 "Wait on you— wait on you?" she cried. "Yes, I see myself," 
 
 "Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on me, yes tha sh'lt 
 wait on me — " 
 
 "Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first." 
 
 "What-what?" 
 
 He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned 
 roimd. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her 
 one silent second in threat. 
 
 "P-h!" she went quickly, m contempt. 
 
 He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It feU, cut sharply 
 on his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her. 
 
 One of the comers caught her brow as the shaUow drawer 
 crashed into the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from 
 her chair. To her very soul she was sick; she clasped the child 
 tighdy to her bosom. A few moments elapsed; then, with an effort, 
 she brought herself to. The baby was crying plantively. Her left 
 brow was bleeding rather profusely. As she glanced down at the 
 child, her brain reeling, some drops of blood soaked into its white 
 shawl; but the baby was at least not hurt. She balanced her head to 
 keep equilibrium, so that the blood ran into her eye. 
 
 Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table 
 with one hand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of 
 his balance, he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back 
 of her rocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then leaning forward 
 over her, and swaying as he spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering 
 concern: 
 
 "Did it catch thee?" 
 
 He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child. With the 
 catastrophe he had lost aU balance. 
 
 "Go away," she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 43 
 
 He hiccoughed. "Let's-let's look at it," he said, hiccoughing 
 again. 
 
 "Go away!" she cried. 
 
 "Lemme— lemme look at it, lass." 
 
 She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying 
 grasp on the back of her rockmg-chair. 
 
 "Go away," she said, and weakly she pushed him off. 
 
 He stood, uncertam in balance, gazmg upon her. Summoning all 
 her strength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of 
 will, moving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where 
 she bathed her eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too 
 dizzy. Afraid lest she should swoon, she returned to her rocking- 
 chair, trembling in every fibre. By instinct, she kept the baby 
 clasped. 
 
 Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back 
 into its cavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws, 
 for the scattered spoons. 
 
 Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and came 
 craning his neck towards her. 
 
 "What has it done to thee, lass?" he asked, in a very wretched, 
 humble tone. 
 
 "You can see what it's done," she answered. 
 
 He stood, bending forward, supported on his hands, which 
 grasped his legs just above the knee. He peered to look at the 
 wound. She drew away from the thrust of his face with its great 
 moustache, averting her own face as much as possible. As he 
 looked at her, who was cold and impassive as stone, with mouth 
 shut tight, he sickened with feebleness and hopelessness of spirit. 
 He was turning drearily away, when he saw a drop of blood fall 
 from the averted wound into the baby's fragile, glistening hair. 
 Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark drop hang m the glistening 
 cloud, and puU down the gossamer. Another drop fell. It would 
 soak through to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feeling 
 it soak in; then, finally, his manhood broke. 
 
 "What of this child?" was all his wife said to him. But her low, 
 intense tones brought his head lower. She softened: "Get me some 
 wadding out of the middle drawer," she said. 
 
 He stumbled away very obediently, presently returning with a 
 
44 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 pad, which she singed before the fitre, then put on her forehead, 
 as she sat with the baby on her lap. 
 
 "Now that clean pit-scarf." 
 
 Again he rummaged and fumbled m the drawer, returning 
 presently with a red, narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling 
 fingers proceeded to bind it round her head. 
 
 "Let me tie it for thee," he said humbly. 
 
 "I can do it myself," she replied. When it was done she went 
 upstairs, telling him to rake the fire and lock the door. 
 
 In the morning Mrs. Morel said: 
 
 "I knocked against the latch of the coal-place, when I was get- 
 ting a raker in the dark, because the candle blew out." Her two 
 small children looked up at her with wide, dismayed eyes. They 
 said nothing, but their parted lips seemed to express the uncon- 
 scious tragedy they felt. 
 
 Walter Morel lay in bed next day until nearly dinner-time. He 
 did not think of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thought 
 of anything, but he would not think of that. He lay and suffered 
 like a sulking dog. He had hint himself most; and he was the more 
 damaged because he would never say a word to her, or express his 
 sorrow. He tried to wriggle out of it. "It was her own fault," he said 
 to himself. Nothing, however, could prevent his inner conscious- 
 ness inflicting on him the punishment which ate iato his spirit like 
 rust, and which he could only alleviate by drinking. 
 
 He felt as if he had not the initiative to get up, or to say a word, 
 or to move, but could only lie Uke a log. Moreover, he had himself 
 violent pains in the head. It was Saturday. Towards noon he rose, 
 cut himself food in the pantry, ate it with his head dropped, then 
 pulled on his boots, and went out, to return at three o'clock slightly 
 tipsy and relieved; then once more straight to bed. He rose again 
 at six in the evening, had tea and went straight out. 
 
 Sunday was the same: bed tiU noon, the Pahnerston Arms till 
 2.30, dinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morel 
 went upstairs, towards four o'clock, to put on her Sunday dress, 
 he was fast asleep. She would have felt sorry for him, if he had 
 once said, "Wife, I'm sorry." But no; he insisted to himself it was 
 her fault. And so he broke himself. So she merely left him alone. 
 There was this deadlock of passion between them, and she was 
 stronger. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 45 
 
 The family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all sat 
 down to meals together. 
 
 "Isn't my father going to get up?" asked WiUiam. 
 
 "Let him lie," the mother replied. 
 
 There was a feeling of misery over all the house. The children 
 breathed the air that was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They were 
 rather disconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at. 
 
 Immediately Morel woke he got straight out of bed. That was 
 characteristic of him all his life. He was all for activity. The 
 prostrated inactivity of two mornings was stifling him. 
 
 It was near six o'clock when he got down. This time he entered 
 without hesitation, his wincing sensitiveness having hardened 
 again. He did not care any longer what the family thought or felt. 
 
 The tea-things were on the table. William was reading aloud 
 from "The Child's Own", Annie listening and asking eternally 
 "why?" Both children hushed into silence as they heard the ap- 
 proaching thud of their father's stockinged feet, and shrank as he 
 entered. Yet he was usually indulgent to them. 
 
 Morel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate and drank more 
 noisily than he had need. No one spoke to him. The family life 
 withdrew, shrank away, and became hushed as he entered. But he 
 cared no longer about his alienation. 
 
 Immediately he had finished tea he rose with alacrity to go out. 
 It was this alacrity, this haste to be gone, which so sickened Mrs. 
 Morel. As she heard him sousing heartily in cold water, heard the 
 eager scratch of the steel comb on the side of the bowl, as 
 he wetted his hair, she closed her eyes in disgust. As he bent over, 
 lacing his boots, there was a certain vulgar gusto in his movement 
 that divided him from the reserved, watchful rest of the family. 
 He always ran away from the battle with himself. Even in his own 
 heart's privacy, he excused himself, saying, "If she hadn't said so- 
 and-so, it would never have happened. She asked for what she's 
 got." The children waited in restraint during his preparations. 
 When he had gone, they sighed with relief. 
 
 He closed the door behind him, and was glad. It was a rainy eve- 
 ning. The Palmerston would be the cosier. He hastened forward in 
 anticipation. All the slate roofs of the Bottoms shone black with 
 wet. The roads, always dark with coal-dust, were fuU of blackish 
 mud. He hastened along. The Palmerston windows were steamed 
 
46 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 over. The passage was paddled with wet feet. But the air was 
 warm, if foul, and full of the sound of voices and the smeU of beer 
 and smoke. 
 
 "What shollt ha'e, Walter?" cried a voice, as soon as Morel ap- 
 peared in the doorway. 
 
 "Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?" 
 
 The men made a seat for him, and took him in warmly. He was 
 glad. In a minute or two they had thawed all responsibility out of 
 him, all shame, all trouble, and he was clear as a bell for a jolly 
 night 
 
 On the Wednesday following, Morel was penniless. He dreaded 
 his wife. Having hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what to 
 do with himself that evening, having not even twopence with which 
 to go to the Palmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt. 
 So, while his wife was down the garden with the child, he himted 
 in the top drawer of the dresser where she kept her purse, found 
 it, and looked inside. It contained a half-crown, two halfpennies, 
 and a sixpence. So he took the sixpence, put the purse carefully 
 back, and went out. 
 
 The next day, when she wanted to pay the greengrocer, she 
 looked in the purse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her 
 shoes. Then she sat down and thought: "Was there a sixpence? I 
 hadn't spent it, had I? And I hadn't left it anywhere else?" 
 
 She was much put about. She hunted round everywhere for it. 
 And, as she sought, the conviction came into her heart that her 
 husband had taken it. What she had in her purse was all the money 
 she possessed. But that he should sneak it from her thus was un- 
 bearable. He had done so twice before. The first time she had not 
 accused him, and at the week-end he had put the shilling again 
 into her purse. So that was how she had known he had taken it. 
 The second time he had not paid back. 
 
 This time she felt it was too much. When he had had his dinner 
 —he came home early that day— she said to him coldly: 
 
 "Did you take sixpence out of my purse last night?" 
 
 "Me!" he said, looking up m an offended way. "No, I didna! I 
 niver clapped eyes on your purse." 
 
 But she could detect the he. 
 
 "Why, you know you did," she said quietly. 
 
THE BIRTH OF PAUL 47 
 
 "I tell you I didna," he shouted. "Yer at me again, are yer? I've 
 had about enough on't." 
 
 "So you filch sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking the 
 clothes in." 
 
 "I'U may yer pay for this," he said, pushing back his chair in 
 desperation. He bustled and got washed, then went determinedly 
 upstairs. Presently he came down dressed, and with a big bundle 
 in a blue-checked, enormous handkerchief. 
 
 "And now," he said, "you'll see me again when you do." 
 
 "It'll be before I want to," she replied; and at that he marched 
 out of the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly, but 
 her heart brimming with contempt. What would she do if he went 
 to some other pit, obtained work, and got in with another woman? 
 But she knew him too well— he couldn't. She was dead sure of him. 
 Nevertheless her heart was gnawed inside her. 
 
 "Where's my dad?" said WiUiam, coming in from school. 
 
 "He says he's run away," replied the mother. 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handker- 
 chief, and says he's not coming back." 
 
 "What shall we do?" cried the boy. 
 
 "Eh, never trouble, he won't go far." 
 
 "But if he doesn't come back," wailed Annie. 
 
 And she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morel 
 sat and laughed. 
 
 "You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll see him before 
 the night's out." 
 
 But the children were not to be consoled. Twihght came on. 
 Mrs. Morel grew anxious from very weariness. One part of her 
 said it would be a relief to see the last of him; another part fretted 
 because of keeping the children; and inside her, as yet, she could 
 not quite let him go. At the bottom, she knew very well he could 
 not go. 
 
 When she went down to the coal-place at the end of the garden, 
 however, she felt something behind the door. So she looked. And 
 there in the dark lay the big blue bundle. She sat on a piece of coal 
 and laughed. Every time she saw it, so fat and yet so ignominious, 
 slunk into its comer in the dark, with its ends flopping like de- 
 jected ears from the knots, she laughed again. She was relieved. 
 
48 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Mrs. Morel sat waiting. He liad not any money, she knew, so 
 if he stopped he was running up a bill. She was very tired of him 
 —tired to death. He had not even the courage to carry his bundle 
 beyond the yard-end. 
 
 As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the door 
 and came in, slinking, and yet sulky. She said not a word. He took 
 off his coat, and slunk to his arm-chair, where he began to take 
 off his boots. 
 
 "You'd better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off," 
 she said quietly. 
 
 "You may fhank your stars I've come back to-night," he said, 
 looking up from under his dropped head, sulkily, trying to be 
 impressive. 
 
 "Why, where should you have gone? You daren't even get your 
 parcel through the yard-end," she said. 
 
 He looked such a fool she was not even angry with him. He 
 continued to take his boots off and prepare for bed. 
 
 "I don't know what's in your blue handkerchief," she said. "But 
 if you leave it the children shall fetch it in the morning." 
 
 Whereupon he got up and went out of the house, returning 
 presently and crossing the kitchen with averted face, hiurying up- 
 stairs. As Mrs. Morel saw him slink quickly through the iimer 
 doorway, holding his bxmdle, she laughed to herself: but her heart 
 was bitter, because she had loved him. 
 
 CHAPTER in 
 
 The Casting Off of Morel— 
 The Taking on of William 
 
 During the next week Morel's temper was almost unbearable. 
 Like aU miners, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely 
 enough, he would often pay for himself. 
 
 "You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral," he said. "It's a winder 
 as we canna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse." 
 
 So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite first 
 medicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had 
 hanging in the attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue. 
 
THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL 49 
 
 horehound, elder flowers, parsley-purt, marshmallow, hyssop, 
 dandelion, and centaury. Usually there was a jug of one or other 
 decoction standing on the hob, from which he drank largely. 
 
 "Grand!" he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. "Grand!" 
 And he exhorted the children to try. 
 
 "It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews," he vowed. 
 But they were not to be tempted. 
 
 This time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs 
 would shift the "nasty peens in his head". He was sickening for 
 an attack of an inflammation of the brain. He had never been well 
 since his sleeping on the ground when he went with Jerry to Not- 
 tingham. Since then he had drunk and stormed. Now he fell 
 seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had him to nurse. He was one of the 
 worst patients imaginable. But, in spite of all, and putting aside the 
 fact that he was bread-winner, she never quite wanted him to die. 
 Still there was one part of her wanted him for herself. 
 
 The neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had 
 the children in to meals, occasionally some would do the down- 
 stairs work for her, one would mmd the baby for a day. But it was 
 a great drag, nevertheless. It was not every day the neighbours 
 helped. Then she had nursing of baby and husband, cleaning and 
 cooking, everything to do. She was quite worn out, but she did 
 what was wanted of her. 
 
 And the money was just suflBcient. She had seventeen shillings 
 a week from clubs, and every Friday Barker and the other butty 
 put by a portion of the stall's profits for Morel's wife. And the 
 neighbours made broths, and gave eggs, and such mvalids' trifles. 
 If they had not helped her so generously in those times, Mrs. 
 Morel would never have pulled through, without incurring debts 
 that would have dragged her down. 
 
 The weeks passed. Morel, almost agamst hope, grew better. 
 He had a fine constitution, so that, once on the mend, he went 
 straight forward to recovery. Soon he was pottering about down- 
 stairs. During his illness his wife had spoilt him a little. Now he 
 wanted her to continue. He often put his hand to his head, pulled 
 down the comers of his mouth, and shammed pains he did not 
 feel. But there was no deceivmg her. At first she merely smiled to 
 herself. Then she scolded him sharply. 
 
50 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose." 
 
 That wounded hkn slightly, but still he continued to feign 
 sickness. 
 
 "I wouldn't be such a mardy baby," said the wife shortly. 
 
 Then he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy. 
 He was forced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine. 
 
 Nevertheless, there was a state of peace in the house for some 
 time. Mrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending 
 on her ahnost like a child, was rather happy. Neither knew that 
 she was more tolerant because she loved him less. Up till this time, 
 in spite of all, he had been her husband and her man. She had felt 
 that, more or less, what he did to himself he did to her. Her living 
 depended on him. There were many, many stages in the ebbing 
 of her love for him, but it was always ebbing. 
 
 Now, with the birth of this third baby, herself no longer set to- 
 wards him, helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose, stand- 
 ing oflE from him. After this she scarcely desired him. And, 
 standing more aloof from him, not feeling him so much part of 
 herself, but merely part of her chrcumstances, she did not mind 
 so much what he did, could leave him alone. 
 
 There was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year, 
 which is like autumn in a man's life. His wife was castmg him off, 
 half regretfully, but relentiessly; casting him off and turning now 
 for love and life to the children. Henceforward he was more or 
 less a husk. And he himself acquiesced, as so many men do, 
 yielding their place to their children. 
 
 During his recuperation, when it was really over between them, 
 both made an effort to come back somewhat to the old relationship 
 of the first months of their marriage. He sat at home and, when 
 the children were in bed, and she was sewing— she did all her sew- 
 ing by hand, made all shirts and children's clothing— he would read 
 to her from the newspaper, slowly pronouncing and delivering the 
 words like a man pitching quoits. Often she hurried him on, giving 
 him a phrase in anticipation. And then he took her words humbly. 
 
 The silences between them were peculiar. There would be the 
 swift, slight "cluck" of her needle, the sharp "pop" of his lips as 
 he let out the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars as he spat 
 in the fire. Then her thoughts turned to William. Already he was 
 getting a big boy. Already he was top of the class, and the master 
 
THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL 51 
 
 said he was the smartest lad in the school. She saw him a man, 
 yoimg, full of vigour, making the world glow again for her. 
 
 And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think 
 about, would be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul would 
 reach out in its blind way to her and find her gone. He felt a sort 
 of emptiness, almost like a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled 
 and restless. Soon he could not live in that atmosphere, and he 
 affected his wife. Both felt an oppression on their breathing when 
 they were left together for some time. Then he went to bed and 
 she settled down to enjoy herself alone, working, thinking, living. 
 
 Meanwhile another infant was coming, fruit of this little peace 
 and tenderness between the separating parents. Paul was seven- 
 teen months old when the new baby was bom. He was then a 
 plump, pale child, quiet, with heavy blue eyes, and still the peculiar 
 slight knitting of the brows. The last child was also a boy, fair and 
 bonny. Mrs. Morel was sorry when she knew she was with child, 
 both for economic reasons and because she did not love her hus- 
 band; but not for the sake of the infant. 
 
 They called the baby Arthur. He was very pretty, with a mop of 
 gold curls, and he loved his father from the first. Mrs. Morel was 
 glad this child loved the father. Hearing the mmer's footsteps, the 
 baby would put up his arms and crow. And if Morel were in a good 
 temper, he called back immediately, in his hearty, mellow voice: 
 
 "What then, my beauty? I sh'll come to thee in a minute." 
 
 And as soon as he had taken off his pit-coat, Mrs. Morel would 
 put an apron roimd the child, and give him to his father. 
 
 "What a sight the lad looks!" she would exclaim sometimes, 
 taking back the baby, that was smutted on the face from his 
 father's kisses and play. Then Morel laughed joyfully. 
 
 "He's a little collier, bless his bit o' mutton!" he exclaimed. 
 
 And these were the happy moments of her life now, when the 
 children included the father in her heart. 
 
 Meanwhile William grew bigger and stronger and more active, 
 while Paul, always rather delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and 
 trotted after his mother like her shadow. He was usually active 
 and interested, but sometimes he would have fits of depression. 
 Then the mother would find the boy of three or four crying on the 
 sofa. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she asked, and got no answer. 
 
52 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "What's the matter?" she insisted, getting cross. 
 
 "I don't know," sobbed the child. 
 
 So she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but with- 
 out eflEect. It made her feel beside herself. Then the father, always 
 impatient, would jump from his chair and shout: 
 
 "If he doesn't stop, I'll smack him till he does." 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the sort," said the mother coldly. And 
 then she carried the child into the yard, plumped him into his little 
 chair, and said: "Now cry there. Misery!" 
 
 And then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves perhaps caught his 
 eye, or at last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, 
 but they caused a shadow m Mrs. Morel's heart, and her treatment 
 of Paul was different from that of the other children. 
 
 Suddenly one morning as she was looking down the alley of the 
 Bottoms for the barm-man, she heard a voice calling her. It was 
 the thin Uttle Mrs. Anthony m brown velvet. 
 
 "Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie." 
 
 "Oh, do you?" replied Mrs. Morel. "Why, what's the matter?" 
 
 "A lad as gets 'old of another an' rips his clothes off'n 'is back," 
 Mrs. Anthony said, "wants showmg something." 
 
 "Your Alfred's as old as my WiUiam," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 " 'Appen 'e is, but that doesn't ^ve him a right to get hold of the 
 boy's collar, an' fair rip it clean off his back." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Morel, "I don't thrash my children, and even 
 if I did, I should want to hear their side of the tale." 
 
 "They'd happen be a bit better if they did get a good hiding," 
 retorted Mrs. Anthony. "When it comes ter rippin' a lad's clean 
 collar off'n 'is back a-purpose — " 
 
 "I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Make me a liar!" shouted Mrs. Anthony. 
 
 Mrs. Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her hand 
 trembled as she held her mug of barm. 
 
 "But I s'll let your mester know," Mrs. Anthony cried after her. 
 
 At dinner-time, when William had finished his meal and wanted 
 to be off again— he was then eleven years old— his mother said to 
 him: 
 
 "What did you tear Alfred Anthony's collar for?" 
 
 "When did I tear his collar?" 
 
THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL 53 
 
 "I don't know when, but his mother says you did." 
 "Why— it was yesterday— an' it was torn a'ready." 
 "But you tore it more." 
 
 "Well, I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked seventeen— an' Alfy 
 Ant'ny 'e says: 
 
 'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me. 
 
 Went down to a river to bade. 
 Adam an' Eve got drownded, 
 
 Who do yer think got saved?' 
 
 An' so I says: 'Oh, Finch-you,' an' so I pinched 'im, an' 'e 
 was mad, an' so he snatched my cobbler an' run off with it. An' so 
 I run after 'im, an' when I was gettin' hold of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it 
 ripped 'is collar. But I got my cobbler — " 
 
 He pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hangmg 
 on a string. This old cobbler had "cobbled"— hit and smashed— 
 seventeen other cobblers on similar strings. So the boy was proud 
 of his veteran. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Morel, "you know you've got no right to rip 
 his collar." 
 
 "Well, our mother!" he answered. "I never meant tr'a done it— 
 an' it was on'y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a'ready." 
 
 "Next time," said his mother, "you be more careful. I shouldn't 
 like it if you came home with your collar torn off." 
 
 "I don't care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose." 
 
 The boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded. 
 
 "No— well, you be more careful." 
 
 William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, 
 who hated any bother with the neighbours, thought she would 
 explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over. 
 
 But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. 
 He stood in the kitchen and glared roimd, but did not speak for 
 some minutes. Then: 
 
 "Wheer's that WiUy?" he asked. 
 
 "What do you want him for?" asked Mrs. Morel, who had 
 guessed. 
 
 "I'll let 'im know when I get him," said Morel, banging his pit- 
 bottle on to the dresser. 
 
54 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to 
 you about Alfy's collar," said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering. 
 
 "Niver mind who's got hold of me," said Morel. "When I get 
 hold of 'im I'll make his bones rattle." 
 
 "It's a poor tale," said Mrs. Morel, "that you're so ready to side 
 with any snipey vixen who likes to come teUing tales against your 
 own children." 
 
 "I'll learn 'im!" said Morel. "It none matters to me whose lad 
 'e is; 'e's none goin' rippin' an' tearin' about just as he's a mind." 
 
 " 'Ripping and tearing about!' " repeated Mrs. Morel. "He was 
 running after that Alfy, who'd taken his cobbler, and he acciden- 
 tally got hold of his coUar, because the other dodged— as an 
 Anthony would." 
 
 "I know!" shouted Morel threateningly. 
 
 "You would, before you're told," repUed his wife bitingjy. 
 
 "Niver you mind," stormed Morel. "I know my business." 
 
 "That's more than doubtful," said Mrs. Morel, "supposing some 
 loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own 
 children." 
 
 "I know," repeated Morel. 
 
 And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Sud- 
 denly William ran in, saying: 
 
 "Can I have my tea, mother?" 
 
 "Tha can ha'e more than that!" shouted Morel. 
 
 "Hold your noise, man," said Mrs. Morel; "and don't look so 
 ridiculous." 
 
 "He'll look ridiculous before I've done wi' him!" shouted Morel, 
 rising from his chair and glaring at his son. 
 
 William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had 
 gone pale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father, 
 
 "Go out!" Mrs. Morel commanded her son. 
 
 WiUiam had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his 
 fist, and crouched. 
 
 "I'll gi'e him 'go out'!" he shouted like an insane thing. 
 
 "What!" cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. "You shall not 
 touch him for her telling, you shall not!" 
 
 "Shonna I?" shouted Morel. "Shonna I?" 
 
 And, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in 
 between them, with her fist lifted. 
 
THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL 55 
 
 "Don't you dare!" she cried. 
 
 "What!" he shouted, baflOied for the moment. "What!" 
 
 She spun round to her son. 
 
 "Go out of the house!" she commanded him in fury. 
 
 The boy, as if hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone. 
 Morel rushed to the door, but was too late. He returned, pale 
 under his pit-dkt with fury. But now his wife was fully roused. 
 
 "Only dare!" she said in a loud, ringing voice. "Only dare, mi- 
 lord, to lay a finger on that child! You'll regret it for ever." 
 
 He was afraid of her. In a towering rage, he sat down. 
 
 When the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joined 
 the Women's Guild. It was a little club of women attached to the 
 Co-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday night in 
 the long room over the grocery shop of the Bestwood "Co-op". 
 The women were supposed to discuss the benefits to be derived 
 from co-operation, and other social questions. Sometimes Mrs. 
 Morel read a paper. It seemed queer to the children to see their 
 mother, who was always busy about the house, sitting writing in 
 her rapid fashion, thinking, referring to books, and writing again. 
 They felt for her on such occasions the deepest respect. 
 
 But they loved the GuUd. It was the only thing to which they 
 did not grudge their mother— and that partly because she enjoyed 
 it, partly because of the treats they derived from it. The Guild was 
 called by some hostile husbands, who found their wives getting 
 too independent, the "clat-fart" shop— that is, the gossip-shop. It 
 is true, from off the basis of the Guild, the women could look at 
 their homes, at the conditions of their own lives, and find fault. 
 So the colliers found their women had a new standard of then: 
 own, rather disconcerting. And also, Mrs. Morel always had a lot 
 of news on Monday nights, so that the children liked William to 
 be in when their mother came home, because she told him things. 
 
 Then, when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the "Co- 
 op." office. He was a very clever boy, frank, with rather rough 
 features and real viking blue eyes. 
 
 "What dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed Jack on 'im for?" said 
 Morel. "All he'll do is to wear his britches behind out, an' earn 
 nowt. What's 'e startm' wl'?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter what he's starting with," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
56 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "It wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we me, an' 'e'U earn a easy ten 
 shillin' a wik from th' start. But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end 
 out on a stool's better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi' me, I know." 
 
 "He is not going in the pit," said Mrs. Morel, "and there's an 
 end of it." 
 
 "It wor good enough for me, but it's non good enougji for 'im." 
 
 "If your mother put you in the pit at twelve, it's no reason why 
 I should do the same with my lad." 
 
 "Twelve! It wor a sight afore that!" 
 
 "Whenever it was," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 She was very proud of her son. He went to the night school, 
 and learned shorthand, so that by the time he was sixteen he was 
 the best shorthand clerk and book-keeper on the place, except 
 one. Then he taught in the night schools. But he was so fiery that 
 only his good-nature and his size protected him. 
 
 All the things that men do— the decent things— William did. He 
 could run like the wind. When he was twelve he won a first prize 
 in a race; an inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood 
 proudly on the dresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen pleasure. 
 The boy only ran for her. He flew home with his anvil, breathless, 
 with a "Look, mother!" That was the first real tribute to herself. 
 She took it Uke a queen. 
 
 "How pretty!" she exclaimed. 
 
 Then he began to get ambitious. He gave all his money to his 
 mother. When he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him 
 back two for himself, and, as he never drank, he felt himself rich. 
 He went about with the bourgeois of Bestwood. The townlet con- 
 tamed nothing higher than the clergyman. Then came the bank 
 manager, then the doctors, then the tradespeople, and after that 
 the hosts of coUiers. William began to consort with the sons of the 
 chemist, the schoohnaster, and the tradesmen. He played billiards 
 in the Mechanics' Hall. Also he danced— this in spite of his 
 mother. All the life that Bestwood offered he enjoyed, from the 
 sixpenny-hops down Church Street, to sports and billiards. 
 
 Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower- 
 like ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart 
 for a brief fortnight. 
 
 Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant 
 
THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL 57 
 
 swain. Mrs. Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and im- 
 mediately she snified the air. 
 
 "Is Mr. Morel in?" the damsel would ask appealingly. 
 
 "My husband is at home," Mrs. Morel replied. 
 
 "I— I mean young Mr. Morel," repeated the maiden painfully. 
 
 "Which one? There are several." 
 
 Whereupon much blushing and stammering from the fair one, 
 
 "I— I met Mr. Morel— at Ripley," she explained. 
 
 "Oh-at a dance!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I don't approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is 
 not at home." 
 
 Then he came home angry with his mother for having turned 
 the girl away so rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fel- 
 low, who walked with long strides, sometimes frowning, often 
 with his cap pushed jollily to the back of his head. Now he came in 
 frowning. He threw his cap on to the sofa, and took his strong jaw 
 in his hand, and glared down at his mother. She was small, with 
 her hair taken straight back from her forehead. She had a quiet 
 air of authority, and yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son was 
 angry, she trembled inwardly. 
 
 "Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know about a lady. There was a girl came." 
 
 "And why didn't you tell me?" 
 
 "Because I forgot, simply." 
 
 He fumed a little. 
 
 "A good-looking girl— seemed a lady?" 
 
 "I didn't look at her." 
 
 "Big brown eyes?" 
 
 "I did not look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they're 
 running after you, they're not to come and ask your mother for 
 you. Tell them that— brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes." 
 
 "I'm sure she was a nice girl." 
 
 "And I'm sure she wasn't." 
 
 There ended the altercation. Over the dancing there was a great 
 strife between the mother and the son. The grievance reached its 
 height when William said he was going to Hucknall Torkard— con- 
 sidered a low town— to a fancy-dress ball. He was to be a High- 
 
58 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 lander. There was a dress he could hire, which one of his friends 
 had had, and which fitted him perfectly. The Highland suit came 
 home. Mrs. Morel received it coldly and would not impack it 
 
 "My suit come?" cried William. 
 
 "There's a parcel in the front room." 
 
 He rushed in and cut the string. 
 
 "How do you fancy your son in this!" he said, enraptured, 
 showing her the suit. 
 
 "You know I don't want to fancy you in it." 
 
 On the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, 
 Mrs. Morel put on her coat and bonnet. 
 
 "Aren't you going to stop and see me, mother?" he asked. 
 
 "No; I don't want to see you," she replied. 
 
 She was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was 
 afraid of her son's going the same way as his father. He hesitated a 
 moment, and his heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught 
 sight of the Highland bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up glee- 
 fully, forgetting her. She went out. 
 
 When he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and 
 got a situation in Nottmgham. In his new place he had thirty shil- 
 Ungs a week instead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His 
 mother and his father were brimmed up with pride. Everybody 
 praised William. It seemed he was going to get on rapidly. Mrs. 
 Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her younger sons. Annie was 
 now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very clever, was getting 
 on well, having lessons in French and German from his godfather, 
 the clergyman who was stiH a friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a 
 spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board school, but 
 there was talk of his trying to get a scholarship for the High School 
 in Nottingham. 
 
 William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was 
 studying hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fret- 
 ting him. Still he went out to the dances and the river parties. He 
 did not drink. The children were all rabid teetotallers. He came 
 home very late at night, and sat yet longer studying. His mother 
 implored him to take more care, to do one thing or another. 
 
 "Dance, if you want to dance, my son; but don't think you can 
 work in the office, and then amuse yourself, and then study on top 
 
THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL 59 
 
 of all. You can't; the human frame won't stand it. Do one thing or 
 the other— amuse yourself or learn Latin; but don't try to do both." 
 
 Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. 
 This seemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether 
 to rejoice or to grieve. 
 
 "They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother," he 
 cried, his eyes blazmg as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt every- 
 thing go sUent mside her. He read the letter: " 'And will you reply 
 by Thursday whether you accept. Yours faithfully — ' ITiey want 
 me, mother, at a hxmdred and twenty a year, and don't even ask 
 to see me. Didn't I tell you I could do it! Think of me in London! 
 And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater. We s'll all be roll- 
 ing in money." 
 
 "We shall, my son," she answered sadly. 
 
 It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going 
 away than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for his 
 departure, her heart began to close and grow dreary with despair. 
 She loved him so much! More than that, she hoped in him so much. 
 Almost she hved by him. She liked to do things for him: she liked 
 to put a cup for his tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so 
 proud. It was a joy to her to have him proud of his collars. There 
 was no laundry. So she used to rub away at them with her little 
 convex iron, to polish them, till they shone from the sheer pres- 
 sure of her arm. Now she would not do it for him. Now he was go- 
 ing away. She felt aknost as if he were going as well out of her 
 heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with himself. That 
 was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all himself away. 
 
 A few days before his departure— he was just twenty— he burned 
 his love-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen 
 cupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. 
 Some of them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most 
 were too trivial. 
 
 Now, on the Saturday morning he said: 
 
 "Come on, Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have 
 the birds and flowers." 
 
 Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday's work on the Friday, because 
 he was having a last day's hoUday. She was making him a rice 
 cake, which he loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious 
 that she was so miserable. 
 
60 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tmted, and had 
 purple and green thistles. William sniffed the page. 
 
 "Nice scent! Smell." 
 
 And he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose. 
 
 "Um!" said Paul, breathing m. "What d'you call it? Smell, 
 mother." 
 
 His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper. 
 
 "/ don't want to smell their rubbish," she said, sniffing. 
 
 "This girl's father," said William, "is as rich as Croesus. He owns 
 property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know 
 French. 'You will see, I've forgiven you'— I like her forgiving me. 'I 
 told mother about you this mommg, and she will have much pleas- 
 ure if you come to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father's 
 consent also. I sincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how 
 it transpires. If, however, you — ' " 
 
 " 'Let you know how it' what?" interrupted Mrs. Morel. 
 
 " 'Transpires'-oh yes!" 
 
 " 'Transpires!' " repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. "I thought she 
 was so well educated!" 
 
 WUliam felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, 
 giving Paul the comer with the thistles. He continued to read ex- 
 tracts from his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of 
 which saddened her and made her anxious for him. 
 
 "My lad," she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only 
 got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that 
 has its head scratched." 
 
 "Well, they can't go on scratching for ever," he repHed, "And 
 when they've done, I trot away." 
 
 "But one day you'll find a string roxmd your neck that you can't 
 puU off," she answered. 
 
 "Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter 
 themselves." 
 
 "You flatter yourself" she said quietly. 
 
 Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained 
 of the file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty 
 pretty tickets from the comers of the notepaper— swallows and 
 forget-me-nots and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to 
 start a new life. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 61 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Young Life of Paul 
 
 Paul would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small. His 
 fair hair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. 
 He was a pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and 
 with a full, dropping underlip. 
 
 As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious of 
 what other people felt, particularly Ms mother. When she fretted he 
 imderstood, and could have no peace. His soul seemed always at- 
 tentive to her. 
 
 As he grew older he became stronger. William was too far re- 
 moved from him to accept him as a companion. So the smaller 
 boy belonged at first almost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy 
 and a "flybie-skybie", as her mother called her. But she was in- 
 tensely fond of her second brother. So Paul was towed round at 
 the heels of Annie, sharing her game. She raced wildly at lerky with 
 the other young wild-cats of the Bottoms. And always Paul flew be- 
 side her, Uving her share of the game, having as yet no part of his 
 own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister adored him. 
 He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to. 
 
 She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not 
 so fond. So she laid the doU on the sofa, and covered it with an 
 antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul must 
 practise jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face 
 of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat 
 down to weep a dirge. Paul remained quite stiU. 
 
 "You couldn't teU it was there, mother; you couldn't tell it was 
 there," he repeated over and over. So long as Aimie wept for the 
 doll he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She for- 
 gave her brother— he was so much upset. But a day or two after- 
 wards she was shocked. 
 
 "Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella," he said. "Let's bum her." 
 
 She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to see what 
 the boy would do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some of the 
 shavings out of Arabella's body, put the waxen fragments into the 
 hollow face, poured on a little paraflBn, and set the whole thing 
 
62 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 alight. He watched with wicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt 
 off the broken forehead of Arabella, and drop Uke sweat into the 
 flame. So long as the stupid big doll burned he rejoiced in silence. 
 At the end he poked among the embers with a stick, fished out the 
 arms and legs, all blackened, and smashed them under stones. 
 
 "That's the sacrifice of Missis Arabella," he said. "An' I'm glad 
 there's nothing left of her." 
 
 Which disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say noth- 
 ing. He seemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken 
 it. 
 
 All the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarly against 
 their father, along with their mother. Morel continued to buUy and 
 to drink. He had periods, months at a time, when he made the 
 whole Ufe of the family a misery. Paul never forgot coming home 
 from the Band of Hope one Monday evening and finding his mother 
 with her eye swollen and discoloured, his father standing on the 
 hearth-rug, feet astride, his head down, and WiUiam, just home 
 from work, glaring at his father. There was a silence as the young 
 children entered, but none of the elders looked round. 
 
 William was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched. He 
 waited imtQ the children were silent, watching with children's rage 
 and hate; then he said: 
 
 "You coward, you daren't do it when I was in." 
 
 But Morel's blood was up. He swung round on his son. WiUiam 
 was bigger, but Morel was hard-muscled, and mad with fury. 
 
 "Dossn't I?" he shouted. "Dossn't I? Ha'e much more o' thy 
 chelp, my young jockey, an' I'U rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an' 
 I sholl that, dost see?" 
 
 Morel crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly, al- 
 most beast-Uke fashion. William was white with rage. 
 
 "Will yer?" he said, quiet and intense. "It 'ud be the last time, 
 though." 
 
 Morel danced a Httle nearer, crouching, drawing back his fist to 
 strike. William put his fists ready. A Ught came into his blue eyes, 
 almost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word, and the 
 men would have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would. The three 
 children sat pale on the sofa. 
 
 "Stop it, both of you," cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice. "We've 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 63 
 
 had enough for one night. And you" she said, turning on to her 
 husband, "look at your children!" 
 
 Morel glanced at the sofa. 
 
 "Look at the children, you nasty Uttle bitch!" he sneered. "Why, 
 What have / done to the children, I should Uke to know? But 
 they're like yourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks and 
 nasty ways— you've learned 'em in it, you 'ave." 
 
 She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while he threw 
 his boots under the table and went to bed. 
 
 "Why didn't you let me have a go at him?" said William, when 
 his father was upstairs. "I could easily have beaten him," 
 
 "A nice thing— your own father," she repUed. 
 
 "'Father!'" repeated William. "Call him my father!" 
 
 "Well, he is-and so — " 
 
 "But why don't you let me settle him? I could do, easily." 
 
 "The idea!" she cried. "It hasn't come to that yet." 
 
 "No," he said, "it's come to worse. Look at yourself. Why didn't 
 you let me give it him?" 
 
 "Because I couldn't bear it, so never think of it," she cried 
 quickly. 
 
 And the children went to bed, miserably. 
 
 When WiUiam was growing up, the family moved from the Bot- 
 toms to a house on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the 
 valley, which spread out like a convex cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, 
 before it. In front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west 
 wind, sweeping from Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force, 
 and the tree shrieked agam. Morel liked it, 
 
 "It's music," he said. "It sends me to sleep." 
 
 But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it became al- 
 most a demoniacal noise. The winter of their first year in the new 
 house their father was very bad. The children played in the street, 
 on the brim of the wide, dark valley, until eight o'clock. Then they 
 went to bed. Their mother sat sewing below. Having such a great 
 space in front of the house gave the children a feeUng of night, of 
 vastness, and of terror. This terror came in from the shrieking of 
 the tree and the anguish of the home discord. Often Paul would 
 wake up, after he had been asleep a long time, aware of thuds 
 downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then he heard the boom- 
 
64 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 ing shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk, then the sharp 
 replies of his mother, then the bang, bang of his father's fist on the 
 table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher. 
 And then the whole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieks 
 and cries from the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The children lay 
 silent in suspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hear what their 
 father was doing. He might hit their mother again. There was a 
 feeling of horror, a kind of bristling in the darkness, and a sense of 
 blood. They lay with their hearts in the grip of an intense anguish. 
 The wind came through the tree fiercer and fiercer. AU the chords 
 of the great harp hummed, whistled, and shrieked. And then came 
 the horror of the sudden silence, silence everywhere, outside and 
 downstairs. What was it? Was it a silence of blood? What had he 
 done? 
 
 The children lay and breathed the darkness. And then, at last, 
 they heard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairs in 
 his stockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last, if the wind al- 
 lowed, they heard the water of the tap drumming mto the ket- 
 tle, which their mother was filling for morning, and they could go 
 to sleep in peace. 
 
 So they were happy in the morning— happy, very happy playing, 
 dancing at night round the lonely lamp-post in the midst of the 
 darkness. But they had one tight place of anxiety in their hearts, 
 one darkness in their eyes, which showed all their Uves. 
 
 Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion. 
 
 "Make him stop drinking," he prayed every night. "Lord, let my 
 father die," he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit," 
 he prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work. 
 
 That was another time when the family suffered intensely. The 
 children came from school and had their teas. On the hob tiie big 
 black saucepan was simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven, ready 
 for Morel's dinner. He was expected at five o'clock. But for months 
 he would stop and drink every night on his way from work. 
 
 In the winter nights, when it was cold, and grew dark early, Mrs. 
 Morel would put a brass candlestick on the table, light a tallow 
 candle to save the gas. The children finished their bread-and- 
 butter, or dripping, and were ready to go out to play. But if Morel 
 had not come they faltered. The sense of his sitting in all his pit- 
 dirt, drinking, after a long day's work, not coming home and eating 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 65 
 
 and washing, but sitting, getting drank, on an empty stomach, made 
 Mrs. Morel unable to bear herself. From her the feeling was trans- 
 mitted to the other children. She never suffered alone any more: 
 the children suffered with her. 
 
 Paul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great trough of 
 twiUght, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were. A few 
 last colliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamplighter came 
 along. No more colUers came. Darkness shut down over the valley; 
 work was done. It was night. 
 
 Then Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle stUl 
 burned on the table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone. 
 On the hob the saucepan steamed; the dinner-plate lay waiting on 
 the table. All the room was full of the sense of waiting, waiting for 
 the man who was sitting in his pit-dirt, dinnerless, some mile away 
 from home, across the darkness, drinking himself drunk. Paul stood 
 in the doorway. 
 
 "Has my dad come?" he asked. 
 
 "You can see he hasn't," said Mrs. Morel, cross with the futility 
 of the question. 
 
 Then the boy dawdled about near his mother. They shared the 
 same anxiety. Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strained the po- 
 tatoes. 
 
 "They're ruined and black," she said; "but what do I care?" 
 
 Not many words were spoken. Paul aknost hated his mother for 
 suffering because his father did not come home from work. 
 
 "What do you bother yourself for?" he said. "If he wants to stop 
 and get drank, why don't you let him?" 
 
 "Let him!" flashed Mrs. Morel. "You may well say 'let him'." 
 
 She knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is 
 on a quick way to ruining himself and his home. The children were 
 yet yoimg, and depended on the breadwinner. William gave her 
 the sense of relief, providing her at last with someone to turn to if 
 Morel failed. But the tense atmosphere of the room on these wait- 
 ing evenings was the same. 
 
 The minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still the cloth lay on the 
 table, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same sense of anxiety 
 and expectation m the room. The boy could not stand it any longer. 
 He could not go out and play. So he ran in to Mrs. Inger, next door 
 but one, for her to talk to him. She had no children. Her husband 
 
66 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 was good to her but was in a shop, and came home late. So, when 
 she saw the lad at the door, she called: 
 
 "Come in, Paul." 
 
 The two sat talking for some time, when suddenly the boy rose, 
 saying: 
 
 "Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand 
 doing." 
 
 He pretended to be perfectly cheerful, and did not tell his friend 
 what ailed him. Then he ran indoors. 
 
 Morel at these times came in churlish and hateful. 
 
 "This is a nice time to come home," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Wha's it matter to yo' what time I come whoam?" he shouted. 
 
 And everybody in the house was still, because he was dangerous. 
 He ate his food in the most brutal manner possible, and, when he 
 had done, pushed all the pots in a heap away from him, to lay his 
 arms on the table. Then he went to sleep. 
 
 Paul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head, with 
 its black hair slightly soiled with grey, lay on the bare arms, and 
 the face, dirty and inflamed, with a fleshy nose and thin, paltry 
 brows, was turned sideways, asleep with beer and weariness and 
 nasty temper. If anyone entered suddenly, or a noise were made, 
 the man looked up and shouted: 
 
 "m lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin' thee, if tha doesna stop 
 that clatter! Dost hear?" 
 
 And the two last words, shouted in a bullying fashion, usually 
 at Annie, made the family writhe with hate of the man. 
 
 He was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him any- 
 thing. The children, alone with their mother, told her all about the 
 day's happenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in 
 them until it was told to their mother. But as soon as the father 
 came in, everything stopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth, 
 happy machmery of the home. And he was always aware of this fall 
 of silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But 
 now it was gone too far to alter. 
 
 He would dearly have liked the children to talk to him, but they 
 could not. Sometimes Mrs. Morel would say: 
 
 "You ought to tell your father." 
 
 Paul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper. Everybody 
 was highly jubilant. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 67 
 
 "Now you'd better tell your father when he comes in," said Mrs. 
 Morel. "You know how he carries on and says he's never told 
 anything." 
 
 "All right," said Paul. But he would almost rather have forfeited 
 the prize than have to tell his father. 
 
 "I've won a prize in a competition, dad," he said. 
 
 Morel turned round to him. 
 
 "Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing— about famous women." 
 
 "And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?" 
 
 "It's a book." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" 
 
 "About bkds." 
 
 "Hm-hm!" 
 
 And that was all. Conversation was impossible between the fa- 
 ther and any other member of the family. He was an outsider. He 
 had denied the God in him. 
 
 The only times when he entered again into the life of his own 
 people was when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, 
 in the evening, he cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his 
 pit-bottle. Then he always wanted several attendants, and the chil- 
 dren enjoyed it. They united with him in the work, in the actual 
 doing of something, when he was his real self again. 
 
 He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was 
 in a good humour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, 
 almost years, of friction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was 
 jolly again. It was nice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron 
 into the scullery, crying: 
 
 "Out of my road— out of my road!" 
 
 Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose, 
 and made the shape he wanted. Or he sat absorbed for a moment, 
 soldering. Then the children watched with joy as the metal sank 
 suddenly molten, and was shoved about against the nose of the 
 soldering-iron, while the room was full of a scent of burnt resin 
 and hot tin, and Morel was silent and intent for a minute. He al- 
 ways sang when he mended boots because of the jolly sound of 
 hammering. And he was rather happy when he sat putting great 
 patches on his moleskin pit trousers, which he would often do, con- 
 sidering them too dkty, and the stuff too hard, for his wife to mend. 
 
68 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 But the best time for the young children was when he made fuses. 
 Morel fetched a sheaf of long sound wheat-straws from the attic. 
 These he cleaned with his hand, till each one gleamed like a staUc 
 of gold, after which he cut the straws into lengths of about six 
 inches, leavmg, if he could, a notch at the bottom of each piece. 
 He always had a beautifully sharp knife that could cut a straw clean 
 without hurting it. Then he set in the middle of the table a heap of 
 gunpowder, a Utfle pile of black grains upon the white-scrubbed 
 board. He made and trimmed the straws while Paul and Annie 
 fiUed and plugged them. Paul loved to see the black grains trickle 
 down a crack in his palm mto the mouth of the straw, peppering 
 jollily downwards till the straw was full. Then he bunged up the 
 mouth with a bit of soap— which he got on his thumb-nail from a 
 pat in a saucer— and the straw was finished. 
 
 "Look, dad!" he said. 
 
 "That's right, my beauty," repUed Morel, who was peculiarly 
 lavish of endearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse into 
 the powder-tm, ready for the morning, when Morel would take it 
 to the pit, and use it to fire a shot that would blast the coal down. 
 
 Meantime Arthur, still fond of his father, would lean on the arm 
 of Morel's chair and say: 
 
 "Tell us about down pit, daddy." 
 
 This Morel loved to do. 
 
 "Well, there's one little 'oss— we call 'im Taffy," he would begin. 
 "An' he's a fawce 'un!" 
 
 Morel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel 
 Taffy's cunning. 
 
 "He's a brown 'un," he would answer, "an' not very high. Well, 
 he comes i' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze. 
 
 "'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein' some 
 snuff?' 
 
 "An' 'e sneezes again. Then he sUves up an' shoves 'is 'ead on 
 yer, that cadin'. 
 
 " 'What's want, Taff?' yo' say." 
 
 "And what does he?" Arthur always asked. 
 
 "He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie." 
 
 This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody 
 loved it 
 
 Or sometimes it was a new tale. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 69 
 
 "An' what dost think, my darlin'? When I went to put my coat 
 on at snap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse. 
 
 " 'Hey up, theer!' I shouts. 
 
 "An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail." 
 
 "And did you kill it?" 
 
 "I did, for they're a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi' 'em." 
 
 "An' what do they Uve on?" 
 
 "The com as the 'osses drops— an' they'll get in your pocket an' 
 eat your snap, if you'll let 'em— no matter where yo' hing your coat 
 —the slivin', nibbUn' Uttle nuisances, for they are." 
 
 These happy evenings could not take place unless Morel had 
 some job to do. And then he always went to bed very early, often 
 before the children. There was nothing remaining for him to stay 
 up for, when he had finished tinkering, and had skimmed the head- 
 lines of the newspaper. 
 
 And the children felt secure when their father was in bed. They 
 lay and talked softly a while. Then they started as the Ughts went 
 suddenly sprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swung in 
 the hands of the colliers tramping by outside, going to take the 
 nine o'clock shift. They listened to the voices of the men, imagined 
 them dipping down into the dark valley. Sometimes they went to 
 the window and watched the three or four lamps growing tinier and 
 tinier, swaying down the fields in the darkness. Then it was a joy to 
 rush back to bed and cuddle closely in the warmth. 
 
 Paul was rather a delicate boy, subject to bronchitis. The others 
 were all quite strong; so this was another reason for his mother's 
 difiEerence in feeling for him. One day he came home at dinner- 
 time feeling iU. But it was not a family to make any fuss. 
 
 "What's the matter with you7" his mother asked sharply. 
 
 "Nothing," he repHed. 
 
 But he ate no dinner. 
 
 "K you eat no dinner, you're not going to school," she said. 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 "That's why." 
 
 So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cush- 
 ions the children loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That after- 
 noon Mrs. Morel was ironing. She listened to the small, restless 
 noise the boy made in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her 
 heart the old, almost weary feeling towards him. She had never 
 
70 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 expected him to live. And yet he had a great vitality in his young 
 body. Perhaps it would have been a little relief to her if he had died. 
 She always felt a mixture of anguish in her love for him. 
 
 He, in Ms semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter 
 of the iron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing- 
 board. Once roused, he opened his eyes to see his mother standing 
 on the hearth-rug with the hot iron near her cheek, Ustening, as it 
 were, to the heat. Her stiU face, with the mouth closed tight from 
 suffering and disillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest 
 bit on one side, and her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made 
 his heart contract with love. When she was quiet, so, she looked 
 brave and rich with life, but as if she had been done out of her 
 rights. It hurt the boy keenly, this feeling about her that she had 
 never had her life's fulfihnent: and his own incapabihty to make 
 up to her hurt him with a sense of impotence, yet made him pa- 
 tiently dogged inside. It was his childish aun. 
 
 She spat on the iron, and a little baU of spit bounded, raced off 
 the dark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the 
 sack lining of the hearth-rug vigorously. She was warm in the ruddy 
 firelight. Paul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one 
 side. Her movements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure 
 to watch her. Nothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, 
 could have been found fault with by her children. The room was 
 warm and full of the scent of hot linen. Later on the clergyman 
 came and talked sofdy with her. 
 
 Paul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did not mind 
 much. What happened happened, and it was no good kickmg 
 against the pricks. He loved the evenings, after eight o'clock, when 
 the light was put out, and he could watch the fire-flames spring 
 over the darkness of the walls and ceiling; could watch huge shad- 
 ows waving and tossing, till the room seemed full of men who bat- 
 tled silently. 
 
 On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom. He 
 was always very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed the 
 atmosphere for the boy. 
 
 "Are ter asleep, my darlin'?" Morel asked softly. 
 
 "No; is my mother comin'?" 
 
 "She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do you want anything?" 
 Morel rarely "thee'd" his son. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 71 
 
 "I don't want nothing. But how long will she be?" 
 
 "Not long, my duckie." 
 
 The father waited undecidedly on the hearth-rug for a moment 
 or two. He felt his son did not want him. Then he went to the top 
 of the stairs and said to his wife: 
 
 "This cMdt's axin' for thee; how long art goin' to be?" 
 
 "Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep." 
 
 "She says you're to go to sleep," the father repeated gently to 
 Paul. 
 
 "Well, I want her to come," insisted the boy. 
 
 "He says he can't go off till you come," Morel called downstairs. 
 
 "Eh, dear! I shan't be long. And do stop shouting downstairs. 
 There's the other children — " 
 
 Then Morel came again and crouched before the bedroom fire. 
 He loved a fire dearly. 
 
 "She says she won't be long," he said. 
 
 He loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverish 
 with irritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate all his 
 sick impatience. At last Morel, after having stood looking at his 
 son awhile, said softly: 
 
 "Good-night, my darling." 
 
 "Good-night," Paul repUed, turning round in reUef to be alone. 
 
 Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect, 
 in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, 
 the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of 
 the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul com- 
 pletely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept, and got better; 
 whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep 
 that seemed to give her faith. 
 
 In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy horses 
 feeding at the troughs in the field, scattering their hay on the trod- 
 den yellow snow; watch the miners troop home— small, black fig- 
 ures trailing slowly in gangs across the white field. Then the night 
 came up in dark blue vapour from the snow. 
 
 In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes, 
 suddenly arriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like 
 swallows, then were gone, and a drop of water was crawling dovm 
 the glass. The snowflakes whirled round the comer of the house, 
 
72 SONS A^a3 lovers 
 
 like pigeons dashing by. Away across the valley the little black 
 train crawled doubtfully over the great whiteness. 
 
 While they were so poor, the children were deUghted if they 
 could do anything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Ar- 
 thur went out early in the morning, in summer, looking for mush- 
 rooms, hunting through the wet grass, from which the larks were 
 rising, for the white-skinned, wonderful naked bodies crouched 
 secretly in the green. And if they got half a pound they felt ex- 
 ceedingly happy: there was the joy of finding something, the joy 
 of accepting something straight from the hand of Nature, and the 
 joy of contributing to the family exchequer. 
 
 But the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty, 
 was the blackberries. Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings on 
 the Saturdays; also she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur 
 scoured the coppices and woods and old quarries, so long as a 
 blackberry was to be found, every week-end going on their search. 
 In that region of mining villages blackberries became a comparative 
 rarity. But Paul hunted far and wide. He loved being out in the 
 country, among the bushes. But he also could not bear to go home 
 to his mother empty. That, he felt, would disappoint her, and he 
 would have died rather. 
 
 "Good gracious!" she would exclaim as the lads came in, late, 
 and tired to death, and hungry, "wherever have you been?" 
 
 "Well," replied Paul, "there wasn't any, so we went over Misk 
 Hills. And look here, our mother!" 
 
 She peeped into the basket. 
 
 "Now, those are fine ones!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "And there's over two pounds— isn't there over two pounds?" 
 
 She tried the basket. 
 
 "Yes," she answered doubtfully. 
 
 Then Paul fished out a Uttie spray. He always brought her one 
 spray, the best he could find. 
 
 "Pretty!" she said, m a curious tone, of a woman accepting a 
 love-token. 
 
 The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than own 
 himself beaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never 
 realised this, whilst he was young. She was a woman who waited 
 for her children to grow up. And William occupied her chiefly. 
 
 But when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much at 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 73 
 
 home, the mother made a companion of Paul. The latter ^as uncon- 
 sciously jealous of his brother, and William was jealous of him. At 
 the same time, they were good friends. 
 
 Mrs. Morel's intimacy with her second son was more subtle 
 and fine, perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the 
 rule that Paul should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The 
 coUiers of the five pits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. 
 All the earnings of each stall were put down to the chief butty, as 
 contractor, and he divided the wages again, either in the public- 
 house or in his own home. So that the children could fetch the 
 money, school closed early on Friday afternoons. Each of the Morel 
 children— William, then Annie, then Paul— had fetched the money 
 on Friday afternoons, until they went themselves to work. Paul 
 used to set off at half-past three, with a little cahco bag in his 
 pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, children, and men were 
 seen trooping to the offices. 
 
 These offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building, 
 almost hke a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of 
 Greenhill Lane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room 
 paved vsdth blue brick, and having a seat all round, against the wall. 
 Here sat the colliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The 
 women and children usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. 
 Paul always examined the grass border, and the big grass bank, 
 because in it grew tiny pansies and tmy forget-me-nots. There was 
 a sound of many voices. The women had on their Sunday hats. 
 The girls chattered loudly. Little dogs ran here and there. The 
 green shrubs were silent all around. 
 
 Then from inside came the cry "Spinney Park— Spinney Park." 
 AH the folk for Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time for 
 Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room 
 was quite small. A coxmter went across, dividing it into half. Be- 
 hind the counter stood two men— Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, 
 Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite was large, somewhat of the 
 stem patriarch in appearance, having a rather thin white beard. 
 He was usually muffied in an enormous silk neckerchief, and right 
 up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the open grate. No win- 
 dow was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the throats of 
 the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom was 
 rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were not 
 
74 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 witty, whilst liis chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions 
 against the colliers. 
 
 The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who 
 had been home and changed, and women, and one or two children, 
 and usually a dog. Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to 
 be jammed behind the legs of the men, near the fire which scorched 
 him. He knew the order of the names— they went according to stall 
 number. 
 
 "Holliday," came the rmgmg voice of Mr. Braithwaite. Then 
 Mrs. Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside. 
 
 "Bower— John Bower." 
 
 A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irasci- 
 ble, glowered at him over his spectacles. 
 
 "John Bower!" he repeated. 
 
 "It's me," said the boy. 
 
 "Why, you used to 'ave a difierent nose than that," said glossy 
 Mr. Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, 
 thinking of John Bower senior. 
 
 "How is it your father's not come!" said Mr. Braithwaite, in a 
 large and magisterial voice. 
 
 "He's badly," piped the boy. 
 
 "You shoidd tell him to keep off the drink," pronoimced the 
 great cashier. 
 
 "An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer," said a mocking 
 voice from behind. 
 
 All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked 
 down at his next sheet. 
 
 "Fred Pilkingtonl" he caEed, quite indifferent. 
 
 Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm. 
 
 Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. 
 He was pushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning. 
 But he did not hope to get through the wall of men. 
 
 "Walter Morel!" came the ringing voice. 
 
 "Here!" piped Paul, small and inadequate. 
 
 "Morel— Walter Morel!" the cashier repeated, his finger and 
 thumb on the invoice, ready to pass on. 
 
 Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could 
 not or would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. 
 Then Mr. Winterbottom came to the rescue. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 75 
 
 "He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?" 
 
 The fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He 
 pointed at the fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside, 
 and disclosed the boy. 
 
 "Here he is!" said Mr. Winterbottom. 
 
 Paul went to the counter. 
 
 "Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don't you shout 
 up when you're called?" said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the 
 invoice a five-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate and pretty 
 movement, picked up a Uttle ten-pound column of gold, and 
 plumped it beside the silver. The gold slid in a bright stream over 
 the paper. The cashier finished counting off the money; the boy 
 dragged the whole down the counter to Mr. Winterbottom, to whom 
 the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. Here he suffered 
 again. 
 
 "Sixteen an' six," said Mr. Wmterbottom. 
 
 The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some 
 loose silver and half a sovereign. 
 
 "How much do you think you've given me?" asked Mr. Win- 
 terbottom. 
 
 The boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the faintest 
 notion. 
 
 "Haven't you got a tongue in your head?" 
 
 Paul bit his Up, and pushed forward some more silver. 
 
 "Don't they teach you to count at the Board-school?" he asked. 
 
 "Nowt but algibbra an' French," said a collier. 
 
 "An' cheek an' impidence," said another. 
 
 Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he 
 got his money into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of 
 the damned on these occasions. 
 
 His relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the Mans- 
 field Road, was mfinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. 
 There were some gold and some white fowls pecking under the 
 apple trees of an orchard. The colliers were walking home in a 
 stream. The boy went near the wall, self-consciously. He knew 
 many of the men, but could not recognise them in their dirt. And 
 this was a new torture to him. 
 
 When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not 
 
76 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 yet come. Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grand- 
 mother, Morel's mother, had been Mrs. Wharmby's friend. 
 
 "Your father's not come yet," said the landlady, in the peculiar 
 half-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly 
 to grown men. "Sit you down." 
 
 Paul sat down on the edge of the bench ui the bar. Some colliers 
 were "reckoning"— sharing out their money— in a comer; others 
 came in. They all glanced at the boy without speaking. At last 
 Morel came; brisk, and with somethmg of an air, even in his 
 blackness. 
 
 "Hello!" he said rather tenderly to Ms son. "Have you bested 
 me? Shall you have a drink of something?" 
 
 Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists, and 
 he would have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all 
 the men than in having a tooth drawn. 
 
 The landlady looked at him de haut en has, rather pitying, and 
 at the same time, resenting his clear, fierce moraUty. Paul went 
 home, glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking 
 day, and there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him. 
 
 Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing: 
 
 "I'm not going to the office any more," he said. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" his mother asked in surprise. His sud- 
 den rages rather amused her. 
 
 "I'm not going any more," he declared. 
 
 "Oh, very well, tell your father so." 
 
 He chewed his bun as if he hated it. 
 
 "I'm not— I'm not going to fetch the money." 
 
 "Then one of Carlin's children can go; they'd be glad enough of 
 the sixpence," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 This sixpence was Paul's only income. It mostly went in buymg 
 birthday presents; but it was an income, and he treasured it. But- — 
 
 "They can have it, then!" he said. "I don't want it." 
 
 "Oh, very well," said his mother. "But you needn't bully me 
 about it." 
 
 "They're hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I'm 
 not going any more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his 'h's', an' Mr. Win- 
 terbottom says 'You was'." 
 
 "And is that why you won't go any more?" smiled Mrs. Morel. 
 
 The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 77 
 
 dark and furious. His mother moved about at her work, taking no 
 notice of him. 
 
 "They always stan' in front of me, so's I can't get out," he said. 
 
 "Well, my lad, you've only to ask them," she replied. 
 
 "An' then Alfred Winterbottom says, 'What do they teach you 
 at the Board-school?' " 
 
 "They never taught him much," said Mrs. Morel, "that is a fact 
 —neither maimers nor wit— and his cunning he was bom with," 
 
 So, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hypersen- 
 sitiveness made her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes 
 roused her, made her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, 
 surprised. 
 
 "What was the cheque?" she asked. 
 
 "Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and six 
 stoppages," repUed the boy. "It's a good week; and only five shil- 
 lings stoppages for my father." 
 
 So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, 
 and could call him to account if he gave her short money. Morel 
 always kept to himself the secret of the week's amount. 
 
 Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule 
 that Paul should stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and 
 draw or read; he was very fond of drawing. Annie always "galli- 
 vanted" on Friday nights; Arthur was enjoying himself as usual. 
 So the boy remained alone. 
 
 Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on 
 the top of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby, 
 Ilkeston and Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes 
 ran in from surrounding villages. The market-place was full of 
 women, the streets packed with men. It was amazing to see so 
 many men everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled 
 with her lace woman, sympathised with her fruit man— who was a 
 gabey, but his wife was a bad 'un— laughed with the fish man— who 
 was a scamp but so droll— put the linoleum man in his place, was 
 cold with the odd-wares man, and only went to the crockery man 
 when she was driven— or drawn by the cornflowers on a little dish; 
 then she was coldly polite. 
 
 "I wondered how much that little dish was," she said. 
 
 "Sevenpence to you." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
78 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave 
 the market-place without it. Again she went by where the pots lay 
 coldly on the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretend- 
 ing not to. 
 
 She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her 
 bonnet was in its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie. 
 
 "Mother!" the girl implored, "don't wear that nubbly little 
 bonnet." 
 
 "Then what else shall I wear," replied the mother tartly. "And 
 I'm sure it's right enough." 
 
 It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was reduced 
 to black lace and a bit of jet. 
 
 "It looks rather come down," said Paul. "Couldn't you give it a 
 pick-me-up?" 
 
 "m jowl your head for impudence," said Mrs. Morel, and she 
 tied the strings of the black boimet valiantly under her chin. 
 
 She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, ..the pot 
 man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were somethmg 
 between them. Suddenly he shouted: 
 
 "Do you want it for fivepence?" 
 
 She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took 
 up her dish. 
 
 "I'U have it," she said. 
 
 "Yer'll do me the favour, like?" he said. "Yer'd better spit m 
 it, like yer do when y'ave something give yer." 
 
 Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner. 
 
 "I don't see you give it me," she said. "You wouldn't let me 
 have it for fivepence if you didn't want to." 
 
 "In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky if 
 you can give your things away," he growled. 
 
 "Yes; there are bad times, and good," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare 
 now finger his pots. So she was happy. 
 
 Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She was 
 always her best so— triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling 
 rich in spirit. He heard her quick, Ught step in the entry and looked 
 up from his drawing. 
 
 "Oh!" she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 79 
 
 "My word, you are loaded!" he exclaimed, putting down his 
 brush. 
 
 "I am!" she gasped. "That brazen Annie said she'd meet me. 
 Such a weight!" 
 
 She dropped her string bag and her packages on the table. 
 
 "Is the bread done?" she asked, going to the oven. 
 
 "The last one is soaking," he rephed. "You needn't look, I've 
 not forgotten it." 
 
 "Oh, that pot man!" she said, closing the oven door. "You 
 know what a wretch I've said he was? Well, I don't think he's quite 
 so bad." 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 The boy was attentive to her. She took ofE her little black boimet. 
 
 "No. I think he can't make any money— well, it's everybody's 
 cry alike nowadays— and it makes him disagreeable." 
 
 "It would me," said Paul. 
 
 "Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have— how much do 
 you think he let me have this for?" 
 
 She took the dish out of its rag of newspaper, and stood look- 
 ing on it with joy. 
 
 "Show me!" said Paul. 
 
 The two stood together gloating over the dish. 
 
 "I love cornflowers on things," said Paul. 
 
 "Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me — " 
 
 "One and three," said Paul. 
 
 "Fivepence!" 
 
 "It's not enough, mother." 
 
 "No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd been 
 extravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't have let 
 me have it if he hadn't wanted to." 
 
 "No, he needn't, need he," said Paul, and the two comforted 
 each other from the fear of having robbed the pot man. 
 
 "We c'n have stewed fruit in it," said Paul. 
 
 "Or custard, or a jelly," said his mother. 
 
 "Or radishes and lettuce," said he. 
 
 "Don't forget that bread," she said, her voice bright with glee. 
 
 Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base. 
 
 "It's done," he said, giving it to her. 
 
 She tapped it also. 
 
80 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Yes," she replied, going to unpack her bag. "Oh, and I'm a 
 wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s'll come to want." 
 
 He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance. 
 She unfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots 
 of pansies and of crimson daisies. 
 
 "Four penn'orth!" she moaned. 
 
 "How cheap!" he cried. 
 
 "Yes, but I couldn't afford it this week of aU weeks." 
 
 "But lovely!" he cried. 
 
 "Aren't they!" she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. "Paul, 
 look at this yellow one, isn't it— and a face just like an old man!" 
 
 "Just!" cried Paul, stooping to sniff. "And smells that nice! But 
 he's a bit splashed." 
 
 He ran in the scuUery, came back with the flannel, and carefully 
 washed the pansy. 
 
 "Now look at him now he's wet!" he said. 
 
 "Yes!" she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction. 
 
 The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end where 
 the Morels lived there were not many young things. So the few 
 were more imited. Boys and girls played together, the girls joining 
 in the fights and the rough games, the boys taking part in the danc- 
 ing games and rings and make-beUef of the girls. 
 
 Annie and Paul and Arthur loved the winter evenings, when it 
 was not wet. They stayed indoors till the colliers were all gone 
 home, till it was thick dark, and the street would be deserted. Then 
 they tied their scarves round their necks, for they scorned over- 
 coats, as aU the colUers' children did, and went out. The entry was 
 very dark, and at the end the whole great night opened out, in a 
 hollow, with a little tangle of Ughts below where Minton pit lay, 
 and another far away opposite for Selby. The farthest tiny lights 
 seemed to stretch out the darkness for ever. The children looked 
 anxiously down the road at the one lamp-post, which stood at the 
 end of the field path. If the little, luminous space were deserted, 
 the two boys felt genuine desolation. They stood with their hands 
 in thek pockets under the lamp, turning their backs on the night, 
 quite miserable, watching the dark houses. Suddenly a pinafore 
 under a short coat was seen, and a long-legged girl came flying 
 up. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 81 
 
 "Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an' Eddie Dakin?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 But it did not matter so much— there were three now. They set 
 up a game round the lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling. 
 Then the play went fast and furious. 
 
 There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop 
 of darkness, as if all the night were there. In front, another wide, 
 dark way opened over the hill brow. Occasionally somebody came 
 out of this way and went into the field down the path. In a dozen 
 yards the night had swallowed them. The children played on. 
 
 They were brought exceedingly close together owing to their 
 isolation. If a quarrel took place, the whole play was spoilt. 
 Arthur was very touchy, and BiUy Pillins— really PhiUps— was 
 worse. Then Paul had to side with Arthur, and on Paul's side went 
 AHce, while Billy Pillins always had Emmie Limb and Eddie 
 Dakin to back him up. Then the six would fight, hate with a fury of 
 hatred, and flee home in terror. Paul never forgot, after one of 
 these fierce internecine fights, seeing a big red moon lift itself up, 
 slowly, between the waste road over the hill-top, steadily, like a 
 great bird. And he thought of the Bible, that the moon should be 
 turned to blood. And the next day he made haste to be friends with 
 Billy p illin s, And then the wild, intense games went on again under 
 the lamp-post, surrounded by so much darkness. Mrs. Morel, go- 
 ing into her parlour, would hear the children singing away: 
 
 "My shoes are made of Spanish leather, 
 My socks are made of sUk; 
 I wear a ring on every finger, 
 I wash myself in milk." 
 
 They sounded so perfectly absorbed in the game as their voices 
 came out of the night, that they had the feel of wild creatures sing- 
 ing. It stkred the mother; and she understood when they came in 
 at eight o'clock, ruddy, with briUiant eyes, and quick, passionate 
 speech. 
 
 They all loved the Scargill Street house for its openness, for the 
 great scallop of the world it had in view. On summer evenings the 
 women would stand against the field fence, gossipmg, facing 
 the west, watching the sunsets flare quickly out, till the Derbyshire 
 
82 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 hills ridged across the crimson far away, like the black crest of a 
 newt. 
 
 In this summer season the pits never turned full time, particu- 
 larly the soft coal. Mrs. Dakin, who lived next door to Mrs. Morel, 
 going to the field fence to shake her hearth-rug, would spy men 
 coming slowly up the hill. She saw at once they were colliers. Then 
 she waited, a tail, thin, shrew-faced woman, standing on the lull 
 brow, almost like a menace to the poor colliers who were toiling 
 up. It was only eleven o'clock. From the far-off wooded hills the 
 haze that hangs like fine black crape at the back of a summer morn- 
 ing had not yet dissipated. The first man came to the stile. 
 "Chock-chock!" went the gate under his thrust. 
 
 "What, han' yer knocked off?" cried Mrs. Dakm, 
 
 "We han, missis." 
 
 "It's a pity as they letn yer goo," she said sarcastically. 
 
 "It is that," replied the man. 
 
 "Nay, you know you're flig to come up again," she said. 
 
 And the man went on. Mrs. Dakin, going up her yard, spied 
 Mrs. Morel taking the ashes to the ash-pit. 
 
 "I reckon Minton's knocked off, missis," she cried. 
 
 "Isn't it sickenin!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel in wrath. 
 
 "Ha! But I'n just seed Jont Hutchby." 
 
 "They might as well have saved thek shoe-leather," said Mrs. 
 Morel. And both women went indoors disgusted. 
 
 The colliers, thek faces scarcely blackened, were trooping home 
 again. Morel hated to go back. He loved the sunny morning. But 
 he had gone to pit to work, and to be sent home again spoilt his 
 temper. 
 
 "Good gracious, at this time!" exclaimed his wife, as he 
 entered. 
 
 "Can I help it, woman?" he shouted. 
 
 "And I've not done half enough dinner." 
 
 "Then I'll eat my bit o' snap as I took with me," he bawled 
 pathetically. He felt ignominious and sore. 
 
 And the children, coming home from school, would wonder to 
 see thek father eating with his dinner the two thick slices of rather 
 dry and dirty bread-and-butter that had been to pit and back. 
 
 "What's my dad eating his snap for now?" asked Arthur. 
 
 "I should ha'e it holled at me if I didna," snorted Morel. 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 83 
 
 "What a story!" exclaimed his wife. 
 
 "An' is it goin' to be wasted?" said Morel. "I'm not such a 
 extravagant mortal as you lot, with your waste. If I drop a bit of 
 bread at pit, in all the dust an' dirt, I pick it up an' eat it." 
 
 "The mice would eat it," said Paul. "It wouldn't be wasted." 
 
 "Good bread-an'-butter's not for mice, either," said Morel. 
 "Dirty or not dirty, I'd eat it rather than it should be wasted." 
 
 "You might leave it for the mice and pay for it out of your next 
 pint," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Oh, might I?" he exclauned. 
 
 They were very poor that autumn. William had just gone away 
 to London, and his mother missed his money. He sent ten shil- 
 lings once or twice, but he had many things to pay for at first. His 
 letters came regularly once a week. He wrote a good deal to his 
 mother, telling her all his life, how he made friends, and was ex- 
 changing lessons with a Frenchman, how he enjoyed London. His 
 mother felt again he was remaining to her just as when he was at 
 home. She wrote to him every week her direct, rather witty letters. 
 All day long, as she cleaned the house, she thought of him. He was 
 in London: he would do well. Almost, he was like her knight who 
 wore her favour in the battle. 
 
 He was coming at Qiristmas for five days. There had never been 
 such preparations. Paul and Arthur scoured the land for holly and 
 evergreens. Aimie made the pretty paper hoops in the old- 
 fashioned way. And there was imheard-of extravagance in the 
 larder. Mrs. Morel made a big and magnificent cake. Then, feeling 
 queenly, she showed Paul how to blanch almonds. He skinned the 
 long nuts reverently, counting them aU, to see not one was lost. It 
 was said that eggs whisked better in a cold place. So the boy stood 
 in the scullery, where the temperature was nearly at freezing-point, 
 and whisked and whisked, and flew in excitement to his mother 
 as the white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy. 
 
 "Just look, mother! Isn't it lovely?" 
 
 And he balanced a bit on his nose, then blew it in the air. 
 
 "Now, don't waste it," said the mother. 
 
 Everybody was mad with excitement. William was coming on 
 Christmas Eve. Mrs. Morel surveyed her pantry. There was a big 
 plum cake, and a rice cake, jam tarts, lemon tarts, and mince-pies 
 —two enormous dishes. She was finishing cooking— Spanish tarts 
 
84 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 and cheese-cakes. Everywhere was decorated. The Mssing bunch 
 of berried holly hung with bright and glittermg things, spun slowly 
 over Mrs. Morel's head as she trimmed her Uttle tarts in the 
 kitchen. A great fire roared. There was a scent of cooked pastry. 
 He was due at seven o'clock, but he would be late. The three 
 children had gone to meet him. She was alone. But at a quarter to 
 seven Morel came m again. Neither wife nor husband spoke. He 
 sat in his arm-chair, quite awkward with excitement, and she 
 quietly went on with her baking. Only by the careful way in which 
 she did things could it be told how much moved she was. The 
 clock ticked on. 
 
 "What time dost say he's coming?" Morel asked for the fifth 
 time. 
 
 "The train gets in at half-past six," she replied emphatically. 
 
 "Then he'll be here at ten past seven." 
 
 "Eh, bless you, it'll be hours late on the Midland," she said in- 
 differently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring him 
 early. Morel went down the entry to look for him. Then he came 
 back. 
 
 "Goodness, man!" she said. "You're like an ill-sitting hen." 
 
 "Hadna you better be gettin' him summat t' eat ready?" asked 
 the father. 
 
 "There's plenty of time," she answered. 
 
 "There's not so much as / can see on," he answered, turning 
 crossly ia his chair. She began to clear her table. The kettle was 
 singing. They waited and waited. 
 
 Meantime the three children were on the platform at Sethley 
 Bridge, on the Midland main line, two miles from home. They 
 waited one hour. A train came— he was not there. Down the line 
 the red and green fights shone. It was very dark and very cold. 
 
 "Ask him if the London train's come," said Paul to Annie, when 
 they saw a man in a tip cap. 
 
 "I'm not," said Aimie. "You be qiuet— he might send us off." 
 
 But Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting 
 someone by the London train: it sounded so grand. Yet he was 
 much too much scared of broaching any man, let alone one in a 
 peaked cap, to dare to ask. The three children could scarcely go 
 mto the waiting-room for fear of bemg sent away, and for fear 
 
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL 85 
 
 something should happen whilst they were off the platform. Still 
 they waited in the dark and cold. 
 
 "It's an hour an' a half late," said Arthur pathetically. 
 
 "Well," said Annie, "it's Christmas Eve." 
 
 They all grew silent. He wasn't coming. They looked down the 
 darkness of the railway. There was London! It seemed the utter- 
 most of distance. They thought anything might happen if one came 
 from London. They were aU too troubled to talk. Cold, and im- 
 happy, and silent, they huddled together on the platform. 
 
 At last, after more than two hours, they saw the Ughts of 
 an engine peering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran 
 out. The children drew back with beatmg hearts. A great train, 
 bound for Manchester, drew up. Two doors opened, and from one 
 of them, William. They flew to him. He handed parcels to them 
 cheerily, and immediately began to explain that this great train had 
 stopped for his sake at such a small station as Sethley Bridge: it 
 was not booked to stop. 
 
 Meanwhile the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, 
 the chop was cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel put on her 
 black apron. She was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pre- 
 tending to read. The minutes were a torture to her. 
 
 "H'm!" said Morel. "It's an hour an' a ha'ef." 
 
 "And those children waiting!" she said. 
 
 "Th' train canna ha' come in yet," he said, 
 
 "I tell you, on Christmas Eve they're hours wrong." 
 
 They were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with 
 anxiety. The ash tree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And 
 all that space of night from London home! Mrs. Morel suffered. 
 The sUght cUck of the works inside the clock irritated her. It was 
 getting so late; it was getting unbearable. 
 
 At last there was a sound of voices, and a footstep in the entry. 
 
 "Ha's here!" cried Morel, jumping up. 
 
 Then he stood back. The mother ran a few steps towards the 
 door and waited. There was a rush and a patter of feet, the door 
 burst open. WUliam was there. He dropped his Gladstone bag and 
 took his mother in his arms. 
 
 "Mater!" he said. 
 
 "My boy!" she cried. 
 
86 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 And for two seconds, no longer, she clasped him and kissed 
 him. Then she withdrew and said, trying to be quite normal: 
 
 "But how late you are!" 
 
 "Aren't I!" he cried, turning to his father. "Well, dad!" 
 
 The two men shook hands. 
 
 "Well, my lad!" 
 
 Morel's eyes were wet. 
 
 "We thought tha'd niver be commin'," he said. 
 
 "Oh, I'd come!" exclaimed William. 
 
 Then the son turned round to his mother. 
 
 "But you look well," she said proudly, laughing. 
 
 "Well!" he exclaimed. "I should think so— coming home!" 
 
 He was a fine feUow, big, straight, and fearless-looking. He 
 looked roimd at the evergreens and the kissing bunch, and the 
 litde tarts that lay in their tms on the hearth. 
 
 "By jove! mother, it's not diflEerent!" he said, as if in relief. 
 
 Everybody was still for a second. Then he suddenly sprang for- 
 ward, picked a tart from the hearth, and pushed it whole into his 
 mouth. 
 
 "Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!" the father ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 He had brought them endless presents. Every penny he had he 
 had spent on them. There was a sense of luxury overflowing in 
 the house. For his mother there was an umbrella with gold on the 
 pale handle. She kept it to her dying day, and would have lost any- 
 thing rather than that. Everybody had something gorgeous, and 
 besides, there were pounds of unknown sweets: Turkish deUght, 
 crystallised pineapple, and such-like things which, the children 
 thought, only the splendour of London could provide. And Paul 
 boasted of these sweets among his friends. 
 
 "Real pineapple, cut off in sUces, and then turned into crystal- 
 fair grand!" 
 
 Everybody was mad with happiness in the family. Home was 
 home, and they loved it with a passion of love, whatever the suf- 
 fering had been. There were parties, there were rejoicings. 
 People came in to see William, to see what difference London had 
 made to him. And they aU found him "such a gentleman, and such 
 a fine feUow, my word"! 
 
 When he went away again the children retired to various places 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 87 
 
 to weep alone. Morel went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Morel felt 
 as if she were numbed by some drug, as if her feelings were 
 paralysed. She loved him passionately. 
 
 He was m the office of a lawyer connected with a large ship- 
 ping firm, and at the midsummer his chief offered him a trip in the 
 Mediterranean on one of the boats, for quite a small cost. Mrs. 
 Morel wrote: "Go, go, my boy. You may never have a chance 
 again, and I should love to think of you cruising there in the 
 Mediterranean almost better than to have you at home." But Wil- 
 liam came home for his fortnight's holiday. Not even the Mediter- 
 ranean, which pulled at all his young man's desire to travel, and 
 at his poor man's wonder at the glamorous south, could take him 
 away when he might come home. That compensated his mother 
 for much. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Paul Launches into Life 
 
 Morel was rather a heedless man, careless of danger. So he had 
 endless accidents. Now, when Mrs. Morel heard the rattle of an 
 empty coal-cart cease at her entry-end, she ran into the parlour to 
 look, expecting almost to see her husband seated in the waggon, his 
 face grey under his dirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or 
 other. If it were he, she would run out to help. 
 
 About a year after WiUiam went to London, and just after Paul 
 had left school, before he got work, Mrs. Morel was upstairs and 
 her son was painting in the kitchen— he was very clever with his 
 brush— when there came a knock at the door. Crossly he put down 
 his brush to go. At the same moment his mother opened a window 
 upstairs and looked down. 
 
 A pit-lad in his dirt stood on the threshold. 
 
 "Is this Walter Morel's?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Morel. "What is it?" 
 
 But she had guessed already. 
 
 "Your mester's got hurt," he said. 
 
 "Eh, dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. 
 And what's he done this time?" 
 
88 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg somewhere. They ta'ein' 
 'im ter th' 'ospital." 
 
 "Good gracious me!" she exclaimed. "Eh, dear, what a one he 
 is! There's not five minutes of peace, I'll be hanged it there is! His 
 thumb's nearly better, and now — Did you see him?" 
 
 "I seed him at th' bottom. An' I seed 'em bring 'im up m a tub, 
 an' 'e wor m a dead faint. But he shouted Uke anythink when Doc- 
 tor Fraser examined him i' th' lamp cabin— an' cossed an' swore, 
 an' said as 'e wor goin' to be ta'en whoam— 'e wom't goin' ter th' 
 'ospital." 
 
 The boy faltered to an end. 
 
 "He would want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. 
 Thank you, my lad. Eh, dear, if I'm not sick— sick and surfeited, 
 I am!" 
 
 She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his 
 painting. 
 
 "And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital," 
 she went on. "But what a careless creature he is! Other men don't 
 have all these accidents. Yes, he would want to put all the burden 
 on me. Eh, dear, just as we were getting easy a bit at last. Put those 
 things away, there's no time to be painting now. What time is there 
 a train? I know I s'U have to go trailing to Keston. I s'll have 
 to leave that bedroom." 
 
 "I can finish it," said Paul. 
 
 "You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back, I should 
 think. Oh, my blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he'll make! 
 And those granite setts at Tinder Hill— he might well call them 
 kidney pebbles— they'll jolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they 
 can't mend them, the state they're in, an' all the men as go across 
 in that ambulance. You'd think they'd have a hospital here. The 
 men bought the ground, and, my sirs, there'd be accidents enough 
 to keep it going. But no, they must trail them ten miles in a slow 
 ambulance to Nottingham. It's a crying shame! Oh, and the fuss 
 he'll make! I know he will! I wonder who's with him. Barker, I s'd 
 think. Poor beggar, he'll wish himself anywhere rather. But he'll 
 look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'll be 
 stuck in that hospital— and won't he hate it! But if it's oiJy his leg 
 it's not so bad." 
 
 AH the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off her 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 89 
 
 bodice, she crouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into 
 her lading-can. 
 
 "I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!" she exclaimed, 
 wriggUng the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong 
 arms, rather surprising on a smallish woman. 
 
 Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table. 
 
 "There isn't a tram till four-twenty," he said. "You've time 
 enough." 
 
 "Oh no, I haven't!" she cried, blinking at him over the towel 
 as she wiped her face. 
 
 "Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should 
 I come with you to Keston?" 
 
 "Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what 
 have I to take him? Eh, dear! His clean shirt— and it's a blessing it 
 is clean. But it had better be aired. And stockings— he won't want 
 them— and a towel, I suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what 
 else?" 
 
 "A comb, a knife and fork and spoon," said Paul. His father 
 had been in the hospital before. 
 
 "Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was 
 fine as silk, and was touched now with grey. "He's very particular 
 to wash himself to the waist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. 
 But there, I suppose they see plenty like it." 
 
 Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of 
 very thin bread and butter. 
 
 "Here you are," he said, putting her cup of tea in her place. 
 
 "I can't be bothered!" she exclaimed crossly. 
 
 "Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready," he 
 insisted. 
 
 So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. 
 She was thinking. 
 
 In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles 
 to Keston Station. AU the things she was taking him she had in 
 her bulging string bag. Paul watched her go up the road between 
 the hedges— a little, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for 
 her, that she was thrust forward again into pain and trouble. And 
 she, tripping so quickly in her anxiety, felt at the back of her her 
 son's heart waiting on her, felt him bearing what part of the bur- 
 
90 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 den he could, even supporting her. And when she was at the 
 hospital, she thought: "It will upset that lad when I tell him how 
 bad it is. I'd better be careful." And when she was trudging home 
 again, she felt he was coming to share her burden. 
 
 "Is it bad?" asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house. 
 
 "It's bad enough," she replied. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her son 
 watched her face as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened 
 hands fingering at the bow under her chin. 
 
 "Well," she answered, "it's not really dangerous, but the nurse 
 says it's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on 
 his leg— here— and it's a compoimd fracture. There are pieces of 
 bone sticking through — " 
 
 "Ugh— how horrid!" exclauned the children. 
 
 "And," she continued, "of course he says he's going to die— it 
 wouldn't be him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said, 
 looking at me. 'Don't be so siUy,' I said to him. 'You're not going 
 to die of a broken leg, however badly it's smashed.' 'I s'll niver 
 come out of 'ere but in a wooden box,' he groaned. 'Well,' I said, 
 'if you want them to carry you into the garden in a wooden box, 
 when you're better, I've no doubt they wUl.' 'If we think it's good 
 for him,' said the Sister. She's an awfully nice Sister, but rather 
 strict." 
 
 Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence. 
 
 "Of course, he is bad," she continued, "and he wiU be. It's a 
 great shock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it is a 
 very dangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it wiU mend so 
 easily. And then there's the fever and the mortification— if it took 
 bad ways he'd quickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded 
 man, with wonderful healing flesh, and so I see no reason why 
 it should take bad ways. Of course there's a wound — " 
 
 She was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children 
 realised that it was very bad for their father, and the house was 
 silent, anxious. 
 
 "But he always gets better," said Paul after a while. 
 
 "That's what I tell him," said the mother. 
 
 Everybody moved about in silence. 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 91 
 
 "And he really looked nearly done for," she said. "But the Sister 
 says that is the pain." 
 
 Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet. 
 
 "And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'll have to 
 go now, Walter, because of the train— and the children.' And he 
 looked at me. It seems hard." 
 
 Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went 
 outside for some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, 
 in her httle rocking-chair that her husband had made for her when 
 the first baby was coming, remained motionless, brooding. She 
 was grieved, and bitterly sorry for the man who was hurt so much. 
 But still, in her heart of hearts, where the love should have 
 burned, there was a blank. Now, when all her woman's pity was 
 roused to its full extent, when she would have slaved herself to 
 death to nurse him and to save him, when she would have taken 
 the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away inside her, she 
 felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her most of all, 
 this failure to love him, even when he roused her strong emotions. 
 She brooded a while. 
 
 "And there," she said suddenly, "when I'd got half-way to 
 Keston, I found I'd come out in my working boots— and look at 
 them." They were an old pan: of Paul's, brown and rubbed 
 through at the toes. "I didn't know what to do with myself, for 
 shame," she added. 
 
 In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. 
 Morel talked again to her son, who was helping her with her 
 housework. 
 
 "I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little 
 fellow! 'Well,' I said to him, 'what sort of a journey did you have 
 with him?' 'Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay,' I said, 'I know 
 what he'd be.' 'But it wor bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it war that!' he 
 said. 'I know,' I said. 'At ivry jolt I thought my 'eart would ha' 
 flown clean out o' my mouth,' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives 
 sometimes! Missis, not for a fortune would I go through wi' it 
 again.' 'I can quite understand it,' I said. 'It's a nasty job, though,' 
 he said, 'an' one as'U be a long while afore it's right again.' 'I'm 
 afraid it will,' I said. I like Mr. Barker— I do like him. There's 
 something so manly about him." 
 
 Paul resumed his task silently. 
 
92 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "And of course," Mrs. Morel continued, "for a man like your 
 father, the hospital is hard. He can't understand rules and regula- 
 tions. And he won't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help 
 it. When he smashed the muscles of his thigh, and it had to be 
 dressed four times a day, would he let anybody but me or 
 his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of course, he'U suffer in there 
 with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving him. I'm sure, when I 
 kissed him an' came away, it seemed a shame." 
 
 So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud 
 to him, and he took it in as best he could, by sharing her trouble 
 to lighten it. And in the end she shared almost everything with 
 him without knowing. 
 
 Morel had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical con- 
 dition. Then he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going 
 to get better, the whole family sighed with relief, and proceeded 
 to live happily. 
 
 They were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There 
 were fourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillings from the 
 sick club, and five shillings from the Disability Fund; and then 
 every week the butties had something for Mrs. Morel— five or 
 seven shillings— so that she was quite well to do. And whilst 
 Morel was progressing favourably in the hospital, the family was 
 extraordinarily happy and peaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays 
 Mrs. Morel went to Nottingham to see her husband. Then she al- 
 ways brougiht back some little thing: a small tube of paints for Paul, 
 or some thick paper; a couple of postcards for Annie, that the 
 whole family rejoiced over for days before the girl was allowed to 
 send them away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit of pretty wood. 
 She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon 
 the folk in the picture-shop knew her, and knew about Paul. The 
 gurl in the book-shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morel was 
 full of information when she got home from Nottingham. The 
 three sat round till bed-time, listening, putting in, arguing. Then 
 Paul often raked the fire. 
 
 "I'm the man in the house now," he used to say to his mother 
 with joy. They learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be. 
 And they almost regretted— though none of them would have 
 owned to such callousness— that their father was soon coming back. 
 
 Paul was now fourteen, and was looking for work. He was a 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 93 
 
 rather small and rather finely-made boy, with dark brown hair and 
 light blue eyes. His face had already lost its youthful chubbiness, 
 and was becoming somewhat like William's— rough-featured, al- 
 most rugged— and it was extraordinarily mobile. Usually he looked 
 as if he saw things, was full of life, and warm; then his smUe, like 
 his mother's, came suddenly and was very lovable; and then, 
 when there was any clog in his soul's quick running, his face went 
 stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that becomes a clown and 
 a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels himself held cheap; 
 and, again, is adorable at the first touch of warmth. 
 
 He suffered very much from the first contact with anything. 
 When he was seven, the starting school had been a nightmare and 
 a torture to him. But afterwards he Uked it. And now that he felt 
 he had to go out mto life, he went through agonies of shrinking 
 self-consciousness. He was quite a clever painter for a boy of his 
 years, and he knew some French and German and mathematics 
 that Mr. Heaton had taught him. But nothing he had was of any 
 commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavy manual 
 work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with his 
 hands, preferred racing about, or making excursions into the 
 country, or reading, or painting. 
 
 "What do you want to be?" his mother asked. 
 
 "Anythmg." 
 
 "That is no answer," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 But it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His 
 ambition, as far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earn his 
 thirty or thirty-five shillings a week somewhere near home, and 
 then, when his father died, have a cottage with his mother, paint 
 and go out as he liked, and Uve happy ever after. That was his pro- 
 gramme as far as domg things went. But he was proud within 
 himself, measuring people against himself, and placing them, in- 
 exorably. And he thought that perhaps he might also make a 
 painter, the real thing. But that he left alone. 
 
 "Then," said his mother, "you must look in the paper for the 
 advertisements." 
 
 He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter hiuniliation and an 
 anguish to go through. But he said nothing. When he got up in the 
 morning, his whole being was knotted up over this one thought: 
 
 "I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job." 
 
94 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 It Stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing all joy and 
 even life, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot. 
 
 And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to be a 
 queer, quiet child. Going up the sunny street of the Uttle town, he 
 felt as if all the folk he met said to themselves: "He's going to the 
 Co-op. reading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't 
 get a job. I suppose he's Uviag on his mother." Then he crept up 
 the stone stairs behind the drapery shop at the Co-op., and peeped 
 in the reading-room. Usually one or two men were there, either 
 old, useless fellows, or colliers "on the club". So he entered, full 
 of shrinMng and suffering when they looked up, seated himseff at 
 the table, and pretended to scan the news. He knew they would 
 think: "What does a lad of thirteen want in a reading-room with 
 a newspaper?" and he suffered. 
 
 Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he was a 
 prisoner of industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over the old red 
 wall of the garden opposite, looking in their joUy way down on the 
 women who were hurrying with something for dinner. The valley 
 was full of com, brightening in the sun. Two collieries, among the 
 fields, waved their smaU white plxunes of steam. Far off on the hills 
 were the woods of Annesley, dark and fascinating. Already his 
 heart went down. He was being taken into bondage. His freedom 
 in the beloved home valley was going now. 
 
 The brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enor- 
 mous barrels, four a side, like beans m a burst bean-pod. The wag- 
 goner, throned aloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so much 
 below Paul's eye. The man's hair, on his small, bullet head, was 
 bleached almost white by the sun, and on his thick red arms, rock- 
 ing idly on his sack apron, the white hairs glistened. His red face 
 shone and was almost asleep with sunshine. The horses, handsome 
 and brown, went on by themselves, looking by far the masters of 
 the show. 
 
 Paul wished he were stupid. "I wish," he thougjit to himself, 
 "I was fat like him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pig 
 and a brewer's waggoner." 
 
 Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy an 
 advertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in 
 immense relief. His mother would scan over his copies. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "you may try." 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 95 
 
 William had written out a letter of application, couched in ad- 
 mirable business language, which Paul copied, with variations. 
 The boy's handwriting was execrable, so that William, who did 
 all things well, got into a fever of impatience. 
 
 The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he 
 found that he could associate with men far above his Bestwood 
 friends in station. Some of the clerks in the o£&ce had studied for 
 the law, and were more or less going through a kind of appren- 
 ticeship. WUliam always made friends among men wherever he 
 went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon visiting and staying 
 in houses of men who, in Bestwood, would have looked down on 
 the unapproachable bank manager, and would merely have called 
 indifEerently on the Rector. So he began to fancy himself as a great 
 gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised at the ease with which he 
 became a gentleman. 
 
 His mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodging 
 in Walthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a 
 Mnd of fever into the young man's letters. He was unsettled by all 
 the change, he did not stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to 
 spin rather giddily on the quick current of the new life. His mother 
 was anxious for him. She could feel him losing himself. He had 
 danced and gone to the theatre, boated on the river, been out with 
 friends; and she knew he sat up afterwards in his cold bedroom 
 grinding away at Latin, because he intended to get on in his office, 
 and in the law as much as he could. He never sent his mother any 
 money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own life. And 
 she did not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a tight 
 comer, and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. 
 She stOl dreamed of William, and of what he would do, with her- 
 self behind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself 
 how heavy and anxious her heart was because of him. 
 
 Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance, 
 a handsome bnmette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the men 
 were running thick and fast. 
 
 "I wonder if you would run, my boy," his mother wrote to him, 
 "unless you saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe 
 enough and vain enough in a crowd. But take care, and see how 
 you feel when you find yourself alone, and in triumph." 
 
 William resented these things, and continued the chase. He had 
 
96 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 taken the girl on the river. "K you saw her, mother, you would 
 know how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the clearest of clear, 
 transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, and such grey 
 eyes— bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It is all very 
 well to be a bit satirical tiU you see her. And she dresses as well 
 as any woman in London. I tell you, yom: son doesn't half put his 
 head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him." 
 
 Mrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not go walk- 
 ing down Piccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes, rather 
 than with a woman who was near to him. But she congratulated 
 him in her doubtful fashion. And, as she stood over the washing- 
 tub, the mother brooded over her son. She saw him saddled with 
 an elegant and expensive wife, earning little money, dragging along 
 and getting draggled in some small, ugly house in a suburb. "But 
 there," she told herself, "I am very Ukely a silly— meeting trouble 
 half-way." Nevertheless, the load of anxiety scarcely ever left her 
 heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by himself. 
 
 Presently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan, Manu- 
 facturer of Surgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. 
 Mrs. Morel was all joy. 
 
 "There, you see!" she cried, her eyes shining. "You've only 
 written four letters, and the third is answered. You're lucky, my 
 boy, as I always said you were." 
 
 Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elastic 
 stockings and other appUances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's note- 
 paper, and he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stock- 
 ings existed. And he seemed to feel the business world, with its 
 regulated system of values, and its impersonahty, and he dreaded 
 it. It seemed monstrous also that a business could be run on 
 wooden legs. 
 
 Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was 
 August and blazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed up 
 tight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain 
 rather than this unreasonable suffering at being exposed to stran- 
 gers, to be accepted or rejected. Yet he chattered away with his 
 mother. He would never have confessed to her how he suffered 
 over these things, and she only partly guessed. She was gay, Uke a 
 sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office at Bestwood, 
 and Paul watched her take from her purse the money for the tick- 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 97 
 
 ets. As he saw her hands m their old black kid gloves getting the 
 silver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with pain of love 
 of her. 
 
 She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because she 
 would talk aloud in presence of the other travellers. 
 
 "Now look at that silly cow!" she said, "careering round as if it 
 thought it was a circus." 
 
 "It's most likely a bottfly," he said very low. 
 
 "A what?" she asked brightly and unashamed. 
 
 They thought a while. He was sensible aU the time of having her 
 opposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him— a 
 rare, intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each 
 looked out of the window. 
 
 The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother 
 and son walked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lov- 
 ers having an adventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped 
 to hang over the parapet and look at the barges on the canal 
 below. 
 
 "It's just like Venice," he said, seeing the sunshine on the 
 water that lay between high factory walls, 
 
 "Perhaps," she answered, smiling. 
 
 They enjoyed the shops immensely. 
 
 "Now you see that blouse," she would say, "wouldn't that just 
 suit our Annie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?" 
 
 "And made of needlework as well," he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The town was 
 strange and deUghtful to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a 
 knot of apprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas 
 Jordan. 
 
 It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned 
 up a narrow street that led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old- 
 fashioned, having low dark shops and dark green house doors 
 with brass knockers, and yeUow-ochred doorsteps projecting on 
 to the pavement; then another old shop whose small window 
 looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother and son went 
 cautiously, looking everywhere for "Thomas Jordan and Son". It 
 was like hunting in some wild place. They were on tiptoe of 
 excitement. 
 
98 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were names 
 of various firms, Thomas Jordan among them. 
 
 "Here it is!" said Mrs. Morel. "But now where is it?" 
 
 They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard 
 factory, on the other a Commercial Hotel. 
 
 "It's up the entry," said Paul. 
 
 And they ventured imder the archway, as into the jaws of the 
 dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings 
 all round. It was littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. 
 The sunshine actually caught one crate whose straw was stream- 
 ing on to the yard Uke gold. But elsewhere the place was like a pit. 
 There were several doors, and two flights of steps. Straight in 
 front, on a dirty glass door at the top of a staircase, loomed the 
 ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son— Surgical Appliances." 
 Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I mounted 
 his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he followed 
 his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door. 
 
 She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In 
 front of her was a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels every- 
 where, and clerks, with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going 
 about in an at-home sort of way. The fight was subdued, the 
 glossy cream parcels seemed luminous, the counters were of dark 
 brown wood. AU was quiet and very homely. Mrs. Morel took 
 two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood behind her. She had on 
 her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore a boy's broad white 
 collar and a Norfolk suit. 
 
 One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small 
 face. His way of looking was alert. Then he gjanced round to the 
 other end of the room, where was a glass oflGice. And then he came 
 forward. He did not say anything, but leaned in a gentie, inquiring 
 fashion towards Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Can I see Mr. Jordan?" she asked. 
 
 "I'U fetch him," answered the young man. 
 
 He went down to the glass oflBce. A red-faced, white-whiskered 
 old man looked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then 
 the same fittle man came up the room. He had short legs, was 
 rather stout, and wore an alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it 
 were, he came stoutly and inquiringly down the room. 
 
PAUL LATJNCHES INTO LIFE 99 
 
 "Good-moming!" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in 
 doubt as to whether she were a customer or not. 
 
 "Good-moming. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked 
 him to call this morning." 
 
 "Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little man- 
 ner mtended to be business-like. 
 
 They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, up- 
 holstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of 
 many customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash- 
 leather hoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul 
 sniffed the odour of new wash-leather. He wondered what the 
 things were. By this time he was so much stunned that he only 
 noticed the outside things. 
 
 "Sit down!" said Mr, Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to a 
 horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then 
 the Httie old man fidgeted and found a paper. 
 
 "Did you write this letter?" he snapped, thrusting what Paul 
 recognised as his own notepaper in front of him. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. 
 
 At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling 
 guilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; sec- 
 ond, in wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, 
 in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay 
 on the kitchen table. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He 
 resented the way the man held it. 
 
 "Where did you learn to write?" said the old man crossly. 
 
 Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer. 
 
 "He is a bad writer," put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then 
 she pushed up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with 
 this common Uttle man, and he loved her face clear of the veU. 
 
 "And you say you know French?" inquired the little man, still 
 sharply. 
 
 "Yes," said Paul. 
 
 "What school did you go to?" 
 
 "The Board-school." 
 
 "And did you learn it there?" 
 
 "No— I — " The boy went crimson and got no farther. 
 
 "His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs. Morel, half plead- 
 ing and rather distant. 
 
100 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner— he always 
 seemed to keep his hands ready for action— he pulled another sheet 
 of paper from his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling 
 noise. He handed it to Paul. 
 
 "Read that," he said. 
 
 It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that 
 the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper. 
 
 " 'Monsieur,' " he began; then he looked in great confusion at 
 Mr. Jordan. "It's the-it's the — " 
 
 He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer 
 work even suflBciently to supply him with the word. Feeling an 
 utter fool, and hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the 
 paper again. 
 
 " 'Sir,— Please send me'— er— er— I can't teU the— er— 'two pairs— 
 gris fil bos— grey thread stockings'— er—er—'jan^— without'— er— I 
 can't tell the words— er—'</ozg?s— fingers'— er— I can't tell the — " 
 
 He wanted to say "handwriting", but the word still refused to 
 come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him. 
 
 " 'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without 
 toes.'" 
 
 "Well," flashed Paul, '"doigts" means 'fingers'— as well— as a 
 rule — " 
 
 The little man looked at him. He did not know whether 
 "doigts" meant "fingers"; he knew that for all his purposes it 
 meant "toes". 
 
 "Fingers to stockings!" he snapped. 
 
 "Well, it does mean fingers," the boy persisted. 
 
 He hated the Uttle man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jor- 
 dan looked at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who 
 sat quiet and with that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have 
 to depend on the favour of others. 
 
 "And when could he come?" he asked. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finished 
 school now." 
 
 "He would live in Bestwood?" 
 
 "Yes; but he could be in— at the station— at quarter to eight." 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight 
 shillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 101 
 
 word, after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". He fol- 
 lowed his mother down the stairs. She looked at him with her 
 bright blue eyes full of love and joy. 
 
 "I think you'll like it," she said. 
 
 "'Doigts does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. 
 I couldn't read the writmg." 
 
 "Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't 
 see much of him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure 
 you'll Uke them." 
 
 "But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?" 
 
 "I suppose he was a workman who has got on," she said. "You 
 mustn't mind people so much. They're not being disagreeable to 
 yoM— it's their way. You always think people are meaning things 
 for you. But they don't." 
 
 It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market- 
 place the blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the pav- 
 ing glistened. Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, 
 and the shadow was full of colour. Just where the horse trams 
 trundled across the market was a row of fruit stalls, with fruit blaz- 
 ing in the sun— apples and piles of reddish oranges, small green- 
 gage plums and bananas. There was a warm scent of fruit as 
 mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of ignominy and of 
 rage sank. 
 
 "Where should we go for dinner?" asked the mother. 
 
 It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in 
 an eating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a 
 cup of tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood con$idered 
 that tea and bread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all 
 they could afford to eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was 
 considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty. 
 
 They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. 
 Morel scanned the bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so 
 dear. So she ordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest 
 available dish. 
 
 "We oughtn't to have come here, mother," said Paul. 
 
 "Never mind," she said. "We won't come again." 
 
 She insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he liked 
 sweets. 
 
 "I don't want it, mother," he pleaded. 
 
102 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Yes," she insisted; "you'll have it." 
 
 And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was 
 busy, and Mrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the 
 mother and son waited for the girl's pleasure, whilst she flirted 
 among the men. 
 
 "Brazen hussy!" said Mrs. Morel to Paul. "Look now, she's 
 taking that man his pudding, and he came long after us." 
 
 "It doesn't matter, mother," said Paul. 
 
 Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders 
 were too meagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her 
 rights just then. They waited and waited. 
 
 "Should we go, mother?" he said. 
 
 Then Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near. 
 
 "Will you bring one currant tart?" said Mrs. Morel clearly. 
 
 The girl looked round insolently. 
 
 "Directly," she said. 
 
 "We have waited quite long enough," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked 
 coldly for the biU. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He mar- 
 velled at his mother's hardness. He knew that only years of battUng 
 had taught her to insist even so Kttle on her rights. She shrank as 
 much as he. 
 
 "It's the last tune I go there for anything!" she declared, when 
 they were outside the place, thankful to be clear. 
 
 "We'll go," she said, "and look at Keep's and Boot's, and one 
 or two places, shall we?" 
 
 They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted 
 to buy him a litde sable brush that he hankered after. But this in- 
 dulgence he refused. He stood in front of milliners' shops and 
 drapers' shops almost bored, but content for her to be interested. 
 They wandered on. 
 
 "Now, just look at those black grapes!" she said. "They make 
 your mouth water, I've wanted some of those for years, but I s'll 
 have to wait a bit before I get them." 
 
 Then she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway 
 snifQng. 
 
 "Oh! oh! Isn't it simply lovely!" 
 
 Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady 
 in black peering over the counter curiously. 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 103 
 
 "They're looking at you," he said, trying to draw his mother 
 away. 
 
 "But what is it?" she exclaimed, refusing to be moved. 
 
 "Stocks!" he answered, s niffin g hastily. "Look, there's a tubful." 
 
 "So there is— red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to 
 sjnell like it!" And, to his great relief, she moved out of the door- 
 way, but only to stand in front of the window. 
 
 "Paul!" she cried to him, who was trying to get out of si^t of 
 the elegant yoimg lady in black— the shop-girl. "Paul! Just look 
 here!" 
 
 He came reluctantly back. 
 
 "Now, just look at that fuchsia!" she exclaimed, pointing. 
 
 "H'm!" He made a curious, interested sound. "You'd think 
 every second as the flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big 
 an' heavy." 
 
 "And such an abundance!" she cried. 
 
 "And the way they drop downwards with their threads and 
 knots!" 
 
 "Yes!" she exclaimed. "Lovely!" 
 
 "I wonder who'll buy it!" he said. 
 
 "I wonder!" she answered. "Not us." 
 
 "It would die in our parlour." 
 
 "Yes, beastly cold, simless hole; it Mils every bit of a plant you 
 put in, and the kitchen chokes them to death." 
 
 They bought a few things, and set off towards the station. Look- 
 ing up the canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw 
 the Castle on its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock, in a positive 
 miracle of delicate sunshine. 
 
 "Won't it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times?" said 
 Paul. "I can go all round here and see everything. I s'U love it." 
 
 "You will," assented his mother. 
 
 He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived 
 home in the mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired. 
 
 In the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticket and 
 took it to the station. When he got back, his mother was just be- 
 ginning to wash the floor. He sat crouched up on the sofa. 
 
 "He says it'll be here on Saturday," he said. 
 
 "And how much will it be?" 
 
 "About one pound eleven," he said. 
 
104 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 She went on washing her floor in silence. 
 
 "Is it a lot?" he asked. 
 
 "It's no more than I thought," she answered. 
 
 "An' I s'll earn eight shillings a week," he said. 
 
 She did not answer, but went on with her work. At last she said: 
 
 "That William promised me, when he went to London, as he'd 
 give me a pound a month. He has given me ten sliillings— twice; 
 and now I know he hasn't a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want 
 it. Only just now you'd think he might be able to help with this 
 ticket, which I'd never expected." 
 
 "He earns a lot," said Paul. 
 
 "He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they're aU alike. 
 They're large in promises, but it's precious Uttle fulfilment you 
 get." 
 
 "He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself," said Paul. 
 
 "And I keep this house on less than thirty," she repUed; "and 
 am supposed to find money for extras. But they don't care about 
 helping you, once they've gone. He'd rather spend it on that 
 dressed-up creature." 
 
 "She should have her own money if she's so grand," said Paul. 
 
 "She should, but she hasn't. I asked him. And / know he doesn't 
 buy her a gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever bought me 
 a gold bangle." 
 
 WnUam was succeeding with his "Gipsy", as he called her. He 
 asked the girl— her name was Louisa Lily Denys Western— for a 
 photograph to send to his mother. The photo came— a handsome 
 bnmette, taken m profile, smirking slightly— and, it might be, quite 
 naked, for on the photograph not a scrap of clothing was to be 
 seen, only a naked bust. 
 
 "Yes," wrote Mrs. Morel to, her son, "the photograph of Louie 
 is very striking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you 
 think, my boy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young 
 man that photo to send to his mother— the first? Certainly the 
 shoulders are beautiful, as you say. But I hardly expected to see 
 so much of them at the first view." 
 
 Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the 
 parlour. He came out with it between his thick thiunb and finger. 
 
 "Who dost reckon this is?" he asked of his wife. 
 
 "It's the girl our William is going with," replied Mrs. Morel. 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 105 
 
 "H'm! 'Er's a bright spark, from th' look on 'er, an' one as 
 wnnna do him owermuch good neither. Who is she?" 
 
 "Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western," 
 
 "An' come agam to-morrer!" exclaimed the miner. "An' is 'er 
 an actress?" 
 
 "She is not. She's supposed to be a lady." 
 
 "I'll bet!" he exclaimed, still staring at the photo, "A lady, is 
 she? An' how much does she reckon ter keep up tliis sort o' game 
 on?" 
 
 "On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and 
 takes what bit of money's given her." 
 
 "H'm!" said Morel, laymg down the photograph. "Then he's 
 a fool to ha' ta'en up wi' such a one as that." 
 
 "Dear Mater," William repKed. "I'm sorry you didn't Uke the 
 photograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you 
 mightn't think it decent. However, I told Gyp that it didn't quite 
 suit your prim and proper notions, so she's going to send you an- 
 other, that I hope will please you better. She's always being 
 photographed; in fact, the photographers ask her if they may take 
 her for nothing." 
 
 Presently the new photograph came, with a littie silly note from 
 the girl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satin evening 
 bodice, cut square, with little puflE sleeves, and black lace hanging 
 down her beautiful arms. 
 
 "I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes," 
 said Mrs. Morel sarcastically. "I'm sure I ought to be impressed." 
 
 "You are disagreeable, mother," said Paul. "I think the first one 
 with bare shoulders is lovely." 
 
 "Do you?" answered his mother. "Well, I don't." 
 
 On the Monday morning the boy got up at six to start work. He 
 had the season-ticket, which had cost such bitterness, in his waist- 
 coat pocket. He loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother 
 packed his diimer in a small, shut-up basket, and he set off at 
 a quarter to seven to catch the 7.15 train. Mrs. Morel came to the 
 entry-end to see him off. 
 
 It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slender green 
 fruits that the children call "pigeons" were twinkling gaUy down 
 on a Uttle breeze, into the front gardens of the houses. The valley 
 was full of a lustrous dark haze, through which the ripe corn shim- 
 
106 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 mered, and in which the steam from Minton pit melted swiftly. 
 Puffs of wind came. Paul looked over the high woods of Aldersley, 
 where the country gleamed, and home had never pulled at him so 
 powerfully. 
 
 "Good-morning, mother," he said, smiling, but feeling very 
 unhappy. 
 
 "Good-morning," she replied cheerfully and tenderly. 
 
 She stood in her white apron on the open road, watching hitn 
 as he crossed the field. He had a small, compact body that looked 
 full of life. She felt, as she saw him trudging over the field, that 
 where he determined to go he would get. She thought of William. 
 He wotild have leaped the fence instead of going round the stile. 
 He was away in London, doing well. Paul would be working in 
 Nottingham. Now she had two sons in the world. She coiild think 
 of two places, great centres of industry, and feel that she had put 
 a man into each of them, that these men would work out what she 
 wanted; they were derived from her, they were of her, and their 
 works also would be hers. All the morning long she thought of 
 Paul. 
 
 At eight o'clock he climbed the dismal stairs of Jordan's Siu:- 
 gical Appliance Factory, and stood helplessly against the first great 
 parcel-rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The place was 
 stiU not awake. Over the counters were great dust sheets. Two 
 men only had arrived, and were heard talking in a comer, as they 
 took off their coats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. It was ten past 
 eight. Evidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to 
 the voices of the two clerks. Then he heard someone cough, and 
 saw in the office at the end of the room an old, decaying clerk, in 
 a round smoking-cap of black velvet embroidered with red and 
 green, opening letters. He waited and waited. One of the junior 
 clerks went to the old man, greeted him cheerily and loudly. Evi- 
 dently the old "chief" was deaf. Then the young fellow came strid- 
 ing importantly down to his counter. He spied Paul. 
 
 "Hello!" he said. "You the new lad?" 
 
 "Yes," said Paul. 
 
 "H'm! What's your name?" 
 
 "Paul Morel." 
 
 "Paul Morel? All right, you come on round here." 
 
 Paul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The room 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 107 
 
 was second storey. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor, 
 fenced as with a wall of counters, and down this wide shaft the 
 lifts went, and the Ught for the bottom storey. Also there was a 
 corresponding big, oblong hole in the ceiling, and one could see 
 above, over the fence of the top floor, some machinery; and right 
 away overhead was the glass roof, and all light for the three storeys 
 came downwards, getting dimmer, so that it was always night on 
 the ground floor and rather gloomy on the second floor. The fac- 
 tory was the top floor, the warehouse the second, the storehouse 
 the ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place. 
 
 Paul was led round to a very dark comer. 
 
 "This is the 'Spiral' comer," said the clerk. "You're Spiral, with 
 Pappleworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't 
 get here till half-past eight. So you can fetch the letters, if you like, 
 from Mr. MeUing down there." 
 
 The young man poiated to the old clerk in the office. 
 
 "AU right," said Paul. 
 
 "Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are your entry ledgers. 
 Mr. Pappleworth won't be long." 
 
 And the thin young man stalked away with long, busy strides 
 over the hoUow wooden floor. 
 
 After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of 
 the glass office. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down 
 over the rim of his spectacles. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said, kindly and impressively. "You want 
 the letters for the Spiral department, Thomas?" 
 
 Paul resented being called "Thomas". But he took the letters 
 and returned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, 
 where the great parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were 
 three doors in the comer. He sat on a high stool and read the let- 
 ters—those whose handwritmg was not too difficult. They ran as 
 follows: 
 
 "Will you please send me at once a pair of lady's silk spiral 
 thigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year; length, 
 thigh to knee, etc." Or, "Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat 
 his previous order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage." 
 
 Many of these letters, some of them in French or Norwegian, 
 were a great puzzle to the boy. He sat on his stool nervously await- 
 ing the arrivi of his "boss". He suffered tortures of shyness when. 
 
108 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 at half-past eight, the factory girls for upstairs trooped past him. 
 
 Mr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about 
 twenty to nine, when all the other men were at work. He was a 
 thin, sallow man with a red nose, quick, staccato, and smartly but 
 stiflOiy dressed. He was about thirty-sis years old. There was some- 
 thing rather "doggy", rather smart, rather 'cute and shrewd, and 
 something warm, and something shghtly contemptible about him. 
 
 "You my new lad?" he said. 
 
 Paul stood up and said he was. 
 
 "Fetched the letters?" 
 
 Mr. Pappleworth gave a chew to his gum. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Copied 'em?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, come on then, let's look slippy. Changed your coat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You want to bring an old coat and leave it here." He pro- 
 nounced the last words with the chlorodyne gum between his side 
 teeth. He vanished into the darkness behind the great parcel-rack, 
 reappeared coatless, turning up a smart striped shirt-cuff over a 
 thin and hairy arm. Then he slipped into his coat. Paul noticed 
 how thin he was, and that his trousers were in folds behind. He 
 seized a stool, dragged it beside the boy's, and sat down. 
 
 "Sit down," he said. 
 
 Paul took a seat. 
 
 Mr. Pappleworth was very close to him. The man seized the 
 letters, snatched a long entry-book out of a rack in front of him, 
 flung it open, seized a pen, and said: 
 
 "Now look here. You want to copy these letters m here." He 
 sniffed twice, gave a quick chew at his gum, stared fixedly at a let- 
 ter, then went very still and absorbed, and wrote the entry rapidly, 
 in a beautiful flourishing hand. He glanced quickly at Paul. 
 
 "See that?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Thmk you can do it all right?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "All right then, let's see you." 
 
 He sprang off his stool. Paul took a pen. Mr. Pappleworth dis- 
 appeared. Paul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly. 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 109 
 
 laboriously, and exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, 
 and feeling quite busy and happy, when Mr. Pappleworth 
 reappeared. 
 
 "Now then, how'r' yer getting on? Done 'em?" 
 
 He leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of 
 chlorodyne. 
 
 "Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer!" he exclaimed 
 satirically. "Ne'er mind, how many h'yer done? Only three! I'd 'a 
 eaten 'em. Get on, my lad, an' put numbers on 'em. Here, look! 
 Get on!" 
 
 Paul ground away at the letters, whilst Mr. Pappleworth fussed 
 over various jobs. Suddenly the boy started as a shrill whistle 
 sounded near his ear. Mr. Pappleworth came, took a plug out of a 
 pipe, and said, in an amazingly cross and bossy voice: 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Paul heard a faint voice, like a woman's, out of the mouth of 
 the tube. He gazed in wonder, never having seen a speaking-tube 
 before. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Pappleworth disagreeably into the tube, "you'd 
 better get some of your back work done, then." 
 
 Again the woman's tiny voice was heard, sounding pretty and 
 cross. 
 
 "I've not time to stand here while you taUc," said Mr. Papple- 
 worth, and he pushed the plug into the tube. 
 
 "Come, my lad," he said imploringly to Paul, "there's PoUy 
 crying out for them orders. Can't you buck up a bit? Here, come 
 out!" 
 
 He took the book, to Paul's immense chagrin, and began the 
 copying himself. He worked quickly and well. This done, he seized 
 some strips of long yellow paper, about three inches wide, and 
 made out the day's orders for the work-girls. 
 
 "You'd better watch me," he said to Paul, working all the while 
 rapidly. Paul watched the weird litde drawings of legs, and thighs, 
 and ankles, with the strokes across and the numbers, and the few 
 brief directions which his chief made upon the yellow paper. Then 
 Mr. Pappleworth finished and jumped up. 
 
 "Come on with me," he said, and the yellow papers flying in his 
 hands, he dashed through a door and down some stairs, into the 
 
110 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 basement where the gas was burning. They crossed the cold, damp 
 storeroom, then a long, dreary room with a long table on trestles, 
 into a smaller, cosy apartment, not very high, which had been 
 built on to the mam bidding. In this room a small woman with a 
 red serge blouse, and her black hair done on top of her head, was 
 waiting like a proud little bantam. 
 
 "Here y'are!" said Pappleworth. 
 
 "I think it is 'here you are'!" exclaimed Polly. "The girk have 
 been here nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time 
 wasted!" 
 
 "You think of gettmg your work done and not talking so much," 
 said Mr. Pappleworth. "You could ha' been finishing off." 
 
 "You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!" 
 cried Polly, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing. 
 
 "Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!" he mocked. "Here's your new lad. 
 Don't ruin him as you did the last." 
 
 "As we did the last!" repeated Polly. "Yes, we do a lot of ruin- 
 ing, we do. My word, a lad would take some ruining after he'd 
 been with you." 
 
 "It's time for work now, not for talk," said Mr. Pappleworth 
 severely and coldly. 
 
 "It was time for work some time back," said PoUy, marching 
 away with her head in the air. She was an erect httle body of forty. 
 
 In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench un- 
 der the window. Through the mner doorway was another longer 
 room, with six more machines. A little group of girls, nicely 
 dressed in white aprons, stood talking together. 
 
 "Have you nothing else to do but talk?" said Mr. Pappleworth. 
 
 "Only wait for you," said one handsome girl, laughing. 
 
 "Well, get on, get on," he said. "Come on, my lad. You'U know 
 your road down here again." 
 
 And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some check- 
 ing and invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his exe- 
 crable handwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down 
 from the glass office and stood behind him, to the boy's great 
 discomfort. Suddenly a red and fat finger was thrust on the form 
 he was filling in. 
 
 "Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire!" exclaimed the cross voice just be- 
 hind his ear. 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 111 
 
 Paul looked at "Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire" in his own vile writ- 
 ing, and wondered what was the matter now. 
 
 "Didn't they teach you any better than that while they were at 
 it? If you put 'Mr.' you don't put Esquire'— a man can't be both at 
 once." 
 
 The boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of hon- 
 ours, hesitated, and with trembling fibagers, scratched out the "Mr." 
 Then all at once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice. 
 
 "Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?" 
 And he tore up the blue form irritably. 
 
 Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan 
 watched. 
 
 "I don't know what they do teach in schools. You'll have to 
 write better than that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to 
 recite poetry and play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?" he 
 asked of Mr. Pappleworth. 
 
 "Yes; prime, isn't it?" replied Mr. Pappleworth indiflEerently. 
 
 Mr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that 
 his master's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manu- 
 facturer, although he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman 
 enough to leave his men alone and to take no notice of trifles. But 
 he knew he did not look like the boss and owner of the show, so 
 he had to play his role of proprietor at first, to put things on a right 
 footing. 
 
 "Let's see, what's your name?" asked Mr. Pappleworth of the 
 boy. 
 
 "Paul Morel." 
 
 It is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce 
 their own names. 
 
 "Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them 
 tilings there, and then — " 
 
 Mr. Pappleworth subsided on to a stool, and began writing. A 
 girl came up from out of a door just behind, put some newly- 
 pressed elastic web appUances on the counter, and returned. Mr. 
 Pappleworth picked up the whitey-blue knee-band, examined it, 
 and its yellow order-paper quickly, and put it on one side. Next 
 was a flesh-pink "leg". He went through the few things, wrote out 
 a couple of orders, and called to Paul to accompany him. This time 
 they went through the door whence the girl had emerged. There 
 
112 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Paul found himself at the top of a little wooden flight of steps, and 
 below him saw a room with windows roimd two sides, and at the 
 farther end half a dozen girls sitting bending over the benches in 
 the Ught from the window, sewing. They were singmg together 
 "Two Little Girls in Blue". Hearing the door opened, they all 
 turned round, to see Mr. Pappleworth and Paul looking down 
 on them from the far end of the room. They stopped singing. 
 
 "Can't you make a bit less row?" said Mr. Pappleworth. 
 "Folk'll think we keep cats." 
 
 A hunchback woman on a high stool turned her long, rather 
 heavy face towards Mr, Pappleworth, and said, in a contralto 
 voice: 
 
 "They're all tom-cats then." 
 
 In vain Mr. Pappleworth tried to be impressive for Paul's bene- 
 fit. He descended the steps into the finishing-off room, and went 
 to the hunchback Faimy. She had such a short body on her high 
 stool that her head, with its great bands of bright brown hair, 
 seemed over large, as did her pale, heavy face. She wore a dress 
 of green-black cashmere, and her wrists, coming out of the narrow 
 cuflEs, were thin and flat, as she put down her work nervously. He 
 showed her something that was wrong with a knee-cap. 
 
 "Well," she said, "you needn't come blaming it on to me. It's 
 not my fault." Her colour mounted to her cheek. 
 
 "I never said it was your fault. Will you do as I tell you?" re- 
 plied Mr. Pappleworth shortly. 
 
 "You don't say it's my fault, but you'd like to make out as it 
 was," the hunchback woman cried, almost in tears. Then she 
 snatched the knee-cap from her "boss", saying: "Yes, I'll do it for 
 you, but you needn't be snappy." 
 
 "Here's your new lad," said Mr. Pappleworth. 
 
 Fanny turned, smiling very gently on Paul. 
 
 "Oh!" she said. 
 
 "Yes; don't make a softy of him between you." 
 
 "It's not us as 'ud make a softy of him," she said indignantly. 
 
 "Come on then, Paul," said Mr. Pappleworth. 
 
 "Au revoy, Paul," said one of the girls. 
 
 There was a titter of laughter. Paul went out, blushing deeply, 
 not having spoken a word. 
 
 The day was very long. AU morning the work-people were com- 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 113 
 
 ing to Speak to Mr. Pappleworth. Paul was writing or learning to 
 make up parcels, ready for the midday post. At one o'clock, or, 
 rather, at a quarter to one, Mr. Pappleworth disappeared to catch 
 his tram: he lived in the suburbs. At one o'clock, Paul, feeling 
 very lost, took his dinner-basket down into the stockroom in the 
 basement, that had the long table on trestles, and ate his meal 
 hurriedly, alone in that cellar of gloom and desolation. Then he 
 went out of doors. The brightness and the freedom of the streets 
 made him feel adventurous and happy. But at two o'clock he was 
 back in the comer of the big room. Soon the work-girls went 
 trooping past, making remarks. It was the commoner girls who 
 worked upstairs at the heavy tasks of truss-making and the finish- 
 ing of artificial limbs. He waited for Mr. Pappleworth, not knowing 
 what to do, sitting scribbling on the yellow order-paper. Mr. 
 Pappleworth came at twenty minutes to three. Then he sat and 
 gossiped with Paul, treating the boy entirely as an equal, even in 
 age. 
 
 In the afternoon there was never very much to do, unless it 
 were near the week-end, and the accounts had to be made up. At 
 five o'clock all the men went down into the dungeon with the table 
 on trestles, and there they had tea, eating bread-and-butter on 
 the bare, dirty boards, talking with the same kind of ugly haste 
 and slovenliness with which they ate their meal. And yet upstairs 
 the atmosphere among them was always jolly and clear. The cellar 
 and the trestles affected them. 
 
 After tea, when all the gases were lighted, work went more 
 briskly. There was the big evening post to get off. The hose came 
 up warm and newly pressed from the workrooms. Paul had made 
 out the invoices. Now he had the packing up and addressing to 
 do, then he had to weigh his stock of parcels on the scales. Every- 
 where voices were calling weights, there was the chink of metal, 
 the rapid snapping of string, the hurrying to old Mr. Melling for 
 stamps. And at last the postman came with his sack, laughing and 
 jolly. Then everything slacked off, and Paul took his dinner-basket 
 and ran to the station to catch the eight-twenty train. The day in 
 the factory was just twelve hours long. 
 
 His mother sat waitmg for him rather anxiously. He had to walk 
 from Keston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And 
 he left the house before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morel was 
 
114 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 rather anxious about his health. But she herself had had to put 
 up with so much that she expected her children to take the same 
 odds. They must go through with what came. And Paul stayed at 
 Jordan's, although all the time he was there his health suffered 
 from the darkness and lack of air and the long hours. 
 
 He came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She 
 saw he was rather pleased, and her anxiety all went. 
 
 "Well, and how was it?" she asked. 
 
 "Ever so funny, mother," he replied. "You don't have to work 
 a bit hard, and they're nice with you." 
 
 "And did you get on aU right?" 
 
 "Yes: they only say my writing's bad. But Mr. Pappleworth 
 —he's my man— said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm Spiral, 
 mother; you must come and see. It's ever so nice." 
 
 Soon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Pappleworth, who had a certain 
 "saloon bar" flavour about him, was always natural, and treated 
 him as if he had been a comrade. Sometimes the "Spiral boss" 
 was irritable, and chewed more lozenges than ever. Even then, 
 however, he was not offensive, but one of those people who hurt 
 themselves by their own irritability more than they hurt other 
 people. 
 
 "Haven't you done that yet?" he would cry. "Go on, be a month 
 of Sundays." 
 
 Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular 
 and in high spirits. 
 
 "I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow," 
 he said jubilantly to Paul. 
 
 "What's a Yorkshire terrier?" 
 
 "Don't know what a Yorkshire terrier is? Don't know a York- 
 shire — " Mr. Pappleworth was aghast. 
 
 "Is it a Uttle siUsy one— colours of iron and rusty silver?" 
 
 "Thafs it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds' worth 
 of pups already, and she's worth over seven pounds herself; and 
 she doesn't weigh twenty ounces." 
 
 The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable 
 morsel. Paul did not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag 
 that would never dry. Then a man called for her, and began to 
 make coarse jokes. But Mr. Pappleworth nodded his head in the 
 direction of the boy, and the talk went on sotto voce. 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 115 
 
 Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and 
 then the only fault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the 
 counter. 
 
 "Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen 
 in your ear!" And one day he said to the lad: "Why don't you hold 
 your shoulders straighter? Come down here," when he took him 
 into the glass oflBce and fitted him with special braces for keeping 
 the shoulders square. 
 
 But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and 
 rather duU. He liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly, 
 the little brisk overseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar, 
 asked him if she could cook him anythiug on her little stove. Next 
 day his mother gave him a dish that could be heated up. He took 
 it into the pleasant, clean room to Polly. And very soon it grew 
 to be an established custom that he should have dinner with her. 
 When he came in at eight in the morning he took his basket to 
 her, and when he came down at one o'clock she had his dinner 
 ready. 
 
 He was not very tall, and pale, with thick chestnut hair, irregular 
 features, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He 
 often called her a "robinet". Though naturally rather quiet, he 
 would sit and chatter with her for hours telling her about his home. 
 The girls all liked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a little 
 circle while he sat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. 
 Some of them regarded him as a curious little creature, so serious, 
 yet so bright and jolly, and always so delicate in his way with them. 
 They all liked him, and he adored them. Polly he felt he belonged 
 to. Then Connie, with her mane of red hair, her face of apple- 
 blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady in her shabby black 
 frock, appealed to his romantic side. 
 
 "When you sit winding," he said, "it looks as if you were spin- 
 ning at a spiiming-wheel— it looks ever so nice. You remind me 
 of Elaine in the 'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could." 
 
 And she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he had a 
 sketch he prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool before 
 the wheel, her flowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, 
 her red mouth shut and serious, running the scarlet thread off the 
 hank on to the reel. 
 
116 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to 
 thrust her hip at him, he usually joked. 
 
 Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But 
 to condescend to him made her happy, and he did not mind. 
 
 "How do you put needles in?" he aslced, 
 
 "Go away and don't bother." 
 
 "But I ought to know how to put needles in." 
 
 She ground at her machine all the while steadily. 
 
 "There are many things you ought to know," she replied. 
 
 "Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine." 
 
 "Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, this is how you do 
 it." 
 
 He watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped. Then 
 Polly appeared, and said in a clear voice: 
 
 "Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you're going 
 to be down here playing with the girls, Paul." 
 
 Paul flew upstairs, calling "Good-bye!" and Emma drew her- 
 self up. 
 
 "It wasn't me who wanted him to play with the machine," she 
 said. 
 
 As a rule, when aU the girls came back at two o'clock, he ran 
 upstairs to Fanny, the hunchback, in the finishing-off room. Mr. 
 Pappleworth did not appear till twenty to three, and he often found 
 his boy sitting beside Fanny, talking, or drawing, or singing with 
 the girls. 
 
 Often, after a minute's hesitation, Fanny would begin to sing. 
 She had a fine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus, and 
 it went well. Paul was not at all embarrassed, after a while, sitting 
 in the room with the half a dozen work-girls. 
 
 At the end of the song Fanny would say: 
 
 "I know you've been laughing at me." 
 
 "Don't be so soft, Faimy!" cried one of the ^Is. 
 
 Once there was mention of Connie's red hair. 
 
 "Fanny's is better, to my fancy," said Emma. 
 
 "You needn't try to make a fool of me," said Fanny, flushing 
 deeply. 
 
 "No, but she has, Paul; she's got beautiful hair." 
 
 "It's a treat of a colour," said he. "That coldish colour Uke earth, 
 and yet shiny. It's Uke bog-water." 
 
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE 117 
 
 "Goodness me!" exclaimed one girl, laughing. 
 
 "How I do but get criticised," said Fanny. 
 
 "But you should see it down, Paul," cried Emma earnestly. 
 "It's simply beautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants 
 something to paint." 
 
 Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to. 
 
 "Then I'll take it down myself," said the lad. 
 
 "Well, you can if you like," said Fanny. 
 
 And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush 
 of hair, of uniform dark brown, slid over the humped back. 
 
 "What a lovely lot!" he exclaimed. 
 
 The girls watched. There was silence. The youth shook the 
 hair loose from the coil. 
 
 "It's splendid!" he said, smelling its perfume. "I'll bet it's worth 
 pounds." 
 
 "I'll leave it you when I die, Paul," said Fanny, half joking. 
 
 "You look just like anybody else, sittmg drying their hair," 
 said one of the girls to the long-legged hunchback. 
 
 Poor Faimy was morbidly sensitive, always imagming insults. 
 PoUy was curt and business-like. The two departments were for 
 ever at war, and Paul was always finding Fanny in tears. Then he 
 was made the recipient of aU her woes, and he had to plead her 
 case with PoUy. 
 
 So the time went along happily enough. The factory had a 
 homely feel. No one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyed 
 it when the work got faster, towards post-time, and all the men 
 united in labour. He liked to watch his fellow-clerks at work. The 
 man was the work and the work was the man, one thing, for the 
 time being. It was different with the girls. The real woman never 
 seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out, waiting. 
 
 From the train going home at night he used to watch the lights 
 of the town, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blaze 
 in the vaUeys. He felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off, 
 there was a patch of lights at BulweU Uke myriad petals shaken to 
 the ground from the shed stars; and beyond was the red glare of 
 the furnaces, playing like hot breath on the clouds. 
 
 He had to walk two and more nules from Keston home, up two 
 long hills, down two short MUs. He was often tired, and he 
 counted the lamps climbing the hill above him, how many more 
 
118 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 to pass. And from the hill-top, on pitch-dark nights, he looked 
 round on the villages five or six miles away, that shone like swarms 
 of glittering living things, almost a heaven against his feet. Marl- 
 pool and Heanor scattered the far-o£E darkness with brilliance. 
 And occasionally the black valley space between was traced, vio- 
 lated by a great train rushing south to London or north to Scotland. 
 The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness, fuming 
 and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They 
 were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in 
 silence. 
 
 And then he came to the comer at home, which faced the other 
 side of the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother 
 rose with gladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly 
 on the table. 
 
 "It'll help, mother?" he asked wistfully. 
 
 "There's precious little left," she answered, "after your ticket 
 and dinners and such are taken off." 
 
 Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story, Uke an 
 Arabian Nights, was told night after night to his mother. It was 
 almost as if it were her own life. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Death in the Family 
 
 Arthur Morel was growing up. He was a quick, careless, im- 
 pulsive boy, a good deal Uke his father. He hated study, made a 
 great moan if he had to work, and escaped as soon as possible to 
 his sport again. 
 
 In appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well 
 made, graceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh 
 coloiuing, and his exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long 
 lashes, together with his generous manner and fiery temper, made 
 him a favourite. But as he grew older his temper became uncertain. 
 He flew into rages over nothing, seemed unbearably raw and ir- 
 ritable. 
 
 His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He 
 thought only of himself. When he wanted amusement, all that 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 119 
 
 Stood in his way he hated, even if it were she. When he was in 
 trouble he moaned to her ceaselessly, 
 
 "Goodness, boy!" she said, when he groaned about a master 
 who, he said, hated him, "if you don't like it, alter it, and if you 
 can't alter it, put up with it." 
 
 And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped 
 him, he came to detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow 
 ruin. His body, which had been beautiful in movement and in 
 being, shrank, did not seem to ripen with the years, but to get 
 mean and rather despicable. There came over him a look of mean- 
 ness and of paltriness. And when the mean-looking elderly man 
 buUied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was furious. Moreover, 
 Morel's manners got worse and worse, his habits somewhat dis- 
 gusting. When the children were growing up and in the crucial 
 stage of adolescence, the father was Uke some ugly irritant to their 
 souls. His manners in the house were the same as he used among 
 the colliers down pit. 
 
 "Dirty nuisance!" Arthur would cry, jumping up and going 
 straight out of the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel 
 persisted the more because his children hated it. He seemed to 
 take a kind of satisfaction in disgusting them, and driving them 
 nearly mad, while they were so irritably sensitive at the age of 
 fourteen or fifteen. So that Arthur, who was growing up when 
 his father was degenerate and elderly, hated him worst of all. 
 
 Then, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptu- 
 ous hatred of his children. 
 
 "There's not a man tries harder for his family!" he would shout. 
 "He does his best for them, and then gets treated Uke a dog. But 
 I'm not going to stand it, I tell you!" 
 
 But for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as he 
 imagined, they would have feh sorry. As it was, the battle now 
 went on nearly all between father and children, he persisting in 
 his dirty and disgustmg ways, just to assert his independence. 
 They loathed him. 
 
 Arthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won 
 a scholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother 
 decided to let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only 
 come home at week-ends. 
 
 Annie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning 
 
120 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 about four shillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shil- 
 lings, since she had passed her examination, and there would be 
 financial peace m the house. 
 
 Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant 
 But still he stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. 
 Everything he did was for her. She waited for his coming home 
 in the evening, and then she unburdened herself of all she had 
 pondered, or of all that had occurred to her during the day. He 
 sat and listened with his earnestness. The two shared Uves. 
 
 Wilham was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her 
 an engagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped 
 at such a fabulous price. 
 
 "Eight guineas!" said Morel. "More fool him! If he'd gen me 
 some on't, it 'ud ha' looked better on 'im." 
 
 "Given you some of it!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Why give you some 
 of it!" 
 
 She remembered he had bought no engagement ring at all, and 
 she preferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But 
 now the young man talked only of the dances to which he went 
 with his betrothed, and the different resplendent clothes she wore; 
 or he told his mother with glee how they went to the theatre like 
 great swells. 
 
 He wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should 
 come at the Christmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but 
 with no presents. Mrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing foot- 
 steps, she rose and went to the door. William entered. 
 
 "Hello, mother!" He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to pre- 
 sent a tall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black- 
 and-white check, and furs. 
 
 "Here's Gyp!" 
 
 Miss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a smaU 
 smUe. 
 
 "Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I am afraid you will be hungry," said Mrs. Morel, 
 
 "Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, 
 Chubby?" 
 
 William Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly. 
 
 "How should I?" he said. 
 
 "Then I've lost them. Don't be cross with me." 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 121 
 
 A frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced 
 round the kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glit- 
 tering kissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden 
 chairs and little deal table. At that moment Morel came in. 
 
 "Hello, dad!" 
 
 "Hello, my son! Tha's let on me!" 
 
 The two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She 
 gave the same smile that showed her teeth. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Morel?" 
 
 Morel bowed obsequiously. 
 
 "I'm very well, and I hope so are you. You must make your- 
 self very welcome." 
 
 "Oh, thank you," she replied, rather amused. 
 
 "You will Uke to go upstairs," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "If you don't mind; but not if it is any trouble to you." 
 
 "It is no trouble. Aimie will take you. Walter, carry up this 
 box." 
 
 "And don't be an hour dressing yourself up," said William to 
 his betrothed. 
 
 Annie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, 
 preceded the yoimg lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. and 
 Mrs. Morel had vacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by 
 candle-light. The colliers' wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case 
 of extreme illness. 
 
 "Shall I imstrap the box?" asked Annie. 
 
 "Oh, thank you very much!" 
 
 Annie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot 
 water. 
 
 "I think she's rather tired, mother," said WUMam. "It's a beastly 
 journey, and we had such a rush." 
 
 "Is there anything I can give her?" asked Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Oh no, she'll be all right." 
 
 But there was a chiU in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss 
 Western came down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, 
 very fine for the coUier's kitchen. 
 
 "I told you you'd no need to change," said William to her. 
 
 "Oh, Chubby!" Then she turned with that sweetish smile to 
 Mrs. Morel. "Don't you think he's always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?" 
 
 "Is he?" said Mrs. Morel. "That's not very nice of him." 
 
122 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "It isn't, reaUy!" 
 
 "You are cold," said the mother. "Won't you come near the 
 fire?" 
 
 Morel jumped out of his arm-chair. 
 
 "Come and sit you here!" he cried. "Come and sit you here!" 
 
 "No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa. Gyp," said WU- 
 Kam. 
 
 "No, no!" cried Morel. "This cheer's warmest. Come and sit 
 here, Miss Wesson." 
 
 "Thank you so much," said the girl, seating herself in the col- 
 lier's arm-chair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the 
 warmth of the kitchen penetrate her. 
 
 "Fetch me a hanky. Chubby dear!" she said, putting up her 
 mouth to him, and using the same intimate tone as if they were 
 alone; which made the rest of the family feel as if they ought not 
 to be present. The young lady evidently did not realise them as 
 people: they were creatures to her for the present. William winced. 
 
 In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have 
 been a lady condescending to her inferiors. These people were 
 to her, certainly clownish— in short, the working classes. How was 
 she to adjust herself? 
 
 "I'U go," said Annie. 
 
 Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But 
 when the girl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she 
 said: "Oh, thank you!" in a gracious way. 
 
 She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had 
 been so poor; about London, about dances. She was really very 
 nervous, and chattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking 
 his thick twist tobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib 
 London speech, as he puffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best 
 black silk blouse, answered quietly and rather briefly. The three 
 children sat round in silence and admiration. Miss Western was 
 the princess. Everything of the best was got out for her: the best 
 cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth, the best coffee-jug. 
 The children thought she must find it quite grand. She felt strange, 
 not able to realise the people, not knowing how to treat them. 
 WilUam joked, and was slightly uncomfortable. 
 
 At about ten o'clock he said to her: 
 
 "Aren't you tired. Gyp?" 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 123 
 
 "Rather, Chubby," she answered, at once in the intimate tones 
 and putting her head slightly on one side. 
 
 "I'll light her the candle, mother," he said. 
 
 "Very well," repUed the mother. 
 
 Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Good-night, Mrs. Morel," she said. 
 
 Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a 
 stone beer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel 
 pit-singlet, and kissed her mother good-night. She was to share 
 the room with the lady, because the house was full. 
 
 "You wait a minute," said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie 
 sat mursing the hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all 
 round, to everybody's discomfort, and took her departure, pre- 
 ceded by William. In five minutes he was downstairs again. His 
 heart was rather sore; he did not know why. He talked very Uttle 
 till everybody had gone to bed, but himself and his mother. Then 
 he stood with his legs apart, in his old attitude on the hearth-rug, 
 and said hesitatingly: 
 
 "Well, mother?" 
 
 "Well, my son?" 
 
 She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humili- 
 ated, for his sake. 
 
 "Do you like her?" 
 
 "Yes," came the slow answer. 
 
 "She's shy yet, mother. She's not used to it. It's different from 
 her aunt's house, you know." 
 
 "Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult." 
 
 "She does." Then he frowned swiftly. "If only she wouldn't 
 put on her blessed airs!" 
 
 "It's only her first awkwardness, my boy. She'U be all right." 
 
 "That's it, mother," he repUed gratefully. But his brow was 
 gloomy. "You know, she's not like you, mother. She's not serious, 
 and she can't think." 
 
 "She's young, my boy." 
 
 "Yes; and she's had no sort of show. Her mother died when 
 she was a child. Since then she's lived with her aunt, whom she 
 can't bear. And her father was a rake. She's had no love." 
 
 "No! Well, you must make up to her." 
 
 "And so— you have to forgive her a lot of things." 
 
124 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "What do you have to forgive her, my boy?" 
 
 "I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember 
 she's never had anybody to bring her deeper side out. And she's 
 fearfully fond of me." 
 
 "Anybody can see that." 
 
 "But you know, mother— she's— she's different from us. Those 
 sort of people, like those she lives amongst, they don't seem to 
 have the same principles." 
 
 "You mustn't judge too hastily," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 But he seemed uneasy within himself. 
 
 In the morning, however, he was up smging and larking round 
 the house. 
 
 "Hello!" he called, sitting on the stairs. "Are you getting up?" 
 
 "Yes," her voice called faintly. 
 
 "Merry Christmas!" he shouted to her. 
 
 Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She 
 did not come down in half an hoiur. 
 
 "Was she really gettmg up when she said she was?" he asked 
 of Annie. 
 
 "Yes, she was," replied Annie. 
 
 He waited a while, then went to the stairs again. 
 
 "Happy New Year," he called. 
 
 "Thank you. Chubby dear!" came the laughing voice, far away. 
 
 "Buck up!" he implored. 
 
 It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, 
 who always rose before six, looked at the clock. 
 
 "Well, it's a winder!" he exclaimed. 
 
 The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the 
 foot of the stairs. 
 
 "Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?" he called, 
 rather crossly. She only laughed. The family expected, after that 
 time of preparation, something like magic. At last she came, look- 
 ing very nice in a blouse and skirt. 
 
 "Have you really been all this time getting ready?" he asked. 
 
 "Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. 
 Morel?" 
 
 She played the grand lady at first. When she went with Wilham 
 to chapel, he in his frock-coat and silk hat, she in her furs and 
 London-made costume, Paul and Arthur and Aimie expected 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 125 
 
 everybody to bow to the ground in admiration. And Morel, stand- 
 ing in his Sunday suit at the end of the road, watching the gallant 
 pair go, felt he was the father of princes and princesses. 
 
 And yet she was not so grand. For a year now she had been a 
 sort of secretary or clerk in a London ofBce. But while she was 
 with the Morels she queened it. She sat and let Annie or Paul wait 
 on her as if they were her servants. She treated Mrs. Morel with a 
 certain gUbness and Morel with patronage. But after a day or so 
 she began to change her tune. 
 
 WiUiam always wanted Paul or Annie to go along with them 
 on their walks. It was so much more interesting. And Paul really 
 did admire "Gipsy" whole-heartedly; in fact, his mother scarcely 
 forgave the boy for the adulation with which he treated the girl. 
 
 On the second day, when Lily said: "Oh, Annie, do you know 
 where I left my muff?" William replied: 
 
 "You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie?" 
 
 And Lily went upstairs with a cross, shut mouth. But it angered 
 the young man that she made a servant of his sister. 
 
 On the third evening William and LUy were sitting together 
 in the parlour by the fire in the dark. At a quarter to eleven Mrs. 
 Morel was heard raking the fixe. WUliam came out to the kitchen, 
 followed by his beloved. 
 
 "Is it as late as that, mother?" he said. She had been sitting 
 alone. 
 
 "It is not late, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up." 
 
 "Won't you go to bed, then?" he asked. 
 
 "And leave you two? No, my boy, I don't believe m it." 
 
 "Can't you trust us, mother?" 
 
 "Whether I can or not, I won't do it. You can stay till eleven 
 if you Uke, and I can read." 
 
 "Go to bed, Gyp," he said to his girl. "We won't keep mater 
 waiting." 
 
 "Annie has left the candle burning, Lily," said Mrs. Morel; 
 "I think you wUl see." 
 
 "Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel." 
 
 WiUiam kissed his sweetheart at the foot of the stairs, and she 
 went. He returned to the kitchen. 
 
 "Can't you trust us, mother?" he repeated, rather offended. 
 
126 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "My boy, I tell you I don't believe in leaving two young things 
 like you alone downstairs when everyone else is in bed." 
 
 And he was forced to take this answer. He kissed his mother 
 good-night. 
 
 At Easter he came over alone. And then he discussed his sweet- 
 heart endlessly with his mother. 
 
 "You know, mother, when I'm away from her I don't care for 
 her a bit. I shouldn't care if I never saw her again. But, then, when 
 I'm with her in the evenings I am awfully fond of her." 
 
 "It's a queer sort of love to marry on," said Mrs. Morel, "if 
 she holds you no more than that!" 
 
 "It is funny!" he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him. "But 
 yet— there's so much between us now I couldn't give her up." 
 
 "You know best," said Mrs. Morel. "But if it is as you say, I 
 wouldn't call it love— at any rate, it doesn't look much Uke it." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, mother. She's an orphan, and — " 
 
 They never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled 
 and rather fretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength and 
 money went in keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford to take 
 his mother to Nottingham when he came over. 
 
 Paul's wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings, to 
 his great joy. He was quite happy at Jordan's, but his health suf- 
 fered from the long hours and the confinement. His mother, to 
 whom he became more and more significant, thought how to help. 
 
 His half-day hoUday was on Monday afternoon. On a Monday 
 morning in May, as the two sat alone at breakfast, she said: 
 
 "I think it will be a fine day." 
 
 He looked up in surprise. This meant something. 
 
 "You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, 
 he asked me last week if I wouldn't go and see Mrs. Leivers, and 
 I promised to bring you on Monday if it's fine. Shall we go?" 
 
 "I say, Httle woman, how lovely!" he cried. "And we'U go this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 Paul hurried off to the station jubilant. Down Derby Road was 
 a cherry-tree that glistened. The old brick wall by the Statutes 
 ground burned scarlet, spring was a very flame of green. And 
 the steep swoop of highroad lay, in its cool morning dust, splen- 
 did with patterns of sunshine and shadow, perfectly still. The 
 trees sloped their great green shoulders proudly; and inside the 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 127 
 
 warehouse all the moming, the boy had a vision of spring outside. 
 
 When he came home at dinner-time his mother was rather ex- 
 cited. 
 
 "Are we going?" he asked. 
 
 "When I'm ready," she replied. 
 
 Presently he got up. 
 
 "Go and get dressed while I wash up," he said. 
 
 She did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took 
 her boots. They were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those 
 naturally exquisite people who can walk in mud without dirtying 
 their shoes. But Paul had to clean them for her. They were kid 
 boots at eight shillings a pair. He, however, thought them the 
 most dainty boots in the world, and he cleaned them with as much 
 reverence as if they had been flowers. 
 
 Suddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She 
 had got a new cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward. 
 
 "Oh, my stars!" he exclaimed. "What a bobby-dazzlerl" 
 
 She sniffed in a Uttle haughty way, and put her head up. 
 
 "It's not a bobby-dazzler at all!" she replied. "It's very quiet." 
 
 She walked forward, whilst he hovered round her. 
 
 "Well," she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and 
 mighty, "do you like it?" 
 
 "Awfully! You are a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!" 
 
 He went and surveyed her from the back. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if I was walkmg down the street behind you, 
 I should say: 'Doesn't that Uttle person fancy herself!' " 
 
 "WeU, she doesn't," rephed Mrs. Morel. "She's not sure it suits 
 her." 
 
 "Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was 
 virapped in burnt paper. It does suit you, and / say you look nice." 
 
 She sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know 
 better. 
 
 "Well," she said, "it's cost me just three shillings. You couldn't 
 have got it ready-made for that price, could you?" 
 
 "I should think you couldn't," he repUed. 
 
 "And, you know, it's good stuff." 
 
 "Awfully pretty," he said. 
 
 The blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black. 
 
 "Too young for me, though, I'm afraid," she said. 
 
128 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Too young for you!" he exclaimed in disgust. "Why don't you 
 buy some false white hair and stick it on your head." 
 
 "I s'll soon have no need," she replied. "I'm going white fast 
 enough." 
 
 "Well, you've no business to," he said. "What do I want with 
 a white-haired mother?" 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll have to put up with one, my lad," she said 
 rather strangely. 
 
 They set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William 
 had given her, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller 
 than she, though he was not big. He fancied himself. 
 
 On the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit 
 waved its plumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely. 
 
 "Now look at that!" said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood 
 on the road to watch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hiU 
 crawled a Uttle group in silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small 
 truck, and a man. They climbed the incline against the heavens. 
 At the end the man tipped the wagon. There was an undue rattle 
 as the waste fell down the sheer slope of the enormous bank. 
 
 "You sit a minute, mother," he said, and she took a seat on a 
 bank, whilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, 
 looking round at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among 
 their greenness. 
 
 "The world is a wonderful place," she said, "and wonderfully 
 beautiful." 
 
 "And so's the pit," he said. "Look how it heaps together, like 
 something alive almost— a big creature that you don't know." 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Perhaps!" 
 
 "And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to 
 be fed," he said. 
 
 "And very thankful I am they are standing," she said, "for that 
 means they'll turn middling time this week." 
 
 "But I like the feel of men on things, while they're alive. There's 
 a feel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with 
 men's hands, all of them." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 They 'went along under the trees of the highroad. He was con- 
 stantly informing her, but she was interested. They passed the 
 end of Nethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 129 
 
 in its lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepi- 
 dation approached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman 
 came out to see. 
 
 "Is this the way to Willey Farm?" Mrs. Morel asked. 
 
 Paul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman 
 was amiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through 
 the wheat and oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Pee- 
 wits, with their white breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed 
 about them. The lake was still and blue. High overhead a heron 
 floated. Opposite, the wood heaped on the hill, green and still. 
 
 "It's a wild road, mother," said Paul. "Just like Canada." 
 
 "Isn't it beautiful!" said Mrs. Morel, looking round. 
 
 "See that heron— see— see her legs?" 
 
 He directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And 
 she was quite content. 
 
 "But now," she said, "which way? He told me through the 
 wood." 
 
 The wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left. 
 
 "I can feel a bit of a path this road," said Paul. "You've got town 
 feet, somehow or other, you have." 
 
 They found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley 
 of the wood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an 
 old oak glade dippiog down on the other. And among the oaks the 
 bluebells stood in pools of azure, under the new green hazels, 
 upon a pale fawn floor of oak-leaves. He found flowers for her. 
 
 "Here's a bit of new-mown hay," he said; then, again, he 
 brought her forget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, 
 seeing her hand, used with work, holding the Uttle bunch of flowers 
 he gave her. She was perfectly happy. 
 
 But at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over 
 in a second. 
 
 "Come," he said, "let me help you." 
 
 "No, go away. I will do it in my own way." 
 
 He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She 
 climbed cautiously. 
 
 "What a way to climb!" he exclaimed scornfully, when she was 
 safely to earth again. 
 
 "Hateful stiles!" she cried. 
 
130 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Duffer of a little woman," he replied, "who can't get over 
 'em." 
 
 In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red 
 farm buildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood 
 was the apple orchard, where blossom was falling on the grind- 
 stone. The pond was deep under a hedge and overhangmg oak 
 trees. Some cows stood in the shade. The farm and buildings, 
 three sides of a quadrangje, embraced the sunshine towards the 
 wood. It was very still. 
 
 Mother and son went into the smaU railed garden, where was 
 a scent of red giUivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, 
 put out to cool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in 
 the doorway suddenly appeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was 
 about fourteen years old, had a rosy dark face, a bunch of short 
 black curls, very fine and free, and dark eyes; shy, questioning, 
 a little resentful of the strangers, she disappeared. In a minute 
 another figure appeared, a small, frail woman, rosy, with great 
 dark brown eyes. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, smiling with a httle gjow, "you've come, 
 then. I am glad to see you." Her voice was intimate and rather sad. 
 
 The two women shook hands. 
 
 "Now are you sure we're not a bother to you?" said Mrs. Morel. 
 "I know what a farming life is." 
 
 "Oh no! We're only too thankful to see a new face, it's so lost 
 up here." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 They were taken through into the parlour— a long, low room, 
 with a great bunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the 
 women talked, whilst Paul went out to siu^ey the land. He was 
 in the garden smelling the gillivers and looking at the plants, 
 when the girl came out quickly to the heap of coal which stood by 
 the fence. 
 
 "I suppose these are cabbage-roses?" he said to her, pointing 
 to the bushes along the fence. 
 
 She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes. 
 
 "I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?" he 
 said. 
 
 "I don't know," she faltered. "They're white with pink middles." 
 
 "Then they're maiden-blush." 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 131 
 
 Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. 
 
 "You don't have much in your garden," he said. 
 
 "This is our first year here," she answered, in a distant, rather 
 superior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, 
 but went his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, 
 and they went through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted. 
 
 "And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look 
 after?" said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers. 
 
 "No," replied the little woman. "I can't find tune to look after 
 cattle, and I'm not used to it. It's as much as I can do to keep going 
 in the house." 
 
 "Well, I suppose it is," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 Presently the girl came out. 
 
 "Tea is ready, mother," she said in a musical, quiet voice. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we'U come," replied her mother, 
 almost ingratiatingly. "Would you care to have tea now, Mrs. 
 Morel?" 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. Morel. "Whenever it's ready." 
 
 Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then 
 they went out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while 
 fumy forget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were 
 in ecstasy together. 
 
 When they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the 
 eldest son, were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then 
 Geoffrey and Maurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in 
 from school. Mr. Leivers was a good-looking man in the prime 
 of life, with a golden-brown moustache, and blue eyes screwed 
 up against the weather. 
 
 The boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. 
 They went round for eggs, scrambhng into all sorts of places. As 
 they were feeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no 
 notice of her. One hen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. 
 Maurice took his hand fuU of com and let the hen peck from it. 
 
 "Durst you do it?" he asked of Paul. 
 
 "Let's see," said Paul. 
 
 He had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam 
 watched. He held the com to the hen. The bird eyed it with her 
 
132 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 hard, bright eye, and suddenly made a peck into his hand. He 
 started, and laughed. "Rap, rap, rap!" went the bird's beak in his 
 palm. He laughed again, and the other boys joined. 
 
 "She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts," said Paul, 
 when the last com had gone. 
 
 "Now, Mkiam," said Maurice, "you come an' 'ave a go." 
 
 "No," she cried, shrinking back. 
 
 "Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!" said her brothers. 
 
 "It doesn't hurt a bit," said Paul. "It only just nips rather 
 nicely." 
 
 "No," she still cried, shakmg her black curls and shrinking. 
 
 "She dursn't," said Geoffrey. "She niver durst do anything ex- 
 cept recite poitry." 
 
 "Dursn't jump off a gate, dursn't tweedle, dursn't go on a sHde, 
 dursn't stop a girl hittin' her. She can do nowt but go about 
 thinkin' herself somebody. 'The Lady of the Lake.' Yah!" cried 
 Maurice. 
 
 Miriam was crimson with shame and misery. 
 
 "I dare do more than you," she cried. "You're never anything 
 but cowards and bullies." 
 
 "Oh, cowards and bullies!" they repeated mincingly, mocking 
 her speech. 
 
 "Not such a clown shall anger me, 
 A boor is answered silently," 
 
 he quoted against her, shouting with laughter. 
 
 She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, 
 where they had rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. 
 He was more agUe than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece 
 of apple-blossom that hung low on a swinging bough. 
 
 "I wouldn't get the apple-blossom," said Edgar, the eldest 
 brother. "There'll be no apples next year." 
 
 "I wasn't going to get it," replied Paul, going away. 
 
 The boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their 
 own pursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his 
 mother. As he went round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in 
 front of the hen-coop, some maize in her hand, biting her lip, and 
 crouching in an intense attitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 133 
 
 Very gingerly she put forward her hand. The hen bobbed for her. 
 She drew back quickly with a cry, half of fear, half of chagrin. 
 
 "It won't hurt you," said Paul. 
 
 She flushed crimson and started up. 
 
 "I only wanted to try," she said in a low voice. 
 
 "See, it doesn't hurt," he said, and, putting only two corns in 
 his palm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. "It only 
 makes you laugh," he said. 
 
 She put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and 
 started back with a cry. He frowned. 
 
 "Why, I'd let her take com from my face," said Paul, "only 
 she bumps a bit. She's ever so neat. If she wasn't, look how much 
 ground she'd peck up every day." 
 
 He waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird 
 peck from her hand. She gave a little cry— fear, and pain because 
 of fear— rather pathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again. 
 
 "There, you see," said the boy. "It doesn't hurt, does it?" 
 
 She looked at him with dilated dark eyes. 
 
 "No," she laughed, trembling. 
 
 Then she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some 
 way resentful of the boy. 
 
 "He thinks I'm only a common girl," she thought, and she 
 wanted to prove she was a grand person like the "Lady of the 
 Lake". 
 
 Paul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her 
 son. He took the great bunch of flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Leivers 
 walked down the fields with them. The hills were golden with eve- 
 ning; deep in the woods showed the darkening purple of bluebells. 
 It was everywhere perfectly still, save for the rustling of leaves 
 and birds. 
 
 "But it is a beautiful place," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Yes," answered Mr. Leivers; "it's a nice little place, if only 
 it weren't for the rabbits. The pasture's bitten down to nothing. 
 I dunno if ever I s'U get the rent off it." 
 
 He clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near 
 the woods, brown rabbits hopping everywhere. 
 
 "Would you believe it!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel. 
 
 She and Paul went on alone together. 
 
 "Wasn't it lovely, mother?" he said quietly. 
 
134 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 A thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness 
 till it hurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted 
 to cry with happmess. 
 
 "Now wouldn't I help that man!" she said. "Wouldn't I see to 
 the fowls and the yoimg stock! And I'd learn to milk, and I'd talk 
 with him, and I'd plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the 
 farm would be run, I know! But there, she hasn't the strength- 
 she simply hasn't the strength. She ought never to have been bur- 
 dened like it, you know. I'm sorry for her, and I'm sorry for him 
 too. My word, if I'd had him, I shouldn't have thought him a bad 
 husband! Not that she does either; and she's very lovable." 
 
 William came home again with his sweetheart at the Whitsun- 
 tide. He had one week of his holidays then. It was beautiful 
 weather. As a rule, William and Lily and Paul went out in the 
 morning together for a walk. William did not talk to his beloved 
 much, except to tell her things from his boyhood. Paul talked end- 
 lessly to both of them. They lay down, all three, in a meadow by 
 Minton Church, On one side, by the Castle Farm, was a beautiful 
 quivering screen of poplars. Hawthorn was dropping from the 
 hedges; penny daisies and ragged robin were in the field, hke 
 laughter. William, a big fellow of twenty-three, thinner now and 
 even a bit gaunt, lay back in the simshine and dreamed, while 
 she fingered with his hair. Paul went gathering the big daisies. She 
 had taken off her hat; her hair was black as a horse's mane. Paul 
 came back and threaded daisies in her jet-black hair— big spangles 
 of white and yellow, and just a pink touch of ragged robin. 
 
 "Now you look Uke a young witch-woman," the boy said to 
 her. "Doesn't she, William?" 
 
 Lily laughed. WiUiam opened his eyes and looked at her. In 
 his gaze was a certain baffled look of misery and fierce apprecia- 
 tion. 
 
 "Has he made a sight of me?" she asked, laughing down on 
 her lover. 
 
 "That he has!" said William, smiUng. 
 
 He looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glanced 
 at her flower-decked head and frowned. 
 
 "You look nice enough, if that's what you want to know," he 
 said. 
 
 And she walked without her hat. In a little while William re- 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 135 
 
 covered, and was rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he 
 carved her initials and his in a heart. 
 
 L. L. w. 
 
 W. M. 
 
 She watched his strong, nervous hand, with its gUstening hairs 
 and freckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it. 
 
 All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and 
 a certain tenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were 
 at home. But often he got irritable. She had brought, for an eight- 
 days' stay, five dresses and six blouses. 
 
 "Oh, would you mind," she said to Annie, "washing me these 
 two blouses, and these things?" 
 
 And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out 
 the next morning. Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the 
 young man, catching a glimpse of his sweetheart's attitude towards 
 his sister, hated her. 
 
 On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of 
 foulard, sUky and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and 
 in a large cream hat covered with many roses, mostly crimson. 
 Nobody could admire her enough. But in the evening, when she 
 was going out, she asked again: 
 
 "Chubby, have you got my gloves?" 
 
 "Which?" asked William. 
 
 "My new black suede." 
 
 "No." 
 
 There was a hunt. She had lost them. 
 
 "Look here, mother," said WiUiam, "that's the fourth pair she's 
 lost since Christmas— at five shillings a pair!" 
 
 "You only gave me two of them," she remonstrated. 
 
 And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearth-rug 
 whilst she sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the after- 
 noon he had left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She 
 had sat looking at a book. After supper William wanted to write 
 a letter. 
 
 "Here is your book, LUy," said Mrs. Morel. "Would you care 
 to go on with it for a few minutes?" 
 
 "No, thank you," said the girl. "I wiU sit stUl." 
 
136 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "But it is so dull." 
 
 William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the enve- 
 lope he said: 
 
 "Read a book! Why, she's never read a book ia her life." 
 
 "Oh, go along!" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration. 
 
 "It's true, mother— she hasn't," he cried, jumping up and taking 
 his old position on the hearth-rug. "She's never read a book in 
 her life." 
 
 " 'Er's like me," chimed in Morel. " 'Er canna see what there is 
 i' books, ter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I." 
 
 "But you shouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel to her 
 son. 
 
 "But it's true, mother— she can't read. What did you give her?" 
 
 "Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants 
 to read dry stuff on Simday afternoon." 
 
 "Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it." 
 
 "You are mistaken," said his mother. 
 
 All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her 
 swiftly. 
 
 "Did you ready any?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I did," she replied. 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "I don't know how many pages." 
 
 "Tell me one thing you read." 
 
 She could not. 
 
 She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, 
 and had a quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing 
 but love-making and chatter. He was accustomed to having aU 
 his thoughts sifted through his mother's mind; so, when he wanted 
 companionship, and was asked in reply to be the billing and twit- 
 tering lover, he hated his betrothed. 
 
 "You know, mother," he said, when he was alone with her 
 at night, "she's no idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When 
 she's paid, she'll suddenly buy such rot as marrons glacis, and 
 then / have to buy her season ticket, and her extras, even her under- 
 clothing. And she wants to get married, and I think myself we 
 might as well get married next year. But at this rate — " 
 
 "A fine mess of a marriage it would be," replied his mother. 
 "I should consider it again, my boy." 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 137 
 
 "Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now," he said, "and 
 so I shall get married as soon as I can." 
 
 "Very well, my boy. If you will, you wUl, and there's no stop- 
 pmg you; but I tell you, / can't sleep when I think about it." 
 
 "Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage." 
 
 "And she lets you buy her underclothing?" asked the mother. 
 
 "Well," he began apologetically, "she didn't ask me; but one 
 morning— and it was cold— I found her on the station shivering, 
 not able to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. 
 She said: 'I think so.' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings 
 on?' And she said: 'No, they were cotton.' I asked her why on 
 earth she hadn't got something thicker on in weather like that, 
 and she said because she had nothing. And there she is— a bronchial 
 subject! I had to take her and get some warm things. Well, mother, 
 I shouldn't mind the money if we had any. And, you know, she 
 ought to keep enough to pay for her season-ticket; but no, she 
 comes to me about that, and I have to find the money." 
 
 "It's a poor lookout," said Mrs. Morel bitterly. 
 
 He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly 
 careless and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair. 
 
 "But I can't give her up now; it's gone too far," he said. "And, 
 besides, for some things I couldn't do without her." 
 
 "My boy, remember you're taking your Ufe in your hands," 
 said Mrs. Morel. "Nothing is as bad as a marriage that's a hope- 
 less failure. Mine was bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach 
 you something; but it might have been worse by a long chalk." 
 
 He leaned with his back against the side of the chinmey-piece, 
 his hands m his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who 
 looked as if he would go to the world's end if he wanted to. But 
 she saw the despair on his face. 
 
 "I couldn't give her up now," he said. 
 
 "Well," she said, "remember there are worse wrongs than break- 
 ing off an engagement." 
 
 "I can't give her up now," he said. 
 
 The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a 
 conflict between them; but he would say no more. At last she 
 said: 
 
 "Well, go to bed, my son. You'll feel better in the morning, 
 and perhaps you'U know better." 
 
138 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy 
 now as it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had 
 seemed to be breaking down in her, but they did not destroy her 
 power to Uve. Now her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope 
 that was struck. 
 
 And so often WiUiam manifested the same hatred towards his 
 betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railmg agamst 
 her. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if you don't believe me, what she's Uke, would 
 you believe she has been confirmed three times?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" laughed Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Nonsense or not, she has! That's what confirmation means 
 for her— a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure." 
 
 "I haven't, Mrs. Morel!" cried the girl— "I haven't! it is not true!" 
 
 "What!" he cried, flashing round on her. "Once in Bromley, 
 once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else." 
 
 "Nowhere else!" she said, in tears— "nowhere else!" 
 
 "It was! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed twice?" 
 
 "Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel," she pleaded, tears 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Morel; "I can quite understand it, child. Take 
 no notice of him. You ought to be ashamed, WUliam, saying such 
 things." 
 
 "But it's true. She's religious— she had blue velvet Prayer-Books 
 —and she's not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that 
 table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself 
 off, and that's how she is in everything— everything!" 
 
 The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong. 
 
 "As for love!" he cried, "you might as well ask a fly to love you! 
 It'll love settling on you — " 
 
 "Now, say no more," commanded Mrs. Morel. "K you want 
 to say these things, you must find another place than this. I am 
 ashamed of you, William! Why don't you be more manly. To do 
 nothing but find fault with a girl, and then pretend you're engaged 
 to her!" 
 
 Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation. 
 
 William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted 
 the gjrl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her. 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 139 
 
 When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them 
 as far as Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station. 
 
 "You know, mother," he said to her, "Gyp's shallow. Nothing 
 goes deep with her." 
 
 "William, I wish you wouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel, 
 very imcomfortable for the girl who walked beside her. 
 
 "But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now, 
 but if I died she'd have forgotten me in three months." 
 
 Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the 
 quiet bitterness of her son's last speech. 
 
 "How do you know?" she replied. "You don't know, and there- 
 fore you've no right to say such a thing." 
 
 "He's always saying these things!" cried the girl. 
 
 "In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else, 
 and I should be forgotten," he said. "And that's yoiu: love!" 
 
 Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she 
 returned home. 
 
 "There's one comfort," she said to Paul— "he'll never have any 
 money to marry on, that I am sure of. And so she'll save him that 
 way." 
 
 So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She 
 firmly beheved WiUiam would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, 
 and she kept Paul near to her. 
 
 All summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemed 
 unnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly joUy, usu- 
 ally he was flat and bitter in his letter. 
 
 "Ah," his mother said, "I'm afraid he's ruining himself against 
 that creature, who isn't worthy of Ms love— no, no more than a 
 rag doll." 
 
 He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; 
 it was a long while to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, 
 saying he could come for Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, 
 the first week in October. 
 
 "You are not well, my boy," said his mother, when she saw him. 
 
 She was almost in tears at having him to herself again. 
 
 "No, I've not been well," he said. "I've seemed to have a drag- 
 ^g cold all the last month, but it's going, I think." 
 
 It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like 
 a schoolboy escaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He 
 
140 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 was more gaunt than ever, and there was a haggard look in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "You are doing too much," said his mother to him. 
 
 He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry 
 on, he said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday 
 night; then he was sad and tender about his beloved. 
 
 "And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd be 
 broken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. 
 You'd see, she'd never come home here to look at my grave, not 
 even once." 
 
 "Why, William," said his mother, "you're not going to die, so 
 why talk about it?" 
 
 "But whether or not — " he repKed. 
 
 "And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you choose her— 
 well, you can't grumble," said his mother. 
 
 On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on: 
 
 "Look," he said to his mother, holding up his chin, "what a 
 rash my collar's made under my chin!" 
 
 Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflamma- 
 tion. 
 
 "It ought not to do that," said his mother. "Here, put a bit of 
 this soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars." 
 
 He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more 
 solid for his two days at home. 
 
 On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he 
 was ill. Mrs. Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read 
 the telegram, called a neighbour, went to her landlady and bor- 
 rowed a sovereign, put on her things, and set off. She hurried to 
 Keston, caught an express for London in Nottmgham. She had to 
 wait in Nottingham nearly an hour. A small figure in her black 
 bonnet, she was anxiously asking the porters if they knew how 
 to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She sat in her 
 comer in a kind of stupor, never moving. At King's Cross still no 
 one could tell her how to get to Elmers End. Carrying her string 
 bag, that contained her nightdress, a comb and brush, she went 
 from person to person. At last they sent her underground to Can- 
 non Street. 
 
 It was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The 
 blinds were not down. 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 141 
 
 "How is he?" she asked. 
 
 "No better," said the landlady. 
 
 She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with 
 bloodshot eyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were 
 tossed about, there was no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood 
 on the stand at his bedside. No one had been with him. 
 
 "Why, my son!" said the mother bravely. 
 
 He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then 
 he began to say, m a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dicta- 
 tion: "Owing to a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had 
 set, and become converted into rock. It needed hacking — " 
 
 He was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine 
 some such cargo of sugar in the Port of London. 
 
 "How long has he been like this?" the mother asked the land- 
 lady. 
 
 "He got home at six o'clock on Monday morning, and he seemed 
 to sleep all day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this 
 morning he asked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor." 
 
 "Win you have a fire made?" 
 
 Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still. 
 
 The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar 
 erysipelas, which had started under the chin where the collar 
 chafed, and was spreading over the face. He hoped it would not 
 get to the brain. 
 
 Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, 
 prayed that he would recognise her. But the young man's face 
 grew more discoloured. In the night she struggled with him. He 
 raved, and raved, and would not come to consciousness. At two 
 o'clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died. 
 
 Mrs. Morel sat perfectly stiU for an hour in the lodging bed- 
 room; then she roused the household. 
 
 At six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him 
 out; then she went round the dreary London village to the registrar 
 and the doctor. 
 
 At nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another 
 wire: 
 
 "William died last night. Let father come, bring money." 
 
 Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone 
 
142 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 to work. The three children said not a word. Annie began to 
 whimper with fear; Paul set ofiE for his father. 
 
 It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted 
 slowly in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the head- 
 stocks twinkled high up; the screen, shuflBing its coal into the 
 trucks, made a busy noise. 
 
 "I want my father; he's got to go to London," said the boy to 
 the first man he met on the bank. 
 
 "Tha wants Walter Morel? Go m theer an' tell Joe Ward." 
 
 Paul went into the little top oflBce. 
 
 "I want my father; he's got to go to London." 
 
 "Thy feyther? Is he down? What's his name?" 
 
 "Mr. Morel." 
 
 "What, Walter? Is owt amiss?" 
 
 "He's got to go to London." 
 
 The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office. 
 
 "Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat's amiss; 
 there's his lad here." 
 
 Then he turned round to Paul. 
 
 "He'll be up in a few minutes," he said. 
 
 Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come 
 up, with its wagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its 
 rest, a full carfle was hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, 
 a bell ting'ed somewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a 
 stone. 
 
 Patil did not realise William was dead; it was impossible, with 
 such a bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to 
 the turn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the 
 curving Unes. 
 
 "And William is dead, and my mother's in London, and what 
 will she be doing?" the boy asked himself, as if it were a conun- 
 drum. 
 
 He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At 
 last, standing beside a wagon, a man's form! the chair sank on its 
 rests, Morel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident. 
 
 "Is it thee, Paul? Is 'e worse?" 
 
 "You've got to go to London." 
 
 The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching 
 curiously. As they came out and went along the railway, with the 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 143 
 
 sunny autumn field on one side and a wall of trucks on the other, 
 Morel said in a frightened voice: 
 
 " 'E's niver gone, child?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When wor't?" 
 
 "Last night. We had a telegram from my mother." 
 
 Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a track- 
 side, his hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking 
 round, waiting. On the weighing machuie a truck trundled slowly. 
 Paul saw everything, except his father leaning against the truck 
 as if he were tired. 
 
 Morel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared 
 and peaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children 
 were left alone in the house. Paul went to work, Arthur went to 
 school, and Annie had in a friend to be with her. 
 
 On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the comer, coming home 
 from Keston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to 
 Sethley Bridge Station. They were walking m silence in the dark, 
 tired, straggling apart. The boy waited. 
 
 "Mother!" he said, in the darkness. 
 
 Mrs. Morel's smaU figure seemed not to observe. He spoke 
 again. 
 
 "Paul!" she said, uninterestedly. 
 
 She let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him. 
 
 Li the house she was the same— small, white, and mute. She 
 noticed nothing, she said nothing, only: 
 
 "The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You'd better see about 
 some help." Then, turning to the children: "We're bringing him 
 home." 
 
 Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space, her 
 hands folded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he could not 
 breathe. The house was dead silent. 
 
 "I went to work, mother," he said plaintively. 
 
 "Did you?" she answered, dully. 
 
 After half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in 
 again. 
 
 "Wheer s'U we ha'e him when he does come?" he asked his wife. 
 
 "In the front-room." 
 
144 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Then I'd better shift th' table?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' ha'e hun across th' chairs?" 
 
 "You know there — Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 Morel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There 
 was no gas there. The father unscrewed the top of the big mahog- 
 any ovd table, and cleared the middle of the room; then he ar- 
 ranged six chairs opposite each other, so that the coffin could stand 
 on their beds. 
 
 "You niver seed such a length as he is!" said the mmer, and 
 watching anxiously as he worked. 
 
 Paul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-tree 
 stood monstrous and black in front of the wide darkness. It was 
 a faintly luminous night. Paul went back to his mother. 
 
 At ten o'clock Morel called: 
 
 "He's here!" 
 
 Everyone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlock- 
 ing the front door, which opened straight from the night into the 
 room. 
 
 "Bring another candle," called Morel. 
 
 Annie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He 
 stood with his arm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down 
 the middle of the cleared room waited six chairs, face to face. In 
 the window, against the lace curtains, Arthur held up one candle, 
 and by the open door, against the night, Annie stood leaning for- 
 ward, her brass candlestick glittering. 
 
 There was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of the 
 street below Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, 
 and a few pale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt- 
 sleeves, seemed to struggle in the obscurity. Presently two men 
 appeared, bowed beneath a great weight. It was Morel and his 
 neighboiu:. 
 
 "Steady!" called Morel, out of breath. 
 
 He and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved into 
 the candleUght with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other 
 men were seen struggUng behind. Morel and Burns, in front, stag- 
 gered; the great dark weight swayed. 
 
 "Steady, steady!" cried Morel, as if in pain. 
 
 All the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding the 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 145 
 
 great coffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door. The 
 yellow lamp of the carriage shone alone down the black road. 
 
 "Now then!" said Morel. 
 
 The coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with 
 their load. Aimie's candle flickered, and she whimpered as the 
 first men appeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men 
 struggled to climb into the room, bearing the coffin that rode like 
 sorrow on their living flesh. 
 
 "Oh, my son— my son!" Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each time 
 the coffin swung to the unequal cUmbing of the men: "Oh, my 
 son— my son— my son!" 
 
 "Mother!" Paul whimpered, his hand round her waist. 
 
 She did not hear. 
 
 "Oh, my son— my son!" she repeated. 
 
 Paul saw drops of sweat fall from his father's brow. Six men 
 were in the room— six coatless men, with yielding, struggling limbs, 
 filling the room and knocking against the furniture. The coffin 
 veered, and was gently lowered on to the chaurs. The sweat fell 
 from Morel's face on its boards. 
 
 "My word, he's a weight!" said a man, and the five miners 
 sighed, bowed, and, trembling with the struggle, descended the 
 steps again, closing the door behind them. 
 
 The family was alone in the parlour with the great polished 
 box. William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like 
 a mommient lay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought 
 it would never be got out of the room again. His mother was strok- 
 ing the polished wood. 
 
 They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the 
 hillside that looks over the fields at the big chiurch and the houses. 
 It was sunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves 
 in the warmth. 
 
 Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take 
 her old bright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way 
 home in the train she had said to herself: "If only it could have 
 been me!" 
 
 When Paul came home at night he foimd his mother sitting, 
 her day's work done, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse 
 apron. She always used to have changed her dress and put on a 
 black apron, before. Now Annie set his supper, and his mother 
 
146 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 sat looking blankly in front of her, her mouth shut tight. Then he 
 beat his brains for news to tell her. 
 
 "Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch 
 of a colliery at work was beautiful." 
 
 But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced 
 himself to teU her things, although she did not listen. It drove him 
 almost insane to have her thus. At last: 
 
 "What's a-matter, mother?" he asked. 
 
 She did not hear. 
 
 "What's a-matter?" he persisted. "Mother, what's a-matter?" 
 
 "You know what's the matter," she said irritably, turning away. 
 
 The lad— he was sixteen years old— went to bed drearily. He 
 was cut ofiE and wretched through October, November and Decem- 
 ber. His mother tried, but she could not rouse herself. She could 
 only brood on her dead son; he had been let to die so cruelly. 
 
 At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box 
 in his pocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at 
 him, and her heart stood still. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm badly, mother!" he replied. "Mr. Jordan gave me five shil- 
 lings for a Christmas-box!" 
 
 He handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the 
 table. 
 
 "You aren't glad!" he reproached her; but he trembled vio- 
 lently. 
 
 "Where hurts you?" she said, unbuttoning his overcoat. 
 
 It was the old question. 
 
 "I feel badly, mother." 
 
 She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia 
 dangerously, the doctor said, 
 
 "Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not let 
 him go to Nottingham?" was one of the first things she asked. 
 
 "He might not have been so bad," said the doctor. 
 
 Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground. 
 
 "I should have watched the living, not the dead," she told her- 
 self. 
 
 Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they 
 could not afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. 
 One night he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feel- 
 
DEATH IN THE FAMILY 147 
 
 ing of dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense 
 irritabiUty to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last 
 flare of struggle, like madness. 
 
 "I s'll die, mother!" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow. 
 
 She lifted him up, crying in a small voice: 
 
 "Oh, my son— my son!" 
 
 That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up 
 and arrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of 
 her for love. 
 
 "For some things," said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paul was 
 iU that Christmas. I beUeve it saved his mother." 
 
 Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. 
 His father had bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They 
 used to flame in the window in the March sunshine as he sat on 
 the sofa chattering to his mother. The two knitted together in 
 perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's Ufe now rooted itself in Paul. 
 
 WilHam had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present 
 and a letter from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a 
 letter at the New Year. 
 
 "I was at a ball last night. Some deUghtful people were there, 
 and I enjoyed myself thoroughly," said the letter. "I had every 
 dance— did not sit out one." 
 
 Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her. 
 
 Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time 
 after the death of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, star- 
 ing wide-eyed and blank across the room. Then he got up sud- 
 denly and hurried out to the Three Spots, returning in his normal 
 state. But never in his Ufe would he go for a walk up Shepstone, 
 past the ofiice where his son had worked, and he always avoided 
 the cemetery. 
 
PART TWO 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Lad-and-Girl Love 
 
 Paul had been many times up to WiUey Farm during the autumn. 
 He was friends with the two youngest boys. Edgar the eldest, 
 would not condescend at first. And Miriam also refused to be 
 approached. She was afraid of being set at nought, as by her own 
 brothers. The girl was romantic in her soul. Everywhere was a 
 Walter Scott heroine being loved by men with helmets or with 
 plumes in their caps. She herself was something of a princess 
 turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination. And she was 
 afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked something like a 
 Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knew 
 what algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every 
 day, might consider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to per- 
 ceive the princess beneath; so she held aloof. 
 
 Her great companion was her mother. They were both brown- 
 eyed, and inclined to be mystical, such women as treasure religion 
 inside them, breathe it in their nostrils, and see the whole of life 
 in a mist thereof. So to Miriam, Christ and God made one great 
 figure, which she loved tremblingly and passionately when a tre- 
 mendous sunset burned out the western sky, and Ediths, and 
 Lucys, and Rowenas, Brian de Bois Guilberts, Rob Roys, and 
 Guy Mannerings, rustled the svmny leaves in the morning, or sat 
 in her bedroom aloft, alone, when it snowed. That was hfe to her. 
 For the rest, she drudged in the house, which work she would 
 not have minded had not her clean red floor been mucked up im- 
 mediately by the trampling farm-boots of her brothers. She madly 
 wanted her little brother of four to let her swathe him and stifle 
 him in her love; she went to church reverently, with bowed head, 
 and quivered in anguish from the vulgarity of the other choir- 
 girls and from the common-sounding voice of the curate; she 
 
152 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 fought with her brothers, whom she considered brutal louts; and 
 she held not her father in too high esteem because he did not carry 
 any mystical ideals cherished in his heart, but only wanted to have 
 as easy a time as he could, and his meals when he was ready for 
 them. 
 
 She hated her position as swine-girl. She wanted to be con- 
 sidered. She wanted to learn, thinking that if she could read, as 
 Paul said he could read, "Colomba", or the "Voyage autour de 
 ma Chambre", the world would have a different face for her and 
 a deepened respect. She could not be princess by wealth or stand- 
 ing. So she was mad to have learning whereon to pride herself. 
 For she was different from other folk, and must not be scooped 
 up among the common fry. Learning was the only distinction to 
 which she thought to aspire. 
 
 Her beauty— that of a shy, wild, quiveringly sensitive thing- 
 seemed nothing to her. Even her soul, so strong for rhapsody, 
 was not enough. She must have sometliing to reinforce her pride, 
 because she felt different from other people. Paul she eyed rather 
 wistfully. On the whole, she scorned the male sex. But here was a 
 new specimen, quick, light, graceful, who could be gentle and 
 who could be sad, and who was clever, and who knew a lot, and 
 who had a death in the family. The boy's poor morsel of learning 
 exalted him almost sky-high in her esteem. Yet she tried hard to 
 scorn him, because he would not see in her the princess but only 
 the swine-girl. And he scarcely observed her. 
 
 Then he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak. Then she 
 would be stronger than he. Then she could love him. If she could 
 be mistress of him in his weakness, take care of him, if he could 
 depend on her, if she could, as it were, have him in her arms, how 
 she would love him! 
 
 As soon as the skies brightened and plum-blossom was out, 
 Paul drove off in the milkman's heavy float up to WiUey Farm. 
 Mr. Leivers shouted in a kindly fashion at the boy, then clicked 
 to the horse as they climbed the hill slowly, in the freshness of 
 the morning. White clouds went on their way, crowding to the 
 back of the hills that were rousing in the spring-time. The water 
 of Nethermere lay below, very blue against the seared meadows 
 and the thorn-trees. 
 
 It was four and a half miles' drive. Tiny buds on the hedges, 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 153 
 
 vivid as copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes 
 called, and blackbirds shrieked and scolded. It was a new, glam- 
 orous world. 
 
 Miriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse 
 walk through the big white gate into the farmyard that was backed 
 by the oak-wood, still bare. Then a youth in a heavy overcoat 
 climbed down. He put up his hands for the whip and the rug that 
 the good-looking, ruddy farmer handed down to him. 
 
 Miriam appeared in the doorway. She was nearly sixteen, very 
 beautiful, with her warm colouring, her gravity, her eyes dilating 
 suddenly like an ecstasy. 
 
 "I say," said Paul, turning shyly aside, "your dafEodils are nearly 
 out. Isn't it early? But don't they look cold?" 
 
 "Cold!" said Miriam, in her musical, caressing voice. 
 
 "The green on their buds — " and he faltered into sUence 
 timidly. 
 
 "Let me take the rug," said Miriam over-gently. 
 
 "I can carry it," he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it 
 to her. 
 
 Then Mrs. Leivers appeared. 
 
 "I'm sure you're tired and cold," she said. "Let me take your 
 coat. It is heavy. You mustn't walk far in it." 
 
 She helped him ofiE with his coat. He was quite unused to such 
 attention. She was almost smothered under its weight. 
 
 "Why, mother," laughed the farmer as he passed through the 
 kitchen, swinging the great milk-chums, "you've got almost more 
 than you can manage there." 
 
 She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth. 
 
 The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been 
 originally a labourer's cottage. And the furniture was old and bat- 
 tered. But Paul loved it— loved the sack-bag that formed the 
 hearthrug, and the funny little comer under the stairs, and the 
 small window deep in the comer, through which, bending a little, 
 he could see the plum trees in the back garden and the lovely round 
 hills beyond. 
 
 "Won't you lie down?" said Mrs. Leivers. 
 
 "Oh no; I'm not tired," he said. "Isn't it lovely coming out, don't 
 you think? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. 
 I'm glad it's sunny." 
 
154 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?" 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 "How's your mother?" 
 
 "I think she's tired now. I think she's had too much to do. Per- 
 haps in a little while she'll go to Skegness with me. Then she'll be 
 able to rest. I s'll be glad if she can." 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Leivers. "It's a wonder she isn't ill herself." 
 
 Miriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched every- 
 thing that happened. His face was pale and thin, but Ms eyes were 
 quick and bright with life as ever. He watched the strange, almost 
 rhapsodic way in which the girl moved about, carrying a great stew- 
 jar to the oven, or looking in the saucepan. The atmosphere was 
 different from that of his own home, where everything seemed 
 so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudly outside to the horse, 
 that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushes in the garden, 
 the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as if something had 
 come breaking in on her world. There was a sense of silence inside 
 the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, a 
 maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and 
 magical. And her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots 
 seemed only like the romantic rags of King Cophetua's beggar- 
 maid. 
 
 She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, 
 taking her all in. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old 
 frock hurt her. She resented his seeing everything. Even he knew 
 that her stocking was not pulled up. She went into the scullery, 
 blushing deeply. And afterwards her hands trembled slightly at her 
 work. She nearly dropped aU she handled. When her inside dream 
 was shaken, her body quivered with trepidation. She resented that 
 he saw so much. 
 
 Mrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she 
 was needed at her work. She was too poUte to leave him. Presently 
 she excused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tin 
 saucepan. 
 
 "Oh dear, Miriam," she cried, "these potatoes have boiled dry!" 
 
 Miriam started as if she had been stung. 
 
 "Have they, mother?" she cried. 
 
 "I shouldn't care, Miriam," said the mother, "if I hadn't trusted 
 them to you." She peered into the pan. 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 155 
 
 The girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; she 
 remained standing in the same spot. 
 
 "WeU," she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, 
 "I'm sure I looked at them five minutes since." 
 
 "Yes," said the mother, "I know it's easily done." 
 
 "They're not much burned," said Paul. "It doesn't matter, does 
 it?" 
 
 Mrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes. 
 
 "It wouldn't matter but for the boys," she said to him. "Only 
 Miriam knows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are 
 'caught'." 
 
 "Then," thought Paul to himself, "you shouldn't let them make 
 a trouble." 
 
 After a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots 
 were covered with earth. He was rather smaU, rather formal, for 
 a farmer. He glanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said: 
 
 "Dinner ready?" 
 
 "Nearly, Edgar," replied the mother apologetically. 
 
 "I'm ready for mine," said the young man, taking up the news- 
 paper and reading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. 
 Dinner was served. The meal went rather brutally. The over- 
 gentleness and apologetic tone of the mother brought out all the 
 brutality of manners in the sons. Edgar tasted the potatoes, moved 
 his mouth quickly like a rabbit, looked indignantly at his mother, 
 and said: 
 
 "These potatoes are burnt, mother." 
 
 "Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you'll have 
 bread if you can't eat them." 
 
 Edgar looked in anger across at Miriam. 
 
 "What was Miriam doing that she couldn't attend to them?" 
 he said. 
 
 Miriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and 
 winced, but she said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her 
 shame, bowing her dark head. 
 
 "I'm sure she was trying hard," said the mother. 
 
 "She hasn't got sense even to boil the potatoes," said Edgar. 
 "What is she kept at home for?" 
 
 "On'y for eating everything that's left in th' pantry," said 
 Maurice. 
 
156 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "They don't forget that potato-pie agamst our Miriam," laughed 
 the father. 
 
 She was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, 
 like some saiat out of place at the brutal board. 
 
 It puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feel- 
 ing went miming because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother 
 exalted everything— even a bit of housework— to the plane of a re- 
 ligious trust. The sons resented this; they felt themselves cut away 
 underneath, and they answered with brutality and also with a sneer- 
 ing superciliousness. 
 
 Paul was just opening out from childhood into manhood. This 
 atmosphere, where everything took a reUgious value, came with a 
 subtle fascination to him. There was something in the air. His own 
 mother was logical. Here there was something different, something 
 he loved, something that at times he hated. 
 
 Miriam quarrelled with her brothers fiercely. Later in the after- 
 noon, when they had gone away again, her mother said: 
 
 "You disappointed me at dinner-time, Miriam." 
 
 The ^1 dropped her head. 
 
 "They are such brutes!" she suddenly cried, looking up with 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 "But hadn't you promised not to answer them?" said the mother. 
 "And I believed ia you. I can't stand it when you wrangle." 
 
 "But they're so hateful!" cried Miriam, "and— and low." 
 
 "Yes, dear. But how often have I asked you not to answer Ed- 
 gar back? Can't you let him say what he likes?" 
 
 "But why should he say what he likes?" 
 
 "Aren't you strong enough to bear it, Miriam, if even for my 
 sake? Are you so weak that you must wrangle with them?" 
 
 Mrs. Leivers stuck unflinchmgly to this doctrine of "the other 
 cheek". She could not iastU it at all into the boys. With the girls 
 she succeeded better, and Miriam was the child of her heart. The 
 boys loathed the other cheek when it was presented to them. Miriam 
 was often suflBciently lofty to turn it. Then they spat on her and 
 hated her. But she walked m her proud humility, living within 
 herself. 
 
 There was always this feeling of jangle and discord m the Leivers 
 family. Although the boys resented so bitterly this eternal appeal 
 to their deeper feelings of resignation and proud humility, yet it 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 157 
 
 had its effect on them. They could not establish between themselves 
 and an outsider just the ordinary human feeling and unexaggerated 
 friendship; they were always restless for the something deeper. 
 Ordinary folk seemed shallow to them, trivial and inconsiderable. 
 And so they were unaccustomed, painfully uncouth in the simplest 
 social intercourse, suffering, and yet insolent in their superiority. 
 Then beneath was the yearning for the soul-intimacy to which 
 they could not attain because they were too dumb, and every ap- 
 proach to close connection was blocked by their clumsy contempt 
 of other people. They wanted genuine intimacy, but they could 
 not get even normally near to anyone, because they scorned to 
 take the first steps, they scorned the triviaUty which forms common 
 human intercourse. 
 
 Paul fell under Mrs. Leivers's spell. Everything had a religious 
 and intensified meaning when he was with her. His soul, hurt, highly 
 developed, sought her as if for nourishment. Together they seemed 
 to sift the vital fact from an experience. 
 
 Miriam was her mother's daughter. In the sunshine of the after- 
 noon mother and daughter went down the fields with him. They 
 looked for nests. There was a jenny wren's in the hedge by the 
 orchard. 
 
 "I do want you to see this," said Mrs. Leivers. 
 
 He crouched down and carefully put his finger through the 
 thorns into the round door of the nest. 
 
 "It's almost as if you were feelmg inside the live body of the 
 bird," he said, "it's so warm. They say a bird makes its nest round 
 like a cup with pressing its breast on it. Then how did it make the 
 ceiling round, I wonder?" 
 
 The nest seemed to start into life for the two women. After that, 
 Miriam came to see it every day. It seemed so close to her. Again, 
 going down the hedgeside with the girl, he noticed the celandines, 
 scalloped splashes of gold, on the side of the ditch. 
 
 "I like them," he said, "when their petals go flat back with the 
 sunshine. They seemed to be pressing themselves at the sun." 
 
 And then the celandines ever after drew her with a httle spell. 
 Anthropomorphic as she was, she stimulated him into appreciating 
 things thus, and then they lived for her. She seemed to need things 
 kindling in her imagination or in her soul before she felt she had 
 them. And she was cut off from ordinary life by her rehgious in- 
 
158 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 tensity which made the world for her either a nunnery garden or 
 a paradise, where sin and knowledge were not, or else an ugly, 
 cruel thing. 
 
 So it was in this atmosphere of subtle intunacy, this meeting in 
 their common feeling for sometliiag in Nature, that their love 
 started. 
 
 Personally, he was a long time before he realized her. For ten 
 months he had to stay at home after his iUness. For a while he went 
 to Skegness with his mother, and was perfectly happy. But 
 even from the seaside he wrote long letters to Mrs. Leivers about 
 the shore and the sea. And he brought back his beloved sketches 
 of the flat Lincoln coast, anxious for them to see. Almost they 
 would mterest the Leivers more than they interested his mother. It 
 was not his art Mrs. Morel cared about; it was himself and his 
 achievement. But Mrs. Leivers and her children were almost his 
 disciples. They kindled him and made him glow to his work, 
 whereas his mother's influence was to make him quietly deter- 
 mined, patient, dogged, unwearied. 
 
 He soon was friends with the boys, whose rudeness was only 
 superficial. They had all, when they coidd trust themselves, a 
 strange gentleness and lovableness. 
 
 "WUl you come with me on to the fallow?" asked Edgar, rather 
 hesitatingly, 
 
 Paul went joyfully, and spent the afternoon helping to hoe or 
 to single turnips with his friend. He used to lie with the three 
 brothers in the hay piled up in the bam and tell them about Not- 
 tingham and about Jordan's. In return, they taught him to milk, 
 and let him do Uttle jobs— chopping hay or pulping turnips— just 
 as much as he liked. At midsummer he worked all through hay- 
 harvest with them, and then he loved them. The family was so cut 
 off from the world actually. They seemed, somehow, like "les 
 derniers fils d'une race Spuisie". Though the lads were strong and 
 healthy, yet they had aU that over-sensitiveness and hanging-back 
 which made them so lonely, yet also such close, delicate friends 
 once their intimacy was won. Paul loved them dearly, and they 
 him. 
 
 Miriam came later. But he had come into her life before she 
 made any mark on his. One duU afternoon, when the men were 
 on the land and the rest at school, only Miriam and her mother 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 159 
 
 at home, the girl said to him, after having hesitated for some time: 
 
 "Have you seen the swing?" 
 
 "No," he answered. "Where?" 
 
 "In the cowshed," she repUed. 
 
 She always hesitated to offer or to show him anything. Men 
 have such different standards of worth from women, and her dear 
 things— the valuable things to her— her brothers had so often 
 mocked or flouted. 
 
 "Come on, then," he replied, jumping up. 
 
 There were two cowsheds, one on either side of the bam. In 
 the lower, darker shed there was standing for four cows. Hens 
 flew scolding over the manger-wall as the youth and girl went for- 
 ward for the great thick rope which hung from the beam in the 
 darkness overhead, and was pushed back over a peg in the wall. 
 
 "It's something Uke a rope!" he exclaimed appreciatively, and 
 he sat down on it, anxious to try it. Then immediately he rose. 
 
 "Come on, then, and have first go," he said to the girl. 
 
 "See," she answered, going into the bam, "we put some bags on 
 the seat"; and she made the swing comfortable for him. That gave 
 her pleasure. He held the rope. 
 
 "Come on, then," he said to her. 
 
 "No, I won't go first," she answered. 
 
 She stood aside in her still, aloof fashion. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You go," she pleaded. 
 
 Almost for the first time in her life she had the pleasure of giv- 
 ing up to a man, of spoiling him. Paul looked at her. 
 
 "All right," he said, sitting down. "Mind out!" 
 
 He set off with a spring, and in a moment was flying through 
 the air, almost out of the door of the shed, the upper half of which 
 was open, showing outside the drizzhng raui, the filthy yard, the 
 cattle standing disconsolate against the black cartshed, and at the 
 back of all the grey-green wall of the wood. She stood below in 
 her crimson tam-o'-shanter and watched. He looked down at her, 
 and she saw his blue eyes sparkling. 
 
 "It's a treat of a swing," he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He was swinging through the air, every bit of him swinging, Uke 
 a bird that swoops for joy of movement. And he looked down at 
 
160 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 her. Her crimson cap hung over her dark curls, her beautiful warm 
 face, so still in a kind of brooding, was lifted towards him. It was 
 dark and rather cold in the shed. Suddenly a swallow came down 
 from the high roof and darted out of the door. 
 
 "I didn't know a bird was watching," he called. 
 
 He swimg negligently. She could feel him falling and lifting 
 through the air, as if he were lymg on some force. 
 
 "Now I'll die," he said, in a detached, dreamy voice, as though 
 he were the dying motion of the swing. She watched him, fasci- 
 nated. Suddenly he put on the brake and jimiped out. 
 
 "I've had a long turn," he said. "But it's a treat of a swing— it's 
 a real treat of a swing!" 
 
 Miriam was amused that he took a swing so seriously and felt 
 so warmly over it. 
 
 "No; you go on," she said. 
 
 "Why, don't you want one?" he asked, astonished. 
 
 "Well, not much. I'll have just a Uttle." 
 
 She sat down, whilst he kept the bags in place for her. 
 
 "It's so ripping!" he said, setting her in motion. "Keep your heels 
 up, or they'U bang the manger wall." 
 
 She felt the accuracy with which he caught her, exactly at the 
 right moment, and the exactly proportionate strength of his thrust, 
 and she was afraid. Down to her bowels went the hot wave of fear. 
 She was in his hands. Again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at 
 the right moment. She gripped the rope, almost swooning. 
 
 "Ha!" she laughed in fear. "No higher!" 
 
 "But you're not a bit high," he remonstrated. 
 
 "But no higher." 
 
 He heard the fear in her voice, and desisted. Her heart melted 
 in hot pain when the moment came for him to thrust her forward 
 again. But he left her alone. She began to breathe. 
 
 "Won't you really go any farther?" he asked. "Should I keep 
 you there?" 
 
 "No; let me go by myself," she answered. 
 
 He moved aside and watched her. 
 
 "Why, you're scarcely moving," he said. 
 
 She laughed slightly with shame, and in a moment got down. 
 
 "They say if you can swing you won't be sea-sick," he said, as 
 he moimted again. "I don't believe I should ever be sea-sick." 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 161 
 
 Away he went. There was something fascinating to her in him. 
 For the moment he was nothing but a piece of swinging stuff; not 
 a particle of him that did not swing. She could never lose herself 
 so, nor could her brothers. It roused a warmth in her. It was al- 
 most as if he were a flame that had lit a warmth in her whilst he 
 swung in the middle air. 
 
 And gradually the intimacy with the family concentrated for 
 Paul on three persons— the mother, Edgar, and Miriam. To the 
 mother he went for that sympathy and that appeal which seemed 
 to draw him out. Edgar was his very close friend. And to Miriam 
 he more or less condescended, because she seemed so humble. 
 
 But the girl gradually sought him out. If he brought up his 
 sketch-book, it was she who pondered longest over the last pic- 
 ture. Then she would look up at him. Suddenly, her dark eyes 
 alight Uke water that shakes with a stream of gold in the dark, she 
 would ask: 
 
 "Why do I like this so?" 
 
 Always something in his breast shrank from these close, intimate, 
 dazzled looks of hers. 
 
 "Why do you?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know. It seems so true." 
 
 "It's because— it's because there is scarcely any shadow in it; 
 it's more shimmery, as if I'd painted the shimmering protoplasm 
 in the leaves and everywhere, and not the stiffness of the shape. 
 That seems dead to me. Only this shimmeriness is the real Uving. 
 The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really." 
 
 And she, with her little finger in her mouth, would ponder these 
 sayings. They gave her a feeling of life again, and vivified things 
 which had meant nothing to her. She managed to find some mean- 
 ing in his struggling, abstract speeches. And they were the medium 
 through which she came distinctly at her beloved objects. 
 
 Another day she sat at sunset whilst he was painting some pme- 
 trees which caught the red glare from the west. He had been quiet. 
 
 "There you are!" he said suddenly. "I wanted that. Now, look 
 at them and tell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals, 
 standing-up pieces of fire in that darkness? There's God's burning 
 bush for you, that burned not away." 
 
 Miriam looked, and was frightened. But the pine trunks were 
 
162 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 wonderful to her, and distinct. He packed his box and rose. Sud- 
 denly he looked at her. 
 
 "Why are you always sad?" he asked her. 
 
 "Sad!" she exclaimed, looking up at him with startled, wonder- 
 ful brown eyes. 
 
 "Yes," he repUed. "You are always sad." 
 
 "I am not— oh, not a bit!" she cried. 
 
 "But even your joy is Uke a flame commg off of sadness," he 
 persisted. "You're never jolly, or even just aU right." 
 
 "No," she pondered. "I wonder— why?" 
 
 "Because you're not; because you're different inside, like a pine- 
 tree, and then you flare up; but you're not just like an ordinary 
 tree, with fidgety leaves and joUy — " 
 
 He got tangled up in his own speech; but she brooded on it, 
 and he had a strange, roused sensation, as if his feeUngs were new. 
 She got so near him. It was a strange stimulant. 
 
 Then sometimes he hated her. Her youngest brother was only 
 five. He was a fraU lad, with immense brown eyes in his quaint 
 fragile face— one of Reynolds's "Choir of Angels", with a touch of 
 elf. Often Miriam kneeled to the child and drew him to her. 
 
 "Eh, my Hubert!" she sang, in a voice heavy and surcharged 
 with love. "Eh, my Hubert!" 
 
 And, folding him in her arms, she swayed slightly from side to 
 side with love, her face half Ufted, her eyes half closed, her voice 
 drenched with love. 
 
 "Don't!" said the child, uneasy-'don't, Miriam!" 
 
 "Yes; you love me, don't you?" she murmured deep in her 
 throat, almost as if she were in a trance, and swaying also as if 
 she were swooned in an ecstasy of love. 
 
 "Don't!" repeated the child, a frown on his clear brow. 
 
 "You love me, don't you?" she murmured. 
 
 "What do you make such a iuss for?" cried Paul, all in suffering 
 because of her extreme emotion. "Why can't you be ordinary with 
 him?" 
 
 She let the child go, and rose, and said nothing. Her intensity, 
 which would leave no emotion on a normal plane, irritated the 
 youth into a frenzy. And this fearful, naked contact of her on small 
 occasions shocked him. He was used to his mother's reserve. And 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 163 
 
 on such occasions he was thankful in his heart and soul that he 
 had his mother, so sane and wholesome. 
 
 All the life of Miriam's body was in her eyes, which were usually 
 dark as a dark church, but could flame with Ught like a conflagra- 
 tion. Her face scarcely ever altered from its look of brooding. She 
 might have been one of the women who went with Mary when 
 Jesus was dead. Her body was not flexible and living. She walked 
 with a swing, rather heavily, her head bowed forward, pondering. 
 She was not clumsy, and yet none of her movements seemed quite 
 the movement. Often, when wipmg the dishes, she would stand in 
 bewilderment and chagrin because she had pulled in two halves a 
 cup or a tumbler. It was as if, in her fear and self-mistrust, she 
 put too much strength into the effort. There was no looseness or 
 abandon about her. Everything was gripped stiff with intensity, 
 and her effort, overcharged, closed in on itself. 
 
 She rarely varied from her swinging, forward, intense walk. Oc- 
 casionally she ran with Paul down the fields. Then her eyes blazed 
 naked in a kind of ecstasy that frightened him. But she was physi- 
 cally afraid. If she were getting over a stile, she gripped his hands 
 in a Uttle hard anguish, and began to lose her presence of mind. 
 And he could not persuade her to jump from even a small height. 
 Her eyes dilated, became exposed and palpitating. 
 
 "No!" she cried, half laughing in terror— "no!" 
 
 "You shall!" he cried once, and, jerking her forward, he brought 
 her falling from the fence. But her wild "Ah!" of pain, as if she 
 were losing consciousness, cut him. She landed on her feet safely, 
 and afterwards had courage in this respect. 
 
 She was very much dissatisfied with her lot. 
 
 "Don't you like being at home?" Paul asked her, surprised. 
 
 "Who would?" she answered, low and intense. "What is it? I'm 
 all day cleaning what the boys make just as bad in five minutes. 
 I don't want to be at home." 
 
 "What do you want, then?" 
 
 "I want to do something. I want a chance like anybody else. 
 Why should I, because I'm a girl, be kept at home and not allowed 
 to be anything? What chance have I?" 
 
 "Chance of what?" 
 
 "Of knowing anything— of learning, of doing anything. It's not 
 fair, because I'm a woman." 
 
164 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 She seemed very bitter. Paul wondered. In his own home Annie 
 was almost glad to be a girl. She had not so much responsibility; 
 things were lighter for her. She never wanted to be other than a 
 girl. But Miriam almost fiercely wished she were a man. And yet 
 she hated men at the same time. 
 
 "But it's as well to be a woman as a man," he said, frowning. 
 
 "Ha! Is it? Men have everything." 
 
 "I should think women ought to be as glad to be women as men 
 are to be men," he answered. 
 
 "No!"— she shook her head— "no! Everythmg the men have." 
 
 "But what do you want?" he asked. 
 
 "I want to learn. Why should it be that I know nothing?" 
 
 "What! such as mathematics and French?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't I know mathematics? Yes!" she cried, her eye 
 expanding in a kind of defiance. 
 
 "Well, you can learn as much as I know," he said. "I'll teach 
 you, if you like." 
 
 Her eyes dilated. She mistrusted him as teacher. 
 
 "Would you?" he asked. 
 
 Her head had dropped, and she was sucking her finger brood- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Yes," she said hesitatingly. 
 
 He used to tell his mother all these things. 
 
 "I'm going to teach Miriam algebra," he said. 
 
 "WeU," repUed Mrs. Morel, "I hope she'U get fat on it." 
 
 When he went up to the farm on the Monday evening, it was 
 drawing twilight. Miriam was just sweeping up the kitchen, and 
 was kneeling at the hearth when he entered. Everyone was out but 
 her. She looked round at him, flushed, her dark eyes shining, her 
 fine hair falling about her face. 
 
 "Hello!" she said, soft and musical. "I knew it was you." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "I knew your step. Nobody treads so quick and firm." 
 
 He sat down, sighing. 
 
 "Ready to do some algebra?" he asked, drawing a little book 
 from his pocket. 
 
 "But — " 
 
 He could feel her backing away. 
 
 "You said you wanted," he insisted. 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 165 
 
 "To-night, though?" she faltered. 
 
 "But I came on purpose. And if you want to learn it, you must 
 begin." 
 
 She took up her ashes in the dustpan and looked at hun, half 
 tremulously, laughing. 
 
 "Yes, but to-night! You see, I haven't thought of it." 
 
 "Well, my goodness! Take the ashes and come." 
 
 He went and sat on the stone bench in the back-yard, where 
 the big milk-cans were standing, tipped up, to air. The men were 
 in the cowsheds. He could hear the little sing-song of the milk spurt- 
 ing into the pails. Presently she came, bringing some big greenish 
 apples. 
 
 "You know you like them," she said. 
 
 He took a bite. 
 
 "Sit down," he said, with his mouth full. 
 
 She was short-sighted, and peered over his shoulder. It irritated 
 him. He gave her the book quickly. 
 
 "Here," he said. "It's only letters for figures. You put down 
 'cf instead of '2' or '6'." 
 
 They worked, he talking, she with her head down on the book. 
 He was quick and hasty. She never answered. Occasionally, when 
 he demanded of her, "Do you see?" she looked up at him, her eyes 
 wide with the half-laugh that comes of fear. "Don't you?" he cried. 
 
 He had been too fast. But she said nothing. He questioned her 
 more, then got hot. It made his blood rouse to see her there, as it 
 were, at his mercy, her mouth open, her eyes dilated with laughter 
 that was afraid, apologetic, ashamed. Then Edgar came along with 
 two buckets of mUk. 
 
 "Hello!" he said. "What are you doing?" 
 
 "Algebra," replied Paul. 
 
 "Algebra!" repeated Edgar curiously. Then he passed on with 
 a laugh. Paul took a bite at his forgotten apple, looked at the mis- 
 erable cabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls, and 
 he wanted to pull them up. Then he glanced at Miriam. She was 
 poring over the book, seemed absorbed in it, yet trembling lest she 
 could not get at it. It made him cross. She was ruddy and beauti- 
 ful. Yet her soul seemed to be intensely supplicating. The algebra- 
 book she closed, shrinking, knowing he was angered; and at the 
 
166 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurt because she did not 
 understand. 
 
 But things came slowly to her. And when she held herself in a 
 grip, seemed so utterly humble before the lesson, it made his blood 
 rouse. He stormed at her, got ashamed, continued the lesson, and 
 grew furious again, abusing her. She listened in silence. Occa- 
 sionally, very rarely, she defended herself. Her liquid dark eyes 
 blazed at him. 
 
 "You don't give me time to learn it," she said. 
 
 "AH right," he answered, throwing the book on the table and 
 lighting a cigarette. Then, after a while, he went back to her re- 
 pentant. So the lessons went. He was always either in a rage or 
 very gentle. 
 
 "What do you tremble your soul before it for?" he cried. "You 
 don't learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you look at it with 
 your clear simple wits?" 
 
 Often, when he went again into the kitchen, Mrs. Leivers would 
 look at him reproachfully, saying: 
 
 "Paul, don't be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick, but 
 I'm sure she tries." 
 
 "I can't help it," he said rather pitiably. "I go off like it." 
 
 "You don't mind me, Miriam, do you?" he asked of the girl 
 later. 
 
 "No," she reassured him in her beautiful deep tones— "no, I 
 don't mind." 
 
 "Don't mind me; it's my fault." 
 
 But, in spite of himself, his blood began to boU with her. It was 
 strange that no one else made him in such fury. He flared against 
 her. Once he threw the pencil in her face. There was a silence. She 
 turned her face slightly aside. 
 
 "I didn't — " he began, but got no farther, feeling weak in all 
 his bones. She never reproached him or was angry with him. He 
 was often cruelly ashamed. But still again his anger biust like a 
 bubble surcharged; and still, when he saw her eager, silent, as it 
 were, blind face, he felt he wanted to throw the pencil in it; and 
 still, when he saw her hand trembling and her mouth parted with 
 suffering, his heart was scalded with pain for her. And because of 
 the intensity to which she roused him, he sought her. 
 
 Then he often avoided her and went with Edgar. Miriam and 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 167 
 
 her brother were naturally antagonistic. Edgar was a rationalist, 
 who was curious, and had a sort of scientific interest in life. It was 
 a great bitterness to Miriam to see herself deserted by Paul for 
 Edgar, who seemed so much lower. But the youth was very happy 
 with her elder brother. The two men spent afternoons together 
 on the land or in the loft doing carpentry, when it rained. And 
 they talked together, or Paul taught Edgar the songs he himself 
 had learned from Annie at the piano. And often all the men, Mr. 
 Leivers as well, had bitter debates on the nationalizing of the land 
 and similar problems. Paul had already heard his mother's views, 
 and as these were as yet his own, he argued for her. Mkiam at- 
 tended and took part, but was aU the time waiting until it should 
 be over and a personal communication might begin. 
 
 "After all," she said within herself, "if the land were nationalized, 
 Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same." So she waited for 
 the youth to come back to her. 
 
 He was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home, alone 
 with his mother, at night, working and working. She sewed or read. 
 Then, looking up from his task, he would rest his eyes for a mo- 
 ment on her face, that was bright with living warmth, and he re- 
 turned gladly to his work. 
 
 "I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking- 
 chak, mother," he said. 
 
 "I'm surel" she exclaimed, sniEBng with mock scepticism. But 
 she felt it was so, and her heart quivered with brightness. For many 
 hovurs she sat still, sUghtly conscious of him labouring away, whilst 
 she worked or read her book. And he, with all his soul's intensity 
 directing his pencil, could feel her warmth inside him like strength. 
 They were both very happy so, and both unconscious of it. These 
 times, that meant so much, and which were real Uving, they almost 
 ignored. 
 
 He was conscious only when stimulated. A sketch finished, he 
 always wanted to take it to Miriam. Then he was stunulated into 
 knowledge of the work he had produced unconsciously. In contact 
 with Mhiam he gained insight; his vision went deeper. From his 
 mother he drew the life-warmth, the strength to produce; Miriam 
 urged this warmth into intensity like a white light. 
 
 When he returned to the factory the conditions of work were 
 better. He had Wednesday afternoon off to go to the Art School 
 
168 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 —Miss Jordan's provision— returning in the evening. Then the 
 factory closed at six instead of eight on Thursday and Friday 
 evenings. 
 
 One evening m the summer Miriam and he went over the fields 
 by Herod's Farm on their way from the library home. So it was 
 only three miles to Willey Farm. There was a yellow glow over 
 the mowing-grass, and the sorrel-heads burned crimson. Gradually, 
 as they walked along the high land, the gold in the west sank down 
 to red, the red to crimson, and then the chill blue crept up against 
 the glow. 
 
 They came out upon the high road to Alfreton, which ran 
 white between the darkening fields. There Paul hesitated. It was 
 two miles home for him, one mile forward for Miriam. They both 
 looked up the road that ran in shadow right under the glow of the 
 north-west sky. On the crest of the hill, Selby, with its stark houses 
 and the up-pricked headstocks of the pit, stood in black silhouette 
 small against the sky. 
 
 He looked at his watch. 
 
 "Nine o'clock!" he said. 
 
 The pah: stood, loth to part, hugging their books. 
 
 "The wood is so lovely now," she said. "I wanted you to see 
 it." 
 
 He followed her slowly across the road to the white gate. 
 
 "They grumble so if I'm late," he said. 
 
 "But you're not doing anything wrong," she answered impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 He followed her across the nibbled pastmre in the dusk. There 
 was a coolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honeysuckle, and 
 a twilight. The two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully 
 there, among the throng of dark tree-trunks. He looked round, 
 expectant. 
 
 She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had dis- 
 covered. She knew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, 
 she felt it had not come into her soul. Only he could make it her 
 own, immortal. She was dissatisfied. 
 
 Dew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mist was 
 rising, and he hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a 
 strand of fog or only campion-flowers palUd in a cloud. 
 
 By the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting very 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 169 
 
 eager and very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not be 
 able to find it; and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately 
 she wanted to be with him when he stood before the flowers. They 
 were going to have a communion together— something that thriUed 
 her, something holy. He was walking beside her in silence. They 
 were very near to each other. She trembled, and he listened, vaguely 
 anxious. 
 
 Coming to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front, like 
 mother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on the 
 outermost branches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was stream- 
 ing scent. 
 
 "Where?" he asked. 
 
 "Down the middle path," she murmured, quivering. 
 
 When they turned the comer of the path she stood still. In the 
 wide walk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could 
 distinguish nothing for some moments; the greying light robbed 
 things of their colour. Then she saw her bush. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, hastening forward. 
 
 It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown 
 its briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, 
 right down to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with 
 great spilt stars, piu:e white. In bosses of ivory and in large 
 splashed stars the roses gleamed on the darkness of foliage and 
 stems and grass. Paul and Miriam stood close together, silent, and 
 watched. Point after point the steady roses shone out to them, 
 seeming to kindle something in their souls. The dusk came like 
 smoke aroimd, and still did not put out the roses. 
 
 Paul looked into Miriam's eyes. She was pale and expectant 
 with wonder, her lips were parted, and her dark eyes lay open to 
 him. His look seemed to travel down into her. Her soul quivered. 
 It was the communion she wanted. He turned aside, as if pained. 
 He turned to the bush. 
 
 "They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake them- 
 selves," he said. 
 
 She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and 
 holy, others expanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark as a 
 shadow. She lifted her hand impulsively to the flowers; she went 
 forward and touched them in worship, 
 
 "Let us go," he said. 
 
170 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 There was a cool scent of ivory roses— a white, virgin scent. 
 Something made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked 
 in silence. 
 
 "Till Sunday," he said quietly, and left her; and slie walked home 
 slowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the hoUness of the night. He 
 stumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood, 
 in the free open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to 
 run as fast as he could. It was Uke a delicious delirium in his veins. 
 
 Always when he went with Miriam, and it grew rather late, he 
 knew his mother was fretting and getting angry about him— why, 
 he could not understand. As he went into the house, flinging down 
 his cap, his mother looked up at the clock. She had been sitting 
 thinking, because a chill to her eyes prevented her reading. She 
 could feel Paul being drawn away by this gjrl. And she did not 
 care for Miriam. "She is one of those who will want to suck a man's 
 soul out till he has none of his own left," she said to herself; "and 
 he is just such a gaby as to let himself be absorbed. She will never 
 let him become a man; she never will." So, while he was away with 
 Miriam, Mrs. Morel grew more and more worked up. 
 
 She glanced at the clock and said, coldly and rather tired: 
 
 "You have been far enough to-night." 
 
 His soul, warm and exposed from contact wiUi the girl, shrank. 
 
 "You must have been right home with her," his mother con- 
 tinued. 
 
 He would not answer. Mrs. Morel, looking at him quickly, saw 
 his hair was damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowning 
 in his heavy fashion, resentfully. 
 
 "She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can't get away 
 from her, but must go trailing eight miles at this time of night." 
 
 He was hurt between the past glamour with Miriam and the 
 knowledge that his mother fretted. He had meant not to say any- 
 thing, to refuse to answer. But he could not harden his heart to 
 ignore his mother. 
 
 "I do like to talk to her," he answered irritably. 
 
 "Is there nobody else to talk to?" 
 
 "You wouldn't say anything if I went with Edgar." 
 
 "You know I should. You know, whoever you went with, I 
 should say it was too far for you to go trailing, late at night, when 
 you've been to Nottingham. Besides"— her voice suddenly flashed 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 171 
 
 into anger and contempt— "it is disgusting— bits of lads and girls 
 courting." 
 
 "It is not courting," he cried. 
 
 "I don't know what else you call it." 
 
 "It's not! Do you think we spoon and do? We only talk." 
 
 "Till goodness knows what time and distance," was the sar- 
 castic rejoinder. 
 
 Paul snapped at the laces of his boots angrily. 
 
 "What are you so mad about?" he asked. "Because you don't 
 like her." 
 
 "I don't say I don't like her. But I don't hold with children keep- 
 ing company, and never did." 
 
 "But you don't mind our Annie going out with Jim Inger." 
 
 "They've more sense than you two." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Our Annie's not one of the deep sort." 
 
 He failed to see the meaning of this remark. But his mother 
 looked tired. She was never so strong after William's death; and 
 her eyes hurt her. 
 
 "WeU," he said, "it's so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleath asked 
 about you. He said he'd missed you. Are you a bit better?" 
 
 "I ought to have been in bed a long time ago," she replied. 
 
 "Why, mother, you know you wouldn't have gone before 
 quarter-past ten." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I should!" 
 
 "Oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeable 
 with me, wouldn't you?" 
 
 He kissed her forehead that he knew so well: the deep marks 
 between the brows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, and the 
 proud setting of the temples. His hand lingered on her shoulder 
 after his kiss. Then he went slowly to bed. He had forgotten Mir- 
 iam; he only saw how his mother's hair was lifted back from her 
 warm, broad brow. And somehow, she was hurt. 
 
 Then the next time he saw Miriam he said to her: 
 
 "Don't let me be late to-night— not later than ten o'clock. My 
 mother gets so upset." 
 
 Miriam dropped her head, brooding. 
 
 "Why does she get upset?" she asked. 
 
172 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Because she says I oughtn't to be out late when I have to get 
 up early." 
 
 "Very well!" said Miriam, rather quietly, with just a touch of a 
 sneer. 
 
 He resented that. And he was usually late again. 
 
 That there was any love growing between him and Miriam 
 neither of them would have acknowledged. He thought he was too 
 sane for such sentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. 
 They both were late in coming to maturity, and psychical ripeness 
 was much behind even the physical. Miriam was exceedingly sen- 
 sitive, as her mother had always been. The slightest grossness 
 made her recoil almost in anguish. Her brothers were brutal, but 
 never coarse in speech. The men did all the discussing of farm mat- 
 ters outside. But, perhaps, because of the continual business of 
 birth and of begetting which goes on upon every farm, Miriam was 
 the more hypersensitive to the matter, and her blood was chastened 
 almost to disgust of the faintest suggestion of such intercourse. 
 Paul took his pitch from her, and thek intimacy went on in an ut- 
 terly blanched and chaste fashion. It could never be mentioned 
 that the mare was in foal. 
 
 When he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a 
 week, but he was happy. His painting went well, and life went well 
 enough. On the Good Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock 
 Stone. There were three lads of his own age, then Annie and Ar- 
 thur, Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur, apprenticed as an electrician 
 in Nottingham, was home for the holiday. Morel, as usual, was 
 up early, whistling and sawing in the yard. At seven o'clock the 
 family heard him buy threepennyworth of hot-cross buns; he talked 
 with gusto to the Uttle girl who brought them, calling her "my 
 darUng". He turned away several boys who came with more buns, 
 tellmg them they had been "kested" by a little lass. Then Mrs. 
 Morel got up, and the family straggled down. It was an immense 
 luxury to everybody, this lying in bed just beyond the ordinary 
 time on a weekday. And Paul and Arthur read before breakfast, 
 and had the meal unwashed, sitting in their shirt-sleeves. This 
 was another holiday luxury. The room was warm. Everything felt 
 free of care and anxiety. Tliere was a sense of plenty m the house. 
 
 While the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. 
 They were now in another house, an old one, near the Scargjll 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 173 
 
 Street home, which had been left soon after William had died. 
 Directly came an excited cry from the garden: 
 
 "Paul! Paul! come and look!" 
 
 It was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went 
 out. There was a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold 
 day, with a sharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields away 
 Bestwood began, with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out 
 of which rose the church tower and the spire of the Congregational 
 Chapel. And beyond went woods and hiUs, right away to the pale 
 grey heights of the Pennine Chain. 
 
 Paul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appeared 
 among the young currant-bushes. 
 
 "Come here!" she cried. 
 
 "What for?" he answered. 
 
 "Come and see." 
 
 She had been looldng at the buds on the currant trees. Paul went 
 up. 
 
 "To think," she said, "that here I might never have seen them!" 
 
 Her son went to her side. Under the fence, in a little bed, was 
 a ravel of poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature 
 bulbs, and three scyUas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep 
 blue flowers. 
 
 "Now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "I was looking at the cur- 
 rant bushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's something very 
 blue; is it a bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! 
 Three glories of the snow, and such beauties! But where on earth 
 did they come from?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Paul. 
 
 "Well, that's a marvel, now! I thought I knew every weed and 
 blade in this garden. But haven't they done well? You see, that 
 gooseberry-bush just shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!" 
 
 He crouched down and turned up the bells of the little blue 
 flowers. 
 
 "They're a glorious colour!" he said. 
 
 "Aren't they!" she cried. "I guess they come from Switzerland, 
 where they say they have such lovely things. Fancy them against 
 the snow! But where have they come from? They can't have 
 blown here, can they?" 
 
174 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Then he remembered having set here a lot of little trash of bulbs 
 to mature. 
 
 "And you never told me," she said. 
 
 "No! I thought I'd leave it till they might flower." 
 
 "And now, you see! I might have missed them. And Tve never 
 had a glory of the snow in my garden in my life." 
 
 She was full of excitement and elation. The garden was an end- 
 less joy to her. Paul was thankful for her sake at last to be 
 in a house with a long garden that went down to a field. Every 
 morning after breakfast she went out and was happy pottering 
 about in it. And it was true, she knew every weed and blade. 
 
 Everybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and they 
 set off, a merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of the 
 mill-race, dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunnel 
 and watched it shoot out on the other. They stood on the foot- 
 bridge over Boathouse Station and looked at the metals gleaming 
 coldly. 
 
 "You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past 
 six!" said Leonard, whose father was a signalman. "Lad, but she 
 doesn't half buzz!" and the little party looked up the lines one way, 
 to London, and the other way, to Scotland, and they felt the touch 
 of these two magical places. 
 
 In Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for the public- 
 houses to open. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton 
 Gate the iron foundry blazed. Over everything there were great 
 discussions. At Trowell they crossed again from Derbyshire into 
 Nottingjhamshire. They came to the Hemlock Stone at dinner-time. 
 Its field was crowded with folk from Nottmgham and Ilkeston. 
 
 They had expected a venerable and dignified monvunent. They 
 found a litde, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like a de- 
 cayed mushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. 
 Leonard and Dick immediately proceeded to carve their initials, 
 "L. W." and "R. P.", in the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted, 
 because he had read in the newspaper satirical remarks about 
 initial-carvers, who could find no other road to immortality. Then 
 all the lads climbed to the top of the rock to look round. 
 
 Everywhere in the field below, factory girls and lads were eating 
 lunch or sporting about. Beyond was the garden of an old manor. 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 175 
 
 It had yew-hedges and thick clumps and borders of yellow cro- 
 cuses round the lawn. 
 
 "See," said Paul to Miriam, "what a quiet garden!" 
 
 She saw the dark yews and the golden crocuses, then she looked 
 gratefully. He had not seemed to belong to her among all these 
 others; he was different then— not her Paul, who understood the 
 slightest quiver of her innermost soul, but something else, speak- 
 ing another language than hers. How it hurt her, and deadened her 
 very perceptions. Only when he came right back to her, leaving 
 his other, his lesser self, as she thought, would she feel alive again. 
 And now he asked her to look at this garden, wanting the contact 
 with her again. Impatient of the set in the field, she turned to the 
 quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves of shut-up crocuses. A feeling 
 of stillness, almost of ecstasy, came over her. It felt almost as if she 
 were alone with him in this garden. 
 
 Then he left her again and joined the others. Soon they started 
 home. Miriam loitered behind, alone. She did not fit in with the 
 others; she could very rarely get into human relations with any- 
 one: so her friend, her companion, her lover, was Nature. She saw 
 the sun decUning wanly. In the dusky, cold hedgerows were some 
 red leaves. She lingered to gather them, tenderly, passionately. 
 The love in her finger-tips caressed the leaves; the passion in her 
 heart came to a glow upon the leaves. 
 
 Suddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road, and she 
 hurried forward. Turning a comer in the lane, she came upon Paul, 
 who stood bent over something, his mind fixed on it, working away 
 steadily, patiently, a Uttle hopelessly. She hesitated in her approach, 
 to watch. 
 
 He remauied concentrated in the middle of the road. Beyond, 
 one rift of rich gold in that colourless grey evening seemed to make 
 him stand out in dark rehef. She saw him, slender and firm, as if 
 the setting sun had given him to her. A deep pain took hold of 
 her, and she knew she must love him. And she had discovered 
 him, discovered in him a rare potentiaHty, discovered his loneli- 
 ness. Quivering as at some "annunciation", she went slowly 
 forward. 
 
 At last he looked up. 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed gratefully, "have you waited for me!" 
 
 She saw a deep shadow in his eyes. 
 
176 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "The spring broken here;" and he showed her where his um- 
 brella was injured. 
 
 Instantly, with some shame, she knew he had not done the dam- 
 age himself, but that Geoffrey was responsible. 
 
 "It is only an old umbrella, isn't it?" she asked. 
 
 She wondered why he, who did not usually trouble over trifles, 
 made such a mountain of this molehill. 
 
 "But it was William's an' my mother can't help but know," he 
 said quietly, still patiently working at the umbrella. 
 
 The words went through Miriam like a blade. This, then, was 
 the confirmation of her vision of him! She looked at him. But there 
 was about him a certain reserve, and she dared not comfort him, 
 not even speak softly to him. 
 
 "Come on," he said. "I can't do it;" and they went m silence 
 along the road. 
 
 That same evening they were walldng along under the trees by 
 Nether Green. He was talking to her fretfully, seemed to be strug- 
 gliag to convince himself. 
 
 "You know," he said, with an effort, "if one person loves, 
 the other does." 
 
 "Ah!" she answered. "Like mother said to me when I was little, 
 'Love begets love.' " 
 
 "Yes, something like that, I think it must be." 
 
 "I hope so, because, if it were not, love might be a very terrible 
 thing," she said. 
 
 "Yes, but it w— at least with most people," he answered. 
 
 And Miriam, thinking he had assured himself, felt strong in her- 
 self. She always regarded that sudden coming upon him in the lane 
 as a revelation. And this conversation remained graven in her 
 mind as one of the letters of the law. 
 
 Now she stood with him and for him. When, about this time, 
 he outraged the family feeUng at Willey Farm by some overbearing 
 insult, she stuck to him, and believed he was right. And at this tune 
 she dreamed dreams of him, vivid, unforgettable. These dreams 
 came again later on, developed to a more subtle psychological 
 stage. 
 
 On the Easter Monday the same party took an excursion to 
 Wingfield Manor. It was great excitement to Miriam to catch a 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 177 
 
 train at Sethley Bridge, amid all the bustle of the Bank Holiday 
 crowd. They left the train at Alfreton. Paul was interested in the 
 street and in the colliers with their dogs. Here was a new race of 
 miners. Miriam did not live till they came to the church. They 
 were all rather timid of entering, with their bags of food, for fear 
 of being turned out. Leonard, a comic, thin fellow, went first; Paul, 
 who would have died rather than be sent back, went last. The 
 place was decorated for Easter. In the font hundreds of white 
 narcissi seemed to be growing. The air was dim and coloured from 
 the wmdows and thrilled with a subtle scent of lilies and narcissi. 
 In that atmosphere Miriam's soul came into a glow. Paul was 
 afraid of the things he mustn't do; and he was sensitive to the feel 
 of the place. Miriam turned to him. He answered. They were to- 
 gether. He would not go beyond the Communion-rail. She loved 
 bim for that. Her soul expanded into prayer beside him. He felt 
 the strange fascination of shadowy religious places. All his latent 
 mysticism quivered into life. She was drawn to him. He was a 
 prayer along with her. 
 
 Miriam very rarely talked to the other lads. They at once be- 
 came awkward in conversation with her. So usually she was silent. 
 
 It was past midday when they climbed the steep path to the 
 manor. All things shone softly in the sun, which was wonderfully 
 warm and enlivening. Celandines and violets were out. Everybody 
 was tip-top full with happiness. The ghtter of the ivy, the soft, at- 
 mospheric grey of the castle walls, the gentieness of everything 
 near the ruin, was perfect. 
 
 The manor is of hard, pale grey stone, and the other walls are 
 blank and calm. The young folk were in raptures. They went in 
 trepidation, almost afraid that the delight of exploring this rum 
 might be denied them. In the first courtyard, within the high 
 broken walls, were farm-carts, with their shafts lying idle on the 
 groimd, the tyres of the wheels brilliant with gold-red rust. It was 
 very still. 
 
 All eagerly paid their sixpences, and went timidly through the 
 fine clean arch of the inner courtyard. They were shy. Here on the 
 pavement, where the hall had been, an old thorn tree was budding. 
 All kinds of strange openings and broken rooms were in the 
 shadow around them. 
 
 After lunch they set off once more to explore the ruin. This 
 
178 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 time the girls went with the boys, who could act as guides and ex- 
 positors. There was one tall tower in a comer, rather tottering, 
 where they say Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned. 
 
 "Think of the Queen going up here!" said Miriam in a low voice, 
 as she climbed the hollow stairs. 
 
 "If she could get up," said Paul, "for she had rheumatism like 
 anything. I reckon they treated her rottenly." 
 
 "You don't think she deserved it?" asked Miriam. 
 
 "No, I don't. She was only lively." 
 
 They continued to mount the winding staircase. A high wind, 
 blowing through the loopholes, went rushing up the shaft, and 
 filled the girl's skirts Uke a balloon, so that she was ashamed, until 
 he took the hem of her dress and held it down for her. He did it 
 perfectly simply, as he would have picked up her glove. She re- 
 membered this always. 
 
 Roxmd the broken top of the tower the ivy bushed out, old and 
 handsome. Also, there were a few chill gillivers, in pale cold bud. 
 Miriam wanted to lean over for some ivy, but he would not let 
 her. Instead, she had to wait behind him, and take from him each 
 spray as he gathered it and held it to her, each one separately, in 
 the purest manner of chivalry. The tower seemed to rock in the 
 wind. They looked over miles and miles of wooded country, and 
 country with gleams of pasture. 
 
 The crypt underneath the manor was beautiful, and in perfect 
 preservation. Paul made a drawing: Miriam stayed with him. She 
 was thinking of Mary Queen of Scots looking with her strained, 
 hopeless eyes, that could not understand misery, over the hills 
 whence no help came, or sitting in this crypt, being told of a God 
 as cold as the place she sat in. 
 
 They set off again gaily, looking round on their beloved manor 
 that stood so clean and big on its hill. 
 
 "Supposing you could have that farm," said Paul to Miriam. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Wouldn't it be lovely to come and see you!" 
 
 They were now in the bare country of stone walls, which he 
 loved, and which, though only ten miles from home, seemed so 
 foreign to Miriam. The party was straggling. As they were crossing 
 a large meadow that sloped away from the sun, along a path em- 
 bedded with irmumerable tiny glittering points, Paul, walking 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 179 
 
 alongside, laced his fingers in the strings of the bag Miriam was 
 carrying, and instantly she felt Annie behind, watchful and jealous. 
 But the meadow was bathed in a glory of sunshine, and the path 
 was jewelled, and it was seldom that he gave her any sign. She held 
 her fingers very still among the strings of the bag, his fingers 
 touching; and the place was golden as a vision. 
 
 At last they came into the stragghng grey village of Crich, that 
 lies high. Beyond the village was the famous Crich Stand that Paul 
 could see from the garden at home. The party pushed on. Great 
 expanse of country spread around and below. The lads were eager 
 to get to the top of the hill. It was capped by a round knoU, half 
 of which was by now cut away, and on the top of which stood an 
 ancient monument, sturdy and squat, for signalling in old days far 
 down into the level lands of Nottinghamshire and Leicestershire. 
 
 It was blowing so hard, high up there in the exposed place, that 
 the only way to be safe was to stand nailed by the wind to the waU 
 of the tower. At their feet fell the precipice where the limestone 
 was quarried away. Below was a jiunble of hills and tiny villages 
 — Maflock, Ambergate, Stoney Middleton. The lads were eager to 
 spy out the church of Bestwood, far away among the rather 
 crowded country on the left. They were disgusted that it seemed 
 to stand on a plain. They saw the lulls of Derbyshire fall into the 
 monotony of the Midlands that swept away South. 
 
 Miriam was somewhat scared by the wind, but the lads enjoyed 
 it. They went on, miles and miles, to WhatstandweU. All the food 
 was eaten, everybody was hungry, and there was very litde money 
 to get home with. But they managed to procure a loaf and a 
 currant-loaf, which they hacked to pieces with shut-knives, and 
 ate sitting on the wall near the bridge, watching the bright Derwent 
 rushing by, and the brakes from Matlock pulling up at the inn. 
 
 Paul was now pale with weariness. He had been responsible for 
 the party all day, and now he was done. Miriam understood, and 
 kept close to him, and he left himself in her hands. 
 
 They had an hour to wait at Ambergate Station. Trains came, 
 crowded with excursionists returning to Manchester, Birmingham, 
 and London. 
 
 "We might be going there— folk easily might think we're gomg 
 that far," said Paul. 
 
 They got back rather late. Miriam, walking home with Geoffrey, 
 
180 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 watched the moon rise big and red and misty. She felt something 
 was fulfilled in her. 
 
 She had an elder sister, Agatha, who was a school-teacher. Be- 
 tween the two girls was a feud. Miriam considered Agatha 
 worldly. And she wanted herself to be a school-teacher. 
 
 One Saturday afternoon Agatha and Miriam were upstairs dress- 
 ing. Their bedroom was over the stable. It was a low room, not 
 very large, and bare. Miriam had nailed on the wall a reproduction 
 of Veronese's "St. Catherine". She loved the woman who sat in 
 the vsdndow, dreaming. Her own windows were too small to sit 
 in. But the front one was dripped over with honeysuckle and vk- 
 gjnia creeper, and looked upon the tree-tops of the oak-wood 
 across the yard, while the litde back window, no bigger than a 
 handkerchief, was a loophole to the east, to the dawn beating up 
 against the beloved round hiUs. 
 
 The two sisters did not talk much to each other. Agatha, who 
 was fair and small and determined, had rebelled against the home 
 atmosphere, against the doctrine of "the other cheek". She was 
 out in the world now, in a fair way to be independent. And she in- 
 sisted on worldly values, on appearance, on manners, on position, 
 which Miriam would fain have ignored. 
 
 Both gkls Uked to be upstairs, out of the way, when Paul came. 
 They preferred to come running down, open the stair-foot door, 
 and see him watching, expectant of them. Miriam stood painfully 
 pulling over her head a rosary he had given her. It caught in the 
 fine mesh of her hair. But at last she had it on, and the red-brown 
 wooden beads looked well against her cool brown neck. She was 
 a well-developed girl, and very handsome. But in the little looking- 
 glass nailed against the whitewashed wall she could only see a frag- 
 ment of herself at a time. Agatha had bought a httle mirror of her 
 own, which she propped up to suit herself. Miriam was near the 
 window. Suddenly she heard the well-knovra click of the chain, 
 and she saw Paul fling open the gate, push his bicycle into the yard. 
 She saw him look at the house, and she shrank away. He walked 
 in a nonchalant fashion, and his bicycle went with him as if it were 
 a Uve thing. 
 
 "Paul's come!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Aren't you glad?" said Agatha cuttingly. 
 
 Miriam stood stiU in amazement and bewilderment. 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 181 
 
 "Well, aren't you?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, but I'm not going to let him see it, and think I wanted 
 him." 
 
 Miriam was startled. She heard him putting his bicycle in the 
 stable underneath, and talking to Jimmy, who had been a pit- 
 horse, and who was seedy. 
 
 "Well, Jimmy my lad, how are ter? Nobbut sick an' sadly, Uke? 
 Why, then, it's a shame, my owd lad." 
 
 She heard the rope run tiirough the hole as the horse lifted its 
 head from the lad's caress. How she loved to listen when he 
 thought only the horse could hear. But there was a serpent in her 
 Eden. She searched earnestly in herself to see if she wanted Paul 
 Morel. She felt there would be some disgrace in it. Full of twisted 
 feeling, she was afraid she did want him. She stood self-convicted. 
 Then came an agony of new shame. She shrank within herself in 
 a coil of torture. Did she want Paul Morel, and did he know she 
 wanted him? What a subtle infamy upon her. She felt as if her 
 whole soul coiled into knots of shame. 
 
 Agatha was dressed first, and ran downstairs. Miriam heard 
 her greet the lad gaUy, knew exactly how brilliant her grey eyes 
 became with that tone. She herself would have felt it bold to have 
 greeted him in such wise. Yet there she stood under the self- 
 accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture. In bitter 
 perplexity she kneeled down and prayed: 
 
 "O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, 
 if I ought not to love him." 
 
 Something anomalous in the prayer arrested her. She lifted her 
 head and pondered. How could it be wrong to love him? Love was 
 God's gift. And yet it caused her shame. That was because of 
 him, Paul Morel. But, then, it was not his affair, it was her own, 
 between herself and God. She was to be a sacrifice. But it was 
 God's sacrifice, not Paul Morel's or her own. After a few minutes 
 she hid her face in the pUlow again, and said: 
 
 "But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love 
 him— as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me 
 love him splendidly, because he is Thy son." 
 
 She remained kneeling for some time, quite still, and deeply 
 moved, her black hair against the red squares and the lavender- 
 sprigged squares of the patchwork quilt. Prayer was almost es- 
 
182 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 sential to her. Then she fell into that rapture of self-sacrifice, 
 identifying herself with a God who was sacrificed, which gives to 
 so many human souls their deepest bliss. 
 
 When she went downstairs Paul was lying back in an arm-chair, 
 holding forth with much vehemence to Agatha, who was scorning 
 a litde painting he had brought to show her. Miriam glanced at the 
 two, and avoided their levity. She went into the parlour to be alone. 
 
 It was tea-time before she was able to speak to Paul, and then 
 her manner was so distant he thought he had offended her. 
 
 Miriam discontinued her practice of going each Thursday eve- 
 ning to the Ubrary in Bestwood. After calling for Paul regularly 
 during the whole spring, a number of trifling incidents and tiny 
 insults from his family awakened her to their attitude towards her, 
 and she decided to go no more. So she announced to Paul one eve- 
 ning she would not call at his house again for him on Thursday 
 nights. 
 
 "Why?" he asked, very short. 
 
 "Nothing. Only I'd rather not." 
 
 "Very weU." 
 
 "But," she faltered, "if you'd care to meet me, we could still go 
 together." 
 
 "Meet you where?" 
 
 "Somewhere— where you like." 
 
 "I shan't meet you anywhere. I don't see why you shouldn't keep 
 caUmg for me. But if you won't, I don't want to meet you." 
 
 So the Thursday evenings which had been so precious to her, 
 and to him, were dropped. He worked instead. Mrs. Morel sniffed 
 with satisfaction at this arrangement. 
 
 He would not have it that they were lovers. The intimacy be- 
 tween them had been kept so abstract, such a matter of the soul, 
 all thought and weary struggle into consciousness, that he saw it 
 only as a platonic friendship. He stoutly denied there was anything 
 else between them. Miriam was silent, or else she very quietly 
 agreed. He was a fool who did not know what was happening to 
 himself. By tacit agreement they ignored the remarks and insinua- 
 tions of their acquaintances. 
 
 "We aren't lovers, we are friends," he said to her. "We know it. 
 Let them talk. What does it matter what they say." 
 
 Sometimes, as they were walking together, she slipped her arm 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 183 
 
 timidly into his. But he always resented it, and she knew it. It 
 caused a violent conflict in him. With Miriam he was always on 
 the high plane of abstraction, when his natural fire of love was 
 transmitted into the fine stream of thought. She would have it so. 
 If he were joUy and, as she put it, flippant, she waited till he came 
 back to her, tiU the change had taken place in him again, and he 
 was wrestling with his own soul, frowning, passionate in his desire 
 for understanding. And in this passion for understanding her 
 soul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be 
 made abstract first. 
 
 Then, if she put her arm in his, it caused him almost torture. His 
 consciousness seemed to split. The place where she was touching 
 him ran hot with friction. He was one internecine battle, and he 
 became cruel to her because of it. 
 
 One evening in midsummer Miriam called at the house, warm 
 from climbing. Paul was alone in the kitchen; his mother could be 
 heard moving about upstairs. 
 
 "Come and look at the sweet-peas," he said to the girl. 
 
 They went into the garden. The sky behind the townlet and the 
 church was orange-red; the flower-garden was flooded with a 
 strange warm light that lifted every leaf into significance. Paul 
 passed along a fine row of sweet-peas, gathering a blossom here 
 and there, all cream and pale blue. Miriam followed, breathing 
 the fragrance. To her, flowers appealed with such strength she felt 
 she must make them part of herself. When she bent and breathed 
 a flower, it was as if she and the flower were loving each other. 
 Paul hated her for it. There seemed a sort of exposure about the 
 action, something too intimate. 
 
 When he had got a fair bunch, they returned to the house. He 
 listened for a moment to his mother's quiet movement upstairs, 
 then he said: 
 
 "Come here, and let me pin them in for you." He arranged them 
 two or three at a time in the bosom of her dress, stepping back 
 now and then to see the effect. "You know," he said, taking the 
 pin out of his mouth, "a woman ought always to arrange her 
 flowers before her glass." 
 
 Miriam laughed. She thought flowers ought to be pinned in one's 
 dress without any care. That Paul should take pams to fix her 
 flowers for her was his whim. 
 
184 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He was rather offended at her laughter. 
 
 "Some women do— those who look decent," he said. 
 
 Miriam laughed again, but mirthlessly, to hear him thus mix 
 her up with women in a general way. From most men she would 
 have ignored it. But from him it hurt her. 
 
 He had nearly finished arranging the flowers when he heard his 
 mother's footstep on the stairs. Hurriedly he pushed io the last 
 pin and turned away. 
 
 "Don't let mater know," he said. 
 
 Miriam picked up her books and stood in the doorway looking 
 with chagrin at the beautiful sunset. She would call for Paul no 
 more, she said. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mrs. Morel," she said, in a deferential way. 
 She sounded as if she felt she had no right to be there. 
 
 "Oh, is it you, Miriam?" replied Mrs. Morel coolly. 
 
 But Paul insisted on everybody's accepting his friendship with 
 the girl, and Mrs. Morel was too wise to have any open rupture. 
 
 It was not till he was twenty years old that the family could ever 
 afford to go away for a holiday. Mrs. Morel had never been away 
 for a holiday, except to see her sister, since she had been married. 
 Now at last Paul had saved enough money, and they were all go- 
 ing. There was to be a party: some of Annie's friends, one friend 
 of Paul's, a young man in the same office where William had pre- 
 viously been, and Miriam. 
 
 It was great excitement writing for rooms. Paul and his mother 
 debated it endlessly between them. They wanted a furnished cot- 
 tage for two weeks. She thought one week would be enough, but 
 he insisted on two. 
 
 At last they got an answer from Mablethorpe, a cottage such as 
 they wished for thirty shillings a week. There was immense jubila- 
 tion. Paul was wUd with joy for his mother's sake. She would have 
 a real holiday now. He and she sat at evening picturing what it 
 would be Uke. Annie came in, and Leonard, and Alice, and Kitty. 
 There was wild rejoicing and anticipation. Paul told Miriam. She 
 seemed to brood with joy over it. But the Morel's house rang with 
 excitement. 
 
 They were to go on Saturday morning by the seven train. Paul 
 suggested that Miriam should sleep at his house, because it was so 
 far for her to walk. She came down for supper. Everybody was 
 so excited that even Miriam was accepted with warmth. But almost 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 185 
 
 as soon as she entered the feeUng in the family became close and 
 tight. He had discovered a poem by Jean Ingelow which mentioned 
 Mablethorpe, and so he must read it to Miriam, He would never 
 have got so far in the direction of sentimentality as to read poetry 
 to his own family. But now they condescended to listen. Miriam 
 sat on the sofa absorbed in him. She always seemed absorbed in 
 him, and by him, when he was present. Mrs. Morel sat jealously 
 in her own chair. She was going to hear also. And even Annie and 
 the father attended. Morel with his head cocked on one side, like 
 somebody listening to a sermon and feeling conscious of the fact. 
 Paul ducked his head over the book. He had got now all the audi- 
 ence he cared for. And Mrs. Morel and Annie almost contested 
 with Miriam who should listen best and win his favour. He was 
 in very high feather. 
 
 "But," mterrupted Mrs. Morel, "what is the 'Bride of Enderby' 
 that the bells are supposed to ring?" 
 
 "It's an old tune they used to play on the bells for a warning 
 against water. I suppose the Bride of Enderby was drowned in a 
 flood," he replied. He had not the faintest knowledge what it really 
 was, but he would never have sunk so low as to confess that to 
 his womenfolk. They listened and believed him. He believed 
 himself. 
 
 "And the people knew what that tune meant?" said his mother. 
 
 "Yes— just like the Scotch when they heard "The Flowers o' the 
 Forest'— and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm." 
 
 "How?" said Annie. "A bell soimds the same whether it's rung 
 backwards or forwards." 
 
 "But," he said, "if you start with the deep bell and ring up to 
 the high one— der— der- der— der— der— der— der— der!" 
 
 He ran up the scale. Everybody thought it clever. He thought so 
 too. Then, waiting a minute, he continued the poem. 
 
 "Hm!" said Mrs. Morel curiously, when he finished. "But I 
 wish everything that's written weren't so sad." 
 
 "/ canna see what they want drownin' theirselves for," said 
 Morel. 
 
 There was a pause, Annie got up to clear the table. 
 
 Miriam rose to help with the pots. 
 
 "Let me help to wash up," she said. 
 
 "Certainly not," cried Annie. "You sit down again. There aren't 
 many." 
 
186 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 And Miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat down 
 again to look at the book with Paul. 
 
 He was master of the party; his father was no good. And great 
 tortures he suffered lest the tin box should be put out at Firsby in- 
 stead of at Mablethorpe. And he wasn't equal to getting a carriage. 
 His bold Uttle mother did that. 
 
 "Here!" she cried to a man. "Here!" 
 
 Paul and Annie got behind the rest, convulsed with shamed 
 laughter. 
 
 "How much wiU it be to drive to Brook Cottage?" said Mrs. 
 Morel. 
 
 "Two shillings." 
 
 "Why, how far is it?" 
 
 "A good way." 
 
 "I don't believe it," she said. 
 
 But she scrambled in. There were eight crowded in one old 
 seaside carriage. 
 
 "You see," said Mrs. Morel, "it's only threepence each, and if 
 it were a tram-car — " 
 
 They drove along. Each cottage they came to, Mrs. Morel cried: 
 
 "Is it this? Now, this is it!" 
 
 Everybody sat breathless. They drove past. There was a uni- 
 versal sigh. 
 
 "I'm thankful it wasn't that brute," said Mrs. Morel. "I was 
 frightened." They drove on and on. 
 
 At last they descended at a house that stood alone over the dyke 
 by the highroad. There was wild excitement because they had to 
 cross a Uttle bridge to get into the front garden. But they loved the 
 house that lay so soUtary, with a sea-meadow on one side, and im- 
 mense expanse of land patched in white barley, yellow oats, red 
 wheat, and green root-crops, flat and stretching level to the sky. 
 
 Paul kept accounts. He and his mother ran the show. The total 
 expenses— lodging, food, everything— was sixteen shillings a week 
 per person. He and Leonard went bathing in the morning. Morel 
 was wandering abroad quite early. 
 
 "You, Paul," his mother called from the bedroom, "eat a piece 
 of bread-and-butter." 
 
 "All right," he answered. 
 
 And when he got back he saw his mother presiding in state at 
 
LAD-AND-GIRL LOVE 187 
 
 the breakfast-table. The woman of the house was young. Her hus- 
 band was blind, and she did laundry work. So Mrs. Morel always 
 washed the pots in the kitchen and made the beds. 
 
 "But you said you'd have a real holiday," said Paul, "and now 
 you work." 
 
 "Work!" she exclaimed. "What are you talking about!" 
 
 He loved to go with her across the fields to the village and the 
 sea. She was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused her for be- 
 ing a baby. On the whole he stuck to her as if he were her man. 
 
 Miriam did not get much of him, except, perhaps, when all the 
 others went to the "Coons". Coons were insufferably stupid to 
 Miriam, so he thought they were to himself also, and he preached 
 priggishly to Annie about the fatuity of Ustening to them. Yet he, 
 too, knew all their songs, and sang them along the roads roister- 
 ously. And if he found himself Ustening, the stupidity pleased him 
 very much. Yet to Aimie he said: 
 
 "Such rot! there isn't a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody with 
 more gumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and Usten." 
 And to Miriam he said, with much scorn of Annie and the others: 
 "I suppose they're at the 'Coons'." 
 
 It was queer to see Miriam singing coon songs. She had a 
 straight chin that went in a perpendicular line from the lower lip 
 to the turn. She always reminded Paul of some sad Botticelli angel 
 when she sang, even when it was: 
 
 "Come down lover's lane 
 For a walk with me, talk with me." 
 
 Only when he sketched, or at evening when the others were at 
 the "Coons", she had him to herself. He talked to her endlessly 
 about his love of horizontals: how they, the great levels of sky and 
 land in Lincolnshire, meant to him the etemality of the will, just 
 as the bowed Norman arches of the church, repeating themselves, 
 meant the dogged leaping forward of the persistent human soul, 
 on and on, nobody knows where; in contradiction to the perpen- 
 dicular lines and to the Gothic arch, which, he said, leapt up at 
 heaven and touched the ecstasy and lost itself in the divine. Him- 
 self, he said, was Norman, Miriam was Gothic. She bowed in con- 
 sent even to that. 
 
188 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 One evening he and she went up the great sweeping shore of 
 sand towards Theddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ran in 
 a hiss of foam along the coast. It was a warm evening. There was 
 not a figure but themselves on the far reaches of sand, no noise 
 but the sound of the sea. Paul loved to see it clanging at the land. 
 He loved to feel himself between the noise of it and the silence 
 of the sandy shore. Miriam was with him. Everything grew very 
 intense. It was quite dark when they turned again. The way home 
 was through a gap in the sandhills, and then along a raised grass 
 road between two dykes. The country was black and still. From 
 behind the sandhills came the whisper of the sea. Paul and Mir- 
 iam walked in silence. Suddenly he started. The whole of his blood 
 seemed to burst into flame, and he could scarcely breathe. An 
 enormous orange moon was staring at them from the rim of the 
 sandhills. He stood still, looking at it. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Miriam, when she saw it. 
 
 He remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddy 
 moon, the only thing in the far-reaching darkness of the level. His 
 heart beat heavily, the muscles of his arms contracted. 
 
 "What is it?" murmured Miriam, waiting for him. 
 
 He turned and looked at her. She stood beside him, for ever 
 in shadow. Her face, covered with the darkness of her hat, was 
 watching him unseen. But she was brooding. She was slightly 
 afraid— deeply moved and religious. That was her best state. He 
 was impotent against it. His blood was concentrated hke a flame 
 in his chest. But he could not get across to her. There were flashes 
 in his blood. But somehow she ignored them. She was expecting 
 some religious state in him. StiU yearning, she was half aware of 
 his passion, and gazed at him, troubled. 
 
 "What is it?" she murmured again. 
 
 "It's the moon," he answered, frowning. 
 
 "Yes," she assented. "Isn't it wonderful?" She was curious 
 about him. The crisis was past. 
 
 He did not know himself what was the matter. He was naturally 
 so young, and their intimacy was so abstract, he did not know he 
 wanted to crush her on to his breast to ease the ache there. He 
 was afraid of her. The fact that he might want her as a man wants 
 a woman had in him been suppressed into a shame. When she 
 shrank in her convulsed, coiled torture from the thought of such 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 189 
 
 a thing, he had winced to the depths of his soul. And now this 
 "purity" prevented even their first love-kiss. It was as if she could 
 scarcely stand the shock of physical love, even a passionate kiss, 
 and then he was too shrinking and sensitive to give it. 
 
 As they walked along the dark fen-meadow he watched the 
 moon and did not speak. She plodded beside him. He hated her, 
 for she seemed in some way to make him despise himself. Look- 
 ing ahead— he saw the one Hght in the darkness, the window of 
 their lamp-lit cottage. 
 
 He loved to think of his mother, and the other jolly people. 
 
 "WeU, everybody else has been in long ago!" said his mother 
 as they entered. 
 
 "What does that matter!" he cried irritably. "I can go a walk if 
 I like, can't I?" 
 
 "And I should have thought you could get in to supper with 
 the rest," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "I shall please myself," he retorted. "It's not late. I shall do as 
 I like." 
 
 "Very weU," said his mother cuttingly, "then do as you like." 
 And she took no further notice of him that evening. Which he 
 pretended neither to notice nor to care about, but sat reading. Mir- 
 iam read also, obliterating herself. Mrs. Morel hated her for mak- 
 ing her son like this. She watched Paul growing irritable, priggish, 
 and melancholic. For this she put the blame on Miriam. Annie 
 and aU her friends joined agamst the girl. Miriam had no friend 
 of her own, only Paul. But she did not suffer so much, because 
 she despised the triviality of these other people. 
 
 And Paul hated her because, somehow, she spoilt his ease and 
 naturalness. And he writhed himself with a feeling of humiliation. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Strife in Love 
 
 Arthur finished his apprenticeship, and got a job on the electrical 
 plant at Minton Pit. He earned very little, but had a good chance 
 of getting on. But he was wild and restless. He did not drink nor 
 gamble. Yet he somehow contrived to get into endless scrapes, 
 
190 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 always through some hot-headed thoughtlessness. Either he went 
 rabbiting in the woods, like a poacher, or he stayed in Nottingham 
 all night instead of coming home, or he miscalculated his dive into 
 the canal at Bestwood, and scored his chest into one mass of 
 wounds on the raw stones and tins at the bottom. 
 
 He had not been at liis work many months when again he did 
 not come home one night. 
 
 "Do you know where Arthur is?" asked Paul at breakfast. 
 
 "I do not," replied his mother. 
 
 "He is a fool," said Paul. "And if he did anything I shouldn't 
 mind. But no, he simply can't come away from a game of whist, 
 or else he must see a girl home from the skating-rink— quite pro- 
 prietously— and so can't get home. He's a fool." 
 
 "I don't know that it would make it any better if he did some- 
 thing to make us all ashamed," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Well, / should respect him more," said Paul. 
 
 "I very much doubt it," said his mother coldly. 
 
 They went on with breakfast. 
 
 "Are you fearfully fond of him?" Paul asked his mother. 
 
 "What do you ask that for?" 
 
 "Because they say a woman always like the youngest best." 
 
 "She may do— but I don't. No, he wearies me." 
 
 "And you'd actually rather he was good?" 
 
 "I'd rather he showed some of a man's common sense." 
 
 Paul was raw and irritable. He also wearied his mother very of- 
 ten. She saw the sunshine going out of him, and she resented it. 
 
 As they were finishing breakfast came the postman with a letter 
 from Derby. Mrs. Morel screwed up her eyes to look at the 
 address. 
 
 "Give it here, blind eye!" exclaimed her son, snatching it away 
 from her. 
 
 She started, and almost boxed his ears. 
 
 "It's from your son, Arthur," he said. 
 
 "What now — !" cried Mrs. Morel. 
 
 " 'My dearest Mother,' " Paul read, " 'I don't know what made 
 me such a fool. I want you to come and fetch me back from here. 
 I came with Jack Bredon yesterday, instead of going to work, 
 and enlisted. He said he was sick of wearing the seat of a stool 
 out, and, like the idiot you know I am, I came away with him. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 191 
 
 " 'I have taken the King's shilling, but perhaps if you came for 
 me they would let me go back with you. I was a fool when I did 
 it. I don't want to be in the army. My dear mother, I am nothing 
 but a trouble to you. But if you get me out of this, I promise I will 
 have more sense and consideration. . . .' " 
 
 Mrs. Morel sat down in her rocking-chair. 
 
 "Well, now," she cried, "let Mm stop!" 
 
 "Yes," said Paul, "let hun stop." 
 
 There was silence. The mother sat with her hands folded in her 
 apron, her face set, thinking. 
 
 "If I'm not sickl" she cried suddenly. "Sick!" 
 
 "Now," said Paul, beginning to frown, "you're not going to 
 worry your soul out about this, do you hear." 
 
 "I suppose I'm to take it as a blessing," she flashed, tummg on 
 her son. 
 
 "You're not going to moimt it up to a tragedy, so there," 
 he retorted. 
 
 "The /oo/.'— the young fool!" she cried. 
 
 "He'U look well in uniform," said Paul irritatingly. 
 
 His mother turned on him like a fury. 
 
 "Oh, will he!" she cried. "Not in my eyes!" 
 
 "He should get m a cavalry regiment; he'll have the time of his 
 life, and will look an awful swell." 
 
 "Swell!— 5weW.'— a mighty swell idea indeed!— a common 
 soldier!" 
 
 "Well," said Paul, "what am I but a common clerk?" 
 
 "A good deal, my boy!" cried his mother, stung. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "At any rate, a man, and not a thing in a red coat." 
 
 "I shovddn't mind being in a red coat— or dark blue, that would 
 suit me better— if they didn't boss me about too much." 
 
 But his mother had ceased to Usten. 
 
 "Just as he was getting on, or might have been getting on, at 
 his job— a young nuisance— here he goes and ruins himself for life. 
 What good will he be, do you think, after this!" 
 
 "It may Uck him into shape beautifully," said Paul. 
 
 "Lick him into shape!— hck what marrow there was out of his 
 bones. A soldier!— a. common soldier!— notMag but a body that 
 makes movements when it hears a shout! It's a fine thing!" 
 
192 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I can't understand why it upsets you," said Paul. 
 
 "No, perhaps you can't. But / understand"; and she sat back in 
 her chair, her chin in one hand, holding her elbow with the other, 
 brimmed up with wrath and chagrin. 
 
 "And shall you go to Derby?" asked Paul. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's no good." 
 
 "I'll see for myself." 
 
 "And why on earth don't you let him stop. It's just what he 
 wants." 
 
 "Of course," cried the mother, "you know what he wants!" 
 
 She got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where she 
 saw her son and the sergeant. It was, however, no good. 
 
 When Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she said 
 suddenly: 
 
 "I've had to go to Derby to-day." 
 
 The miner turned up his eyes, showing the whites in his black 
 face. 
 
 "Has ter, lass. What took thee there?" 
 
 "That Arthur!" 
 
 "Oh-an' what's agate now?" 
 
 "He's only enlisted." 
 
 Morel put down his knife and leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "Nay," he said, "that he niver 'as!" 
 
 "And is going down to Aldershot to-morrow." 
 
 "Well!" exclaimed the miner. "That's a winder." He considered 
 it a moment, said "H'm!" and proceeded with his dinner. Suddenly 
 his face contracted with wrath. "I hope he may never set foot i' 
 my house again," he said. 
 
 "The idea!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Saying such a thing!" 
 
 "I do," repeated Morel. "A fool as runs away for a soldier, let 
 'im look after 'issen; I s'll do no more for 'im." 
 
 "A fat sight you have done as it is," she said. 
 
 And Morel was almost ashamed to go to his public-house that 
 evening. 
 
 "Well, did you go?" said Paul to his mother when he came 
 home. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "And could you see him?" 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 193 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 "He blubbered when I came away." 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 "And so did I, so you needn't 'h'm'!" 
 
 Mrs. Morel fretted after her son. She knew he would not like 
 the army. He did not. The discipline was intolerable to him. 
 
 "But the doctor," she said with some pride to Paul, "said he was 
 perfectly proportioned— almost exactly; all his measurements were 
 correct. He is good-looking, you know." 
 
 "He's awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girls like 
 WilUam, does he?" 
 
 "No; it's a different character. He's a good deal Hke his father, 
 irresponsible." 
 
 To console his mother, Paul did not go much to Willey Farm 
 at this time. And in the autumn exhibition of students' work in the 
 Castle he had two studies, a landscape in water-colour and a still 
 life in oil, both of which had first-prize awards. He was highly 
 excited. 
 
 "What do you think I've got for my pictures, mother?" he asked, 
 coming home one evening. She saw by his eyes he was glad. Her 
 face flushed. 
 
 "Now, how should I know, my boy!" 
 
 "A first prize for those glass jars — " 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 "And a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm." 
 
 "Both first?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 There was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said 
 nothing. 
 
 "It's nice," he said, "isn't it?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Why don't you praise me up to the skies?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "I should have the trouble of dragging you down again," she 
 said. 
 
 But she was full of joy, nevertheless. William had brought her 
 his sporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive 
 
194 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 his death. Arthur was handsome— at least, a good specimen— 
 and warm and generous, and probably would do well in the end. 
 But Paul was going to distinguish himself. She had a great belief 
 in him, the more because he was unaware of his own powers. 
 There was so much to come out of him. Life for her was rich with 
 promise. She was to see herself fulfilled. Not for nothing had been 
 her struggle. 
 
 Several times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the 
 Castle unknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room look- 
 ing at the other exhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not 
 in them a certain something which she demanded for her satisfac- 
 tion. Some made her jealous, they were so good. She looked at 
 them a long time trying to find fault with them. Then suddenly she 
 had a shock that made her heart beat. There hung Paul's picture! 
 She knew it as if it were printed on her heart. 
 
 "Name-Paul Morel-First Prize." 
 
 It looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castle 
 gallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And 
 she glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front 
 of the same sketch. 
 
 But she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies 
 going home to the Park, she thought to herself: 
 
 "Yes, you look very well— but I wonder if your son has two first 
 prizes in the Castle." 
 
 And she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Notting- 
 ham. And Paul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle. 
 All his work was hers. 
 
 One day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He 
 had seen her on the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in 
 town. She was walkmg with a rather striking woman, blonde, with 
 a sullen expression, and a defiant carriage. It was strange how 
 Miriam, m her bowed, meditative bearing, looked dwarfed beside 
 this woman with the handsome shoulders. Miriam watched Paul 
 searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, who ignored him. The 
 girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head. 
 
 "Hello!" he said, "you didn't tell me you were coming to town." 
 
 "No," repUed Miriam, half apologetically. "I drove in to Cattle 
 Market with father." 
 
 He looked at her companion. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 195 
 
 "I've told you about Mrs. Dawes," said Miriam huskily; she 
 was nervous. "Clara, do you know Paul?" 
 
 "I think I've seen him before," repUed Mrs. Dawes indifferently, 
 as she shook hands with him. She had scornful grey eyes, a skin 
 like white honey, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upper Up 
 that did not know whether it was raised in scorn of all men or out 
 of eagerness to be kissed, but which believed the former. She 
 carried her head back, as if she had drawn away in contempt, per- 
 haps from men also. She wore a large, dowdy hat of black beaver, 
 and a sort of slightly affected simple dress that made her look 
 rather sack-like. She was evidently poor, and had not much taste. 
 Miriam usually looked nice. 
 
 "Where have you seen me?" Paul asked of the woman. 
 
 She looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then: 
 
 "Walking with Louie Travers," she said. 
 
 Louie was one of the "Spiral" girls. 
 
 "Why, do you know her?" he asked. 
 
 She did not answer. He turned to Miriam. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked. 
 
 "To the Castle." 
 
 "What train are you going home by?" 
 
 "I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time 
 are you free?" 
 
 "You know not tUl eight to-night, damn it!" 
 
 And directly the two women moved on. 
 
 Paul remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old 
 friend of Mrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because she 
 had once been Spiral overseer at Jordan's, and because her hus- 
 band, Baxter Dawes, was smith for the factory, making the irons 
 for cripple instruments, and so on. Through her Miriam felt she 
 got into direct contact with Jordan's, and could estimate better 
 Paul's position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated from her husband, 
 and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to be clever. 
 It interested Paul. 
 
 Baxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of 
 thirty-one or thirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul's 
 comer— a big, well-set man, also striking to look at, and handsome. 
 There was a pecuhar similarity between himself and his wife. He 
 had the same white skin, with a clear, golden tinge. His hair was 
 
196 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 of soft brown, his moustache was golden. And he had a similar 
 defiance in his bearing and manner. But then came the difference. 
 His eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, were dissolute. They pro- 
 truded very sUghfly, and his eyeUds hung over them in a way that 
 was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His whole manner was 
 of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybody down who 
 disapproved of him— perhaps because he really disapproved of 
 himself. 
 
 From the first day he had hated Paul. Finding the lad's imper- 
 sonal, deUberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got mto a fury. 
 
 "What are yer lookin' at?" he sneered, bullymg. 
 
 The boy glanced away. But the smith used to stand behind the 
 counter and talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with 
 a kind of rottenness. Agam he found the youth with his cool, 
 critical gaze fixed on his face. The smith started round as if he had 
 been stung. 
 
 "What'r yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?" he snarled. 
 
 The boy shrugged his shoulders sUghtly. 
 
 "Why yer — !" shouted Dawes. 
 
 "Leave him alone," said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuatmg 
 voice which means, "He's only one of your good little sops who 
 can't help it." 
 
 Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he 
 came through with the same curious criticism, glancing away be- 
 fore he met the smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated 
 each other in silence. 
 
 Clara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband 
 the home had been broken up, and she had gone to Uve with her 
 mother. Dawes lodged with his sister. In the same house was a 
 sister-in-law, and somehow Paul knew that this girl, Louie Travers, 
 was now Dawes's woman. She was a handsome, insolent hussy, 
 who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if he walked along to the 
 station with her as she went home. 
 
 The next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening. 
 She had a fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him. The others, 
 except her father and mother and the young children, had gone 
 out, so the two had the parlour together. It was a long, low, warm 
 room. There were three of Paul's small sketches on the wall, and 
 his photo was on the mantelpiece. On the table and on the high 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 197 
 
 old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured leaves. He sat in the 
 arm-chair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his feet. The glow 
 was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled there like 
 a devotee. 
 
 "What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?" she asked quietly. 
 
 "She doesn't look very amiable," he replied. 
 
 "No, but don't you think she's a fine woman?" she said, in a 
 deep tone. 
 
 "Yes— in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some 
 things. Is she disagreeable?" 
 
 "I don't think so. I think she's dissatisfied." 
 
 "What with?" 
 
 "Well— how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?" 
 
 "Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so 
 soon?" 
 
 "Ay, why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly. 
 
 "And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to 
 match him," he said. 
 
 Miriam bowed her head. 
 
 "Ay?" she queried satirically. "What makes you think so?" 
 
 "Look at her mouth— made for passion— and the very setback 
 of her throat — " He threw his head back in Clara's defiant 
 manner. 
 
 Miriam bowed a little lower. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 There was a silence for some moments, while he thought of 
 Clara. 
 
 "And what were the things you liked about her?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know— her skin and the texture of her— and her— I don't 
 know— there's a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciate 
 her as an artist, that's all." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He wondered why Miriam crouched there brooding in that 
 strange way. It irritated him. 
 
 "You don't really Uke her, do you?" he asked the girl. 
 
 She looked at him with her great, dazzled dark eyes. 
 
 "I do," she said. 
 
 "You don't— you can't— not really." 
 
 "Then what?" she asked slowly. 
 
198 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Eh, I don't know— perhaps you like her because she's got a 
 grudge against men." 
 
 That was more probably one of his own reasons for liking Mrs. 
 Dawes, but this did not occur to him. They were silent. There had 
 come into his forehead a knitting of the brows which was becom- 
 ing habitual with him, particularly when he was with Miriam. She 
 longed to smooth it away, and she was afraid of it. It seemed the 
 stamp of a man who was not her man in Paul Morel. 
 
 There were some crimson berries among the leaves in the bowl. 
 He reached over and pulled out a bunch. 
 
 "K you put red berries in your hair," he said, "why would you 
 look like some witch or priestess, and never like a reveller?" 
 
 She laughed with a naked, painful sound. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. 
 
 His vigorous warm hands were playing excitedly with the 
 berries. 
 
 "Why can't you laugh?" he said. "You never laugh laughter. 
 You only laugh when something is odd or incongruous, and then 
 it almost seems to hiurt you." 
 
 She bowed her head as if he were scoldmg her. 
 
 "I wish you could laugh at me just for one minute— just for one 
 minute. I feel as if it would set something free." 
 
 "But"— and she looked up at him with eyes frightened and 
 struggling— "I do laugh at you— I do." 
 
 "Never! There's always a kind of intensity. When you laugh I 
 could always cry; it seems as if it shows up your suffering. Oh, you 
 make me knit the brows of my very soul and co^tate." 
 
 Slowly she shook her head despairingly. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't want to," she said. 
 
 "I'm so damned spiritual with you always!" he cried. 
 
 She remained silent, thinking, "Then why don't you be other- 
 wise." But he saw her crouching, brooding figure, and it seemed 
 to tear him in two. 
 
 "But, there, it's autumn," he said, "and everybody feels like a 
 disembodied spirit then." 
 
 There was still another silence. This peculiar sadness between 
 them thrilled her soul. He seemed so beautiful with his eyes gone 
 dark, and looking as if they were deep as the deepest well. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 199 
 
 "You make me so spiritual!" he lamented. "And I don't want 
 to be spiritual." 
 
 She took her finger from her mouth with a little pop, and looked 
 up at him almost challenging. But still her soul was naked in her 
 great dark eyes, and there was the same yearning appeal upon her. 
 K he could have kissed her m abstract purity he would have done 
 so. But he could not kiss her thus— and she seemed to leave no 
 other way. And she yearned to him. 
 
 He gave a brief laugh. 
 
 "Well," he said, "get that French and we'll do some— some 
 Verlaine." 
 
 "Yes," she said in a deep tone, almost of resignation. And she 
 rose and got the books. And her rather red, nervous hands looked 
 so pitiful, he was mad to comfort her and kiss her. But then he 
 dared not— or could not. There was something prevented him. His 
 kisses were wrong for her. They contmued the reading tiU ten 
 o'clock, when they went into the kitchen, and Paul was natural 
 and joUy again with the father and mother. His eyes were dark and 
 shining; there was a kind of fascination about him. 
 
 When he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the front 
 wheel punctured. 
 
 "Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl," he said to her. "I shall be 
 late, and then I s'll catch it." 
 
 He lighted the hurricane lamp, took ofiE his coat, turned up the 
 bicycle, and set speedily to work. Miriam came with the bowl of 
 water and stood close to him, watching. She loved to see his hands 
 doing things. He was slim and vigorous, with a kind of easiness 
 even in his most hasty movements. And busy at his work he 
 seemed to forget her. She loved him absorbedly. She wanted to run 
 her hands down his sides. She always wanted to embrace him, so 
 long as he did not want her. 
 
 "There!" he said, rising suddenly. "Now, could you have done 
 it quicker?" 
 
 "No!" she laughed. 
 
 He straightened himself. His back was towards her. She put her 
 two hands on his sides, and ran them quickly down. 
 
 "You are so fine!" she said. 
 
 He laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a wave of 
 
200 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 flame by her hands. She did not seem to realise him in all this. He 
 might have been an object. She never realised the male he was. 
 
 He lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the bam 
 floor to see that the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat. 
 
 "That's aU right!" he said. 
 
 She was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken. 
 
 "Did you have them mended?" she asked. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "But why didn't you?" 
 
 "The back one goes on a bit." 
 
 "But it's not safe." 
 
 "I can use my toe." 
 
 "I wish you'd had them mended," she murmured. 
 
 "Don't worry— come to tea to-morrow, with Edgar." 
 
 "ShaU we?" 
 
 "Do— about four. I'll come to meet you." 
 
 "Very weU." 
 
 She was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. 
 Looking across, he saw through the uncurtained window of the 
 kitchen the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow. It 
 looked very cosy. The road, with pine trees, was quite black in 
 front. 
 
 "Tni to-morrow," he said, jumping on his bicycle. 
 
 "You'll take care, won't you?" she pleaded. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 His voice already came out of the darkness. She stood a moment 
 watching the light from his lamp race into obscurity along the 
 ground. She turned very slowly mdoors. Orion was wheeUng up 
 over the wood, his dog twinklmg after him, half smothered. For 
 the rest the world was fuU of darkness, and sUent, save for 
 the breathing of cattle in their stalls. She prayed earnestly for his 
 safety that night. When he left her, she often lay m anxiety, won- 
 dering if he had got home safely. 
 
 He dropped down the hills on his bicycle. The roads were greasy, 
 so he had to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plunged 
 over the second, steeper drop in the hill. "Here goes!" he said. It 
 was risky, because of the curve in the darkness at the bottom, and 
 because of the brewers' waggons with drunken waggoners asleep. 
 His bicycle seemed to fall beneath him, and he loved it. Reckless- 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 201 
 
 ness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not 
 valued, so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether. 
 
 The stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers, silver 
 upon the blackness, as he spun past. Then there was the long climb 
 home. 
 
 "See, mother!" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaves 
 on to the table. 
 
 "H'm!" she said, glancing at them, then away agam. She sat 
 reading, alone, as she always did, 
 
 "Aren't they pretty?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He knew she was cross with him. After a few minutes he said: 
 
 "Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea to-morrow." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "You don't mind?" 
 
 StiU she did not answer. 
 
 "Do you?" he asked. 
 
 "You know whether I mind or not." 
 
 "I don't see why you should. I have plenty of meals there." 
 
 "You do." 
 
 "Then why do you begrudge them tea?" 
 
 "I begrudge whom tea?" 
 
 "What are you so horrid for?" 
 
 "Oh, say no more! You've asked her to tea, it's quite sufficient. 
 She'll come." 
 
 He was very angry with his mother. He knew it was merely 
 Mkiam she objected to. He flung off his boots and went to bed. 
 
 Paul went to meet his friends the next afternoon. He was glad 
 to see them coming. They arrived home at about four o'clock. 
 Everywhere was clean and still for Simday afternoon. Mrs. Morel 
 sat in her black dress and black apron. She rose to meet the 
 visitors. With Edgar she was cordial, but with Miriam cold and 
 rather grudging. Yet Paul thought the girl looked so nice in her 
 brown cashmere frock. 
 
 He helped his mother to get the tea ready. Miriam would have 
 gladly proffered, but was afraid. He was rather proud of his home. 
 There was about it now, he thought, a certain distinction. The 
 chairs were only wooden, and the sofa was old. But the hearthrug 
 and cushions were cosy; the pictures were prints in good taste; 
 
202 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 there was a simplicity in everything, and plenty of books. He was 
 never ashamed in the least of his home, nor was Miriam of hers, 
 because both were what they should be, and warm. And then he 
 was proud of the table; the chma was pretty, the cloth was fine. 
 It did not matter that the spoons were not silver nor the knives 
 ivory-handled; everything looked nice. Mrs. Morel had managed 
 wonderfully while her children were growing up, so that nothing 
 was out of place. 
 
 Miriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But 
 Mrs. Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar. 
 
 At first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew. 
 Morel never went to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs. 
 Morel, like a little champion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul 
 at the other end; and at first Miriam sat next to him. Then 
 the chapel was like home. It was a pretty place, with dark pews 
 and slim, elegant pillars, and flowers. And the same people bad 
 sat in the same places ever since he was a boy. It was wonderfully 
 sweet and soothing to sit there for an hour and a half, next to 
 Miriam, and near to his mother, unitmg his two loves under the 
 spell of the place of worship. Then he felt warm and happy and 
 religious at once. And after chapel he walked home with Miriam, 
 whilst Mrs. Morel spent the rest of the evening with her old friend, 
 Mrs. Bums. He was keenly aUve on his walks on Sunday nights 
 with Edgar and Miriam. He never went past the pits at night, by 
 the Ughted lamp-house, the tall black head-stocks and lines of 
 trucks, past the fans sp innin g slowly Uke shadows, without the 
 feeling of Miriam returning to him, keen and almost unbearable. 
 
 She did not very long occupy the Morels' pew. Her father took 
 one for themselves once more. It was under the little gallery, op- 
 posite the Morels'. When Paul and his mother came in the chapel 
 the Leivers's pew was always empty. He was anxious for fear she 
 would not come: it was so far, and there were so many rainy Sun- 
 days. Then, often very late indeed, she came in, with her long 
 stride, her head bowed, her face hidden under her hat of dark 
 green velvet. Her face, as she sat opposite, was always in shadow. 
 But it gave him a very keen feeling, as if all his soul stirred within 
 him, to see her there. It was not the same glow, happiness, and 
 pride, that he felt in having his mother in charge: something more 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 203 
 
 wonderful, less human, and tinged to intensity by a pain, as if there 
 were something he could not get to. 
 
 At this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed. 
 He was twenty-one, and she was twenty. She was beginning to 
 dread the spring: he became so wild, and hurt her so much. All 
 the way he went cruelly smashing her beliefs. Edgar enjoyed it. 
 He was by nature critical and rather dispassionate. But Miriam 
 suffered exquisite pain, as, with an intellect like a knife, the man 
 she loved examined her religion in which she Uved and moved 
 and had her being. But he did not spare her. He was cruel. And 
 when they went alone he was even more fierce, as Lf he would kiU 
 her soul. He bled her beliefs till she ahnost lost consciousness. 
 
 "She exults— she exults as she carries him off from me," Mrs. 
 Morel cried in her heart when Paul had gone. "She's not like an 
 ordinary woman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to 
 absorb him. She wants to draw him out and absorb him till there 
 is nothing left of him, even for himself. He wiU never be a man on 
 his own feet— she will suck him up." So the mother sat, and battled 
 and brooded bitterly. 
 
 And he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wild 
 with torture. He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists, go- 
 ing at a great rate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood for 
 some minutes, and did not move. There was a great hollow of 
 darkness frontmg him, and on the black upslopes patches of tiny 
 lights, and in the lowest trough of the night, a flare of the pit. It 
 was all weird and dreadful. Why was he torn so, almost bewildered, 
 and unable to move? Why did his mother sit at home and suffer? 
 He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And why did 
 he hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thought of his 
 mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then he hated her 
 —and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feel as if he 
 were uncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing, as if he had 
 not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night and the space break- 
 ing into him? How he hated herl And then, what a rush of tender- 
 ness and humiUty! 
 
 Suddenly he plimged on again, running home. His mother saw 
 on him the marks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had 
 to make her talk to him. Then she was angry with him for going so 
 far with Miriam. 
 
204 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Why don't you like her, mother?" he cried in despair. 
 
 "I don't know, my boy," she repUed piteously. "I'm sure I've 
 tried to like her. I've tried and tried, but I can't— I can't!" 
 
 And he felt dreary and hopeless between the two. 
 
 Spring was the worst time. He was changeable, and intense and 
 cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then came the hours 
 when he knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother watched him 
 growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He could do 
 nothing. It was as if something were drawing his soul out towards 
 Willey Farm. Then he put on his hat and went, saymg nothing. 
 And his mother knew he was gone. And as soon as he was on the 
 way he sighed with reUef . And when he was with her he was cruel 
 again. 
 
 One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with 
 Miriam sitting beside him. It was a gUstening, white-and-blue day. 
 Big clouds, so brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stole 
 along on the water. The clear spaces in the sky were of clean, cold 
 blue. Paul lay on his back in the old grass, looking up. He could 
 not bear to look at Miriam. She seemed to want him, and he re- 
 sisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted now to give her passion 
 and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that she wanted the soul 
 out of his body, and not him. All his strength and energy she drew 
 into herself through some channel which united them. She did not 
 want to meet him, so that there were two of them, man and woman 
 together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to 
 an intensity like madness, which fascinated him, as drug-taking 
 might. 
 
 He was discussmg Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she were 
 fingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life, as 
 she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the end it 
 frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search, 
 and his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was, almost 
 inhuman, as if in a trance. 
 
 "Don't talk any more," she pleaded softly, laying her hand on 
 his forehead. 
 
 He lay quite stiQ, almost unable to move. His body was some- 
 where discarded. 
 
 "Why not? Are you tired?" 
 
 "Yes, and it wears you out." 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 205 
 
 He laughed shortly, realising. 
 
 "Yet you always make me like it," he said. 
 
 "I don't wish to," she said, very low. 
 
 "Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it. 
 But your unconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose I 
 want it." 
 
 He went on, in his dead fashion: 
 
 "If only you could want me, and not want what I can reel off 
 for you!" 
 
 "I!" she cried bitterly— "I! Why, when would you let me take 
 you?" 
 
 "Then it's my fault," he said, and, gathering himself together, 
 he got up and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a 
 vague way he hated her for it. And he knew he was as much to 
 blame himself. This, however, did not prevent his hating her. 
 
 One evening about this time he had walked along the home road 
 with her. They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood, 
 unable to part. As the stars came out the clouds closed. They had 
 glimpses of their own constellation, Orion, towards the west. His 
 jewels glimmered for a moment, his dog ran low, struggling with 
 diflBculty through the spume of cloud. 
 
 Orion was for them chief in significance among the constella- 
 tions. They had gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours 
 of feeling, until they seemed themselves to live in every one of 
 his stars. This evening Paul had been moody and perverse. Orion 
 had seemed just an ordinary constellation to him. He had fought 
 against his glamour and fascination. Miriam was watching her 
 lover's mood carefully. But he said nothing that gave him away, 
 tiU the moment came to part, when he stood frowning gloomily 
 at the gathered clouds, behind which the great constellation must 
 be striding still. 
 
 There was to be a little party at his house the next day, at which 
 she was to attend. 
 
 "I shan't come and meet you," he said. 
 
 "Oh, very well; it's not very nice out," she repUed slowly. 
 
 "It's not that— only they don't like me to. They say I care more 
 for you than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know 
 it's only friendship." 
 
 Miriam was astonished and hurt for hitn. It had cost him an ef- 
 
206 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 fort. She left Mm, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. 
 A fine rain blew in her face as she walked along the road. She was 
 hurt deep down; and she despised him for being blown about by 
 any wmd of authority. And in her heart of hearts, unconsciously, 
 she felt that he was trying to get away from her. This she would 
 never have acknowledged. She pitied him. 
 
 At this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's ware- 
 house. Mr. Pappleworth left to set up a business of his own, and 
 Paul remained with Mr. Jordan as Spural overseer. His wages were 
 to be raised to thirty shillings at the year-end, if things went well. 
 
 Still on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French 
 lesson. Paul did not go so frequently to WUley Farm, and she 
 grieved at the thought of her education's coming to end; moreover, 
 they both loved to be together, in spite of discords. So they read 
 Balzac, and did compositions, and felt highly cultured. 
 
 Friday night was reckoning night for the miners. Morel 
 "reckoned"— shared up the money of the stall— either in the New 
 Inn at Bretty or in his own house, according as his fellow-butties 
 wished. Barker had turned a non-drinker, so now the men 
 reckoned at Morel's house. 
 
 Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She 
 was stUl a tomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was 
 studying design. 
 
 Morel was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless the 
 week's earnings were small. He bustled immediately after his din- 
 ner, prepared to get washed. It was decorum for the women to 
 absent themselves while the men reckoned. Women were not sup- 
 posed to spy into such a masculine privacy as the butties' reckon- 
 ing, nor were they to know the exact amount of the week's 
 earnings. So, whilst her father was spluttering in the scullery, 
 Annie went out to spend an hour with a neighbour. Mrs. Morel 
 attended to her baking. 
 
 "Shut that doo-er!" bawled Morel furiously. 
 
 Annie banged it behind her, and was gone. 
 
 "If tha oppens it again while I'm weshin' me, I'll ma'e thy jaw 
 rattle," he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Paul and 
 the mother frowned to hear him. 
 
 Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy 
 water dripping from him, dithering with cold. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 207 
 
 "Oh, my sirs!" he said. "Wheer's my towel?" 
 
 It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise he 
 would have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before 
 the hot baking-fire to dry himself. 
 
 "F-ff-f!" he went, pretending to shudder with cold. 
 
 "Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!" said Mrs. Morel. "It's 
 not cold." 
 
 "Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery," 
 said the miner, as he rubbed his hair; "nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!" 
 
 "And I shouldn't make that fuss," replied his wife. 
 
 "No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi' thy 
 nesh sides." 
 
 "Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?" asked Paul, 
 curious. 
 
 "Eh, I dunno; that's what they say," replied his father. "But 
 there's that much draught i' yon scullery, as it blows through your 
 ribs like through a five-barred gate." 
 
 "It would have some diflSculty in blowing through yours," said 
 Mrs. Morel. 
 
 Morel looked down ruefully at his sides. 
 
 "Me!" he exclaimed. "I'm nowt b'r a skinned rabbit. My bones 
 fair juts out on me." 
 
 "I should Uke to know where," retorted his wife. 
 
 "Iv'ry-wheer! I'm nobbut a sack o' faggots." 
 
 Mrs. Morel laughed. He had stiU a wonderfully yoimg body, 
 muscular, without any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It might 
 have been the body of a man of twenty-eight, except that there 
 were, perhaps, too many blue scars, like tattoo-marks, where the 
 coal-dust remained imder the skin, and that his chest was too hairy. 
 But he put his hand on his side ruefully. It was his fixed beUef 
 that, because he did not get fat, he was as thin as a starved rat. 
 
 Paul looked at his father's thick, brownish hands aU scarred, 
 with broken nails, rubbing the fine smoothness of his sides, and 
 the incongruity struck him. It seemed strange they were the same 
 flesh. 
 
 "I suppose," he said to his father, "you had a good figure once." 
 
 "Eh!" exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid, 
 like a child. 
 
208 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "He had," exclaimed Mrs. Morel, "if he didn't hurtle himself 
 up as if he was trying to get in the smallest space he could." 
 
 "Me!" exclaimed Morel— "me a good figure! I wor niver much 
 more n'r a skeleton." 
 
 "Man!" cried his wife, "don't be such a pulamiter!" 
 
 "'Strewth!" he said. "Tha's niver knowed me but what I 
 looked as if I wor goin' ofiE in a rapid decUne." 
 
 She sat and laughed. 
 
 "You've had a constitution like iron," she said; "and never a 
 man had a better start, if it was body that counted. You should 
 have seen him as a young man," she cried suddenly to Paul, draw- 
 ing herself up to imitate her husband's once handsome bearing. 
 
 Morel watched her shyly. He saw again the passion she had 
 had for him. It blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy, rather 
 scared, and humble. Yet again he felt his old glow. And then im- 
 mediately he felt the ruin he had made during these years. He 
 wanted to bustle about, to run away from it. 
 
 "Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh," he asked her. 
 
 His wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped it on his 
 shoulders. He gave a jump. 
 
 "Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!" he cried. "Cowd as death!" 
 
 "You ought to have been a salamander," she laughed, washing 
 his back. It was very rarely she would do anything so personal for 
 him. The children did those things. 
 
 "The next world won't be half hot enough for you," she added. 
 
 "No," he said; "tha'lt see as it's draughty for me." 
 
 But she had finished. She wiped hun in a desultory fashion, and 
 went upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. 
 When he was dried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and 
 shiny, with hair on end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his 
 pit-trousers, he stood warming the garments he was going to put 
 on. He turned them, he pulled them inside out, he scorched them, 
 
 "Goodness, man!" cried Mrs. Morel, "get dressed!" 
 
 "Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub 
 o' water?" he said. 
 
 At last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black. 
 He did all this on the hearth-rug, as he would have done if Annie 
 and her familiar friends had been present. 
 
 Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 209 
 
 earthenware panchion of dough that stood in a comer she took 
 another handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and 
 dropped it into a tin. As she was doing so Barker knocked and 
 entered. He was a quiet, compact little man, who looked as if he 
 would go through a stone waU. His black hair was cropped short, 
 his head was bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but healthy and 
 taut. 
 
 "Evenin', missis," he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seated him- 
 sfelf with a sigh. 
 
 "Good-evening," she replied cordially. 
 
 "Tha's made thy heels crack," said Morel. 
 
 "I dunno as I have," said Barker. 
 
 He sat, as the men always did in Morel's kitchen, effacing him- 
 self rather. 
 
 "How's missis?" she asked of him. 
 
 He had told her some time back: 
 
 "We're expectin' us third just now, you see." 
 
 "Well," he answered, rubbing his head, "she keeps pretty 
 middlin', I think." 
 
 "Let's see— when?" asked Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now." 
 
 "Ah! And she's kept fairly?" 
 
 "Yes, tidy." 
 
 "That's a blessing, for she's none too strong." 
 
 "No. An' I've done another siUy trick." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 Mrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly. 
 
 "I'm come be-out th' market-bag." 
 
 "You can have mine." 
 
 "Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself." 
 
 "I shan't. I take a string bag always." 
 
 She saw the determined little collier buying in the week's 
 groceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. 
 "Barker's Uttle, but he's ten times the man you are," she said to her 
 husband. 
 
 Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, 
 with a boyish ingenuousness and a slighfly foolish smile, despite his 
 seven children. But his wife was a passionate woman. 
 
 "I see you've kested me," he said, smiling rather vapidly. 
 
210 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Yes," replied Barker. 
 
 The newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muflBer. His 
 nose was pointed and red. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're cold, Mr. Wesson," said Mrs. MoreL 
 
 "It's a bit nippy," he replied. 
 
 "Then come to the fire." 
 
 "Nay, I s'll do where I am." 
 
 Both colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come 
 on to the hearth. The hearth is sacred to the family. 
 
 "Go thy ways i' th' arm-chair," cried Morel cheerily. 
 
 "Nay, thank yer; I'm very nicely here." 
 
 "Yes, come, of course," insisted Mrs. Morel. 
 
 He rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morel's arm-chair awk- 
 wardly. It was too great a familiarity. But the fire made him bliss- 
 fully happy. 
 
 "And how's that chest of yours?" demanded Mrs. Morel. 
 
 He smiled again, with his blue eyes rather sunny. 
 
 "Oh, it's very middlin'," he said. 
 
 "Wi' a rattle in it like a kettle-drum," said Barker shortly. 
 
 "T-t-t-t!" went Mrs. Morel rapidly with her tongue. "Did you 
 have that flannel singlet made?" 
 
 "Not yet," he smiled. 
 
 "Then, why didn't you?" she cried. 
 
 "It'll come," he smiled. 
 
 "Ah, an' Doomsday!" exclaimed Barker. 
 
 Barker and Morel were both impatient of Wesson. But, then, 
 they were both as hard as nails, physically. 
 
 When Morel was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to 
 Paul. 
 
 "Count it, boy," he asked humbly. 
 
 Paul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the 
 bag upside down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, 
 sovereigns and loose money. He coimted quickly, referred to the 
 checks— the written papers giving amount of coal— put the money in 
 order. Then Barker glanced at the checks. 
 
 Mrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. 
 Morel, as master of the house, sat in his arm-chair, with his back to 
 the hot fire. The two butties had cooler seats. None of them counted 
 the money. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 211 
 
 "What did we say Simpson's was?" asked Morel; and the butties 
 cavilled for a minute over the dayman's earnings. Then the amount 
 was put aside. 
 
 "An' Bill Naylor's?" 
 
 This money also was taken from the pack. 
 
 Then, because Wesson lived in one of the company's houses, and 
 his rent had been deducted. Morel and Barker took four-and-six 
 each. And because Morel's coals had come, and the leading was 
 stopped. Barker and Wesson took four shillings each. Then it was 
 plain sailing. Morel gave each of them a sovereign till there were 
 no more sovereigns; each half a crown till there were no more 
 half-crowns; each a shilling tiU there were no more shillings. If 
 there was anything at the end that wouldn't split. Morel took it and 
 stood drinks. 
 
 Then the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the 
 house before his wife came down. She heard the door close, and 
 descended. She looked hastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glanc- 
 ing on the table, she saw her money lying. Paul had been working 
 all the time. But now he felt his mother counting the week's money, 
 and her wrath rising. 
 
 "T-t-t-t-t!" went her tongue. 
 
 He frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted 
 again. 
 
 "A measly twenty-five shillings!" she exclaimed. "How much 
 was the cheque?" 
 
 "Ten pounds eleven," said Paul uritably. He dreaded what was 
 coming. 
 
 "And he gives me a scrattUn' twenty-five, an' his club this week! 
 But I know him. He thinks because you're earning he needn't keep 
 the house any longer. No, aU he has to do with his money is to gut- 
 tle it. But I'll show him!" 
 
 "Oh, mother, don't!" cried Paul, 
 
 "Don't what, I should like to know?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Don't carry on again. I can't work." 
 
 She went very quiet. 
 
 "Yes, it's all very well," she said; "but how do you think I'm go- 
 ing to manage?" 
 
 "Well, it won't make it any better to whittle about it." 
 
212 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I should like to know what you'd do if you had it to put up 
 with." 
 
 "It won't be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell." 
 
 He went back to his work, and she tied her bonnet-strings grimly. 
 When she was fretted he could not bear it. But now he began to in- 
 sist on her recognizing him. 
 
 "The two loaves at the top," she said, "will be done in twenty 
 minutes. Don't forget them." 
 
 "All right," he answered; and she went to market. 
 
 He remained alone working. But his usual intense concentration 
 became unsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past 
 seven came a low knock, and Miriam entered. 
 
 "All alone?" she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 As if at home, she took off her tam-o'-shanter and her long coat, 
 hanging them up. It gave him a thrill. This might be their own 
 house, his and hers. Then she came back and peered over his work. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery." 
 
 She bent short-sightedly over the drawings. 
 
 It irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his, 
 searching him out. He went into the parlour and returned with a 
 bundle of brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on 
 the floor. It proved to be a curtain or portiere, beautifully stenciUed 
 with a design on roses. 
 
 "Ah, how beautiful!" she cried. 
 
 The spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green 
 stems, all so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay at her 
 feet. She went on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He 
 saw her crouched voluptuously before his work, and his heart beat 
 quickly. Suddenly she looked up at him. 
 
 "Why does it seem cruel?" she asked. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "There seems a feeling of cruelty about it," she said. 
 
 "It's joUy good, whether or not," he replied, folding up his work 
 with a lover's hands. 
 
 She rose slowly, pondering. 
 
 "And what will you do with it?" she asked. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 213 
 
 "Send it to Liberty's. I did it for my mother, but I think she'd 
 rather have the money." 
 
 "Yes," said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, 
 and Miriam sympathised. Money would have been nothing to her. 
 
 He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he 
 threw to Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the 
 same design. 
 
 "I did that for you," he said. 
 
 She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. 
 He became embarrassed. 
 
 "By Jove, the bread!" he cried. 
 
 He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were 
 done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scul- 
 lery, wetted his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the 
 panchion, and dropped it in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent 
 over her painted cloth. He stood rubbing the bits of dough from 
 his hands. 
 
 "You do like it?" he asked. 
 
 She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He 
 laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. 
 There was for him the most intense pleasure in talking about his 
 work to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went into this 
 intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She 
 brought forth to him his imaginations. She did not imderstand, any 
 more than a woman understands when she conceives a child in her 
 womb. But this was life for her and for him. 
 
 While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, 
 small and pale, hoUow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, 
 entered the room. She was a friend at the Morel's. 
 
 "Take your things oflE," said Paul. 
 
 "No, I'm not stopping." 
 
 She sat down in the arm-chair opposite Paul and Miriam, who 
 were on the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from hun. The room 
 was hot, with a scent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on 
 the hearth. 
 
 "I shouldn't have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam 
 Leivers," said Beatrice wickedly. 
 
 "Why not?" murmured Miriam huskily. 
 
 "Why, let's look at your shoes." 
 
214 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Miriam remained uncomfortably still. 
 
 "If tha doesna tha durs'na," laughed Beatrice. 
 
 Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that 
 queer, irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed 
 how seM-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were 
 covered with mud. 
 
 "Glory! You're a positive muck-heap," exclaimed Beatrice. 
 "Who cleans your boots?" 
 
 "I clean them myself." 
 
 "Then you wanted a job," said Beatrice. "It would ha' taken a 
 lot of men to ha' brought me down here to-night. But love laughs 
 at sludge, doesn't it, 'Postle my duck?" 
 
 "Inter alia," he said. 
 
 "Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does 
 it mean, Miriam?" 
 
 There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did 
 not see it. 
 
 " 'Among other things,' I believe," she said humbly. 
 
 Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly, 
 
 " 'Among other things,' 'Postle?" she repeated. "Do you mean 
 love laughs at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and 
 men friends, and lady friends, and even at the b'loved himself?" 
 
 She affected a great innocence. 
 
 "In fact, it's one big smile," he replied. 
 
 "Up its sleeve, 'Postle Morel— you believe me," she said; and 
 she went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter. 
 
 Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul's 
 friends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the 
 lurch— seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then. 
 
 "Are you still at school?" asked Miriam of Beatrice. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You've not had your notice, then?" 
 
 "I expect it at Easter." 
 
 "Isn't it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you 
 didn't pass the exam.?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Beatrice coldly. 
 
 "Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems 
 to me ridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass." 
 
STRIFE DST LOVE 215 
 
 "Short of brains, eh, 'Postle?" said Beatrice briefly. 
 
 "Only brains to bite with," replied Paul, laughing. 
 
 "Nuisance!" she cried; and, springing from her seat, she rushed 
 and boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her 
 wrists while she wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and 
 seized two handfuls of his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook. 
 
 "Beat!" he said, as he puUed his hair straight with his fingers. "I 
 hate you!" 
 
 She laughed with glee. 
 
 "Mind!" she said. "I want to sit next to you." 
 
 "I'd as lief be neighbours with a vixen," he said, nevertheless 
 making place for her between him and Miriam. 
 
 "Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!" she cried; and, with her hair- 
 comb, she combed him straight. "And his nice little moustache!" 
 she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young 
 moustache. "It's a wicked moustache, 'Postle," she said. "It's a red 
 for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?" 
 
 He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked in- 
 side it. 
 
 "And fancy me having Connie's last cig.," said Beatrice, putting 
 Jhe thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she 
 puffed daintily. 
 
 "Thanks so much, darling," she said mockingly. 
 
 It gave her a wicked delight. 
 
 "Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, very!" said Miriam. 
 
 He took a cigarette for himself. 
 
 "Light, old boy?" said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him. 
 
 He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was 
 w inkin g at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with 
 mischief, and his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was 
 not himself, and she could not bear it. As he was now, she had no 
 connection with him; she might as well not have existed. She saw 
 the cigarette dancing on his full red Ups. She hated his thick hair 
 for being tumbled loose on his forehead. 
 
 "Sweet boy!" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a 
 little kiss on the cheek. 
 
 "I s'U kiss thee back, Beat," he said. 
 
216 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Tha wunna!" she giggled, jumping up and going away. "Isn't 
 he shameless, Miriam?" 
 
 "Quite," said Miriam. "By the way, aren't you forgetting the 
 bread?" 
 
 "By Jove!" he cried, flinging open the oven door. 
 
 Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread. 
 
 "Oh, golly!" cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouched be- 
 fore the oven, she peered over his shoulder. "This is what comes of 
 the oblivion of love, my boy." 
 
 Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on 
 the hot side; another was hard as a brick. 
 
 "Poor mater!" said Paul. 
 
 "You want to grate it," said Beatrice. "Fetch me the nutmeg- 
 grater." 
 
 She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and 
 she grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the 
 doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice 
 grated away, puffing her cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the 
 poor loaf. 
 
 "My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time," said Beatrice. 
 
 "I!" exclaimed Miriam in amazement. 
 
 "You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. / know why 
 King Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postie would fix up a 
 tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. 
 K that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed the 
 brazen thing's ears who made the obUvion, instead of poor Al- 
 fred's." 
 
 She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in 
 spite of herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully. 
 
 The garden gate was heard to bang. 
 
 "Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it 
 up in a damp towel." 
 
 Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her 
 scrapings into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came burst- 
 ing in. She was an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked 
 in the strong Ught. 
 
 "Smell of burning!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "It's the cigarettes," replied Beatrice demurely. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 217 
 
 "Where's Paul?" 
 
 Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue 
 eyes, very sad. 
 
 "I suppose he's left you to settle it between you," he said. He 
 nodded sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "No," said Beatrice, "he's gone off with number nine." 
 
 "I just met number five inquiring for him," said Leonard. 
 
 "Yes— we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby," said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Annie laughed. 
 
 "Oh, ay," said Leonard. "And which bit should you have?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Beatrice. "I'll let all the others pick first." 
 
 "An' you'd have the leavings, like?" said Leonard, twisting up 
 a comic face. 
 
 Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered. 
 
 "This bread's a fine sight, our Paul," said Annie. 
 
 "Then you should stop an' look after it," said Paul. 
 
 "You mean you should do what you're reckoning to do," repUed 
 Annie. 
 
 "He should, shouldn't he!" cried Beatrice. 
 
 "I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand," said Leonard. 
 
 "You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie. 
 
 "Yes-but I'd been in all week — " 
 
 "And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard 
 Mndly. 
 
 "Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever," Annie agreed. 
 She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out 
 with Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy. 
 
 "Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, 
 Miriam. I don't think it wiU rain." 
 
 When they had aU gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, im- 
 wrapped it, and surveyed it sadly. 
 
 "It's a mess!" he said. 
 
 "But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it, after all— two- 
 pence, ha'penny." 
 
 "Yes, but— it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll take it to 
 heart. However, it's no good bothering." 
 
218 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance 
 between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some 
 moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He 
 felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason 
 it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered 
 what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was 
 tumbled over his forehead. Why might she not push it back for 
 him, and remove the marks of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not 
 press his body with her two hands. It looked so firm, and every whit 
 living. And he would let other girls, why not her? 
 
 Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with 
 terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came to- 
 wards her. 
 
 "Half-past eight!" he said. "We'd better buck up. Where's your 
 French?" 
 
 Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. 
 Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in 
 her own French. He had found this was the only way to get her to 
 do compositions. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. He would 
 read it now; she felt as if her soul's history were going to be dese- 
 crated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched 
 his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was 
 readmg only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But 
 gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. 
 She quivered. 
 
 " 'Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveilU,' " he read. " 'II faisait en- 
 core un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenitre de ma chambre etait 
 Mime, et puis, jaAne, et tous les oiseaux du bois iclaterent dans un 
 chanson vif et resonnant. Toute I'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de 
 vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi I'atibe? Les oiseaux m'Sveillent 
 presque tous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur 
 dans le cri des grives. II est si clair — ' " 
 
 Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, 
 trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid 
 of her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was in- 
 adequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he 
 corrected her work, humbly writing above her words. 
 
 "Look," he said quietly, "the past participle conjugated with 
 avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes." 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 219 
 
 She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine 
 curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shud- 
 dering. He saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted 
 piteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, 
 ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His 
 breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at 
 him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearn- 
 ing. His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to 
 master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And 
 he knew, before he could kiss her, he must drive something out of 
 himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back again into his heart. 
 He returned to her exercise. 
 
 Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap, 
 turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started vio- 
 lently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched 
 before the oven hurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, 
 something cruel in the swift way he pitched the bread out of the 
 tins, caught it up agam. If only he had been gentle in 
 his movements she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was, 
 she was hurt. 
 
 He returned and finished the exercise. 
 
 "You've done well this week," he said. 
 
 She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her en- 
 tirely. 
 
 "You reaUy do blossom out sometimes," he said. "You ought to 
 write poetry." 
 
 She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully. 
 
 "I don't trust myself," she said. 
 
 "You should try!" 
 
 Again she shook her head. 
 
 "Shall we read, or is it too late?" he asked. 
 
 "It is late— but we can read just a little," she pleaded. 
 
 She was really getting now the food for her life during the next 
 week. He made her copy Baudelaire's "Le Balcon". Then he read 
 it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growing ahnost 
 brutal. He had a way of lifting his Hps and showmg his teeth, pas- 
 sionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. 
 It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not 
 look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She could not understand 
 
220 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She 
 did not like Baudelaire, on the whole— nor Verlaine. 
 
 "Behold her singing in the field 
 Yon solitary highland lass." 
 
 That noxudshed her heart. So did "Fair Ines". And— 
 
 "It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure. 
 And breathing holy quiet like a nun." 
 
 These were like herself. And there was he, saymg in his throat 
 bitterly: 
 
 "Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses." 
 
 The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, ar- 
 ranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good 
 ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the 
 scullery. 
 
 "Mater needn't know tUl morning," he said. "It won't upset her 
 so much then as at night." 
 
 Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters 
 he had received, saw what books were there. She took one that had 
 interested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He 
 did not trouble to lock the door. 
 
 He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother 
 was seated in the rockmg-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging 
 down her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her 
 elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending 
 loaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His 
 mother was readmg the little local newspaper. He took off his coat, 
 and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside 
 to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For 
 some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found 
 on the table. Then— — 
 
 "I forgot that bread, mother," he said. 
 
 There was no answer from either woman. 
 
 "Well," he said, "it's only twopence ha'penny. I can pay you for 
 that." 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 221 
 
 Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid them to- 
 wards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut 
 tightly. 
 
 "Yes," said Annie, "you don't know how badly my mother is!" 
 
 The girl sat staring glumly into the fire. 
 
 "Why is she badly?" asked Paul, in his overbearing way. 
 
 "Well!" said Annie. "She could scarcely get home." 
 
 He looked closely at his mother. She looked iU. 
 
 "Why could you scarcely get home?" he asked her, stiU sharply. 
 She would not answer. 
 
 "I found her as white as a sheet sitting here," said Annie, with a 
 suggestion of tears in her voice. 
 
 "Well, why?" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes 
 dilating passionately. 
 
 "It was enough to upset anybody," said Mrs. Morel, "huggmg 
 those parcels— meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of 
 curtains — " 
 
 "WeU, why did you hug them; you needn't have done." 
 
 "Then who would?" 
 
 "Let Annie fetch the meat." 
 
 "Yes, and I would fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You 
 were off with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came." 
 
 "And what was the matter with you?" asked Paul of his mother. 
 
 "I suppose it's my heart," she replied. Certainly she looked blu- 
 ish round the mouth. 
 
 "And have you felt it before?" 
 
 "Yes— often enough." 
 
 "Then why haven't you told me?— and why haven't you seen a 
 doctor?" 
 
 Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring. 
 
 "You'd never notice anything," said Annie. "You're too eager 
 to be off with Miriam." 
 
 "Oh, am I— and any worse than you with Leonard?" 
 
 "/ was in at a quarter to ten." 
 
 There was silence in the room for a time. 
 
 "I should have thought," said Mrs. Morel bitterly, "that she 
 wouldn't have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful 
 of bread." 
 
 "Beatrice was here as well as she." 
 
222 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt." 
 
 "Why?" he flashed. 
 
 "Because you were engrossed with Miriam," replied Mrs. Morel 
 hotly. 
 
 "Oh, very well— then it was not!" he replied angrily. 
 
 He was distressed and wretched. Seizmg a paper, he began to 
 read. Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twisted 
 into a plait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night. 
 
 Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wanted to up- 
 braid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he 
 was troubled. So, instead of nmning away to bed, as he would have 
 liked to do, he sat and waited. There was a tense silence. The clock 
 ticked loudly. 
 
 "You'd better go to bed before your father comes in," said the 
 mother harshly. "And if you're going to have anything to eat, you'd 
 better get it." 
 
 "I don't want anything." 
 
 It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle for supper on 
 Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry 
 to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her, 
 
 "If I wanted you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagme 
 the scene," said Mrs. Morel. "But you're never too tired to go if 
 she will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then." 
 
 "I can't let her go alone." 
 
 "Can't you? And why does she come?" 
 
 "Not because I ask her." 
 
 "She doesn't come without you want h6r — " 
 
 "Well, what HI do want her — " he replied. 
 
 "Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go 
 trapseing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at 
 midnight, and got to go to Nottingham in the morning—" 
 
 "If I hadn't, you'd be just the same." 
 
 "Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinat- 
 ing that you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was 
 bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a 
 rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was 
 a movement that hurt Paul to see. 
 
 "I do Uke her," he said, "but — " 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 223 
 
 "Like her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seems 
 to me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor 
 me, nor anyone now for you." 
 
 "What nonsense, mother— you know I don't love her— I— I tell 
 you I dorit love her— she doesn't even walk with my arm, because 
 I don't want her to." 
 
 "Then why do you fly to her so often?" 
 
 "I do like to talk to her— I never said I didn't. But I don't love 
 her." 
 
 "Is there nobody else to talk to?" 
 
 "Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that 
 you're not interested in, that — " 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant. 
 
 "Why— painting— and books. You don't care about Herbert 
 Spencer." 
 
 "No," was the sad reply. "And you won't at my age." 
 
 "Well, but I do now— and Miriam does — " 
 
 "And how do you know," Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, "that / 
 shouldn't. Do you ever try me!" 
 
 "But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a pic- 
 ture's decorative or not; you don't care what manner it is in." 
 
 "How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you 
 ever talk to me about these things, to try?" 
 
 "But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know t's not." 
 
 "What is it, then— what is it, then, that matters to me?" she 
 flashed. He knitted his brows with pam. 
 
 "You're old, mother, and we're young." 
 
 He only meant that the interests of her age were not the interests 
 of his. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said 
 the wrong thing. 
 
 "Yes, I know it well— I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; 
 I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on 
 you— the rest is for Miriam." 
 
 He could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that he was life 
 to her. And, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only su- 
 preme thing. 
 
 "You know it isn't, mother, you know it isn't!" 
 
 She was moved to pity by his cry. 
 
224 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "It looks a great deal like it," she said, haH putting aade her 
 despair. 
 
 "No, mother— I really don't love her. I talk to her, but I want to 
 come home to you." 
 
 He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to 
 go to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms 
 round his neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whim- 
 pering voice, so unhke her own that he writhed in agony: 
 
 "I can't bear it. I could let another woman— but not her. She'd 
 leave me no room, not a bit of room — " 
 
 And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly. 
 
 "And I've never— you know, Paul— I've never had a husband- 
 not reaUy — " 
 
 He stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat. 
 
 "And she exults so in taking you from me— she's not like ordinary 
 girls." 
 
 "Well, I don't love her, mother," he murmured, bowing his head 
 and hiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed 
 him a long, fervent kiss. 
 
 "My boy!" she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love. 
 
 Without knowing, he gently stroked her face. 
 
 "There," said his mother, "now go to bed. You'll be so tired in 
 the morning." As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. 
 "There's your father— now go." Suddenly she looked at hun d- 
 most as if ui fear. "Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her, 
 my boy." 
 
 His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling. 
 
 "Ha-mother!" he said softly. 
 
 Morel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one comer 
 of his eye. He balanced in the doorway. 
 
 "At your mischief again?" he said venomously. 
 
 Mrs. Morel's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard 
 who had come in thus upon her. 
 
 "At any rate, it is sober," she said. 
 
 "H'm— h'm! h'm— h'm!" he sneered. He went into the passage, 
 hung up his hat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps 
 to the pantry. He returned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It 
 was what Mrs. Morel had bought for her son. 
 
STRIFE IN LOVE 225 
 
 "Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than 
 twenty-five s h illings, I'm sure I'm not gomg to buy you pork-pie 
 to stuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer." 
 
 "Wha-at— wha-at!" snarled Morel, toppUng in his balance. 
 "Wha-at— not for me?" He looked at the piece of meat and crust, 
 and suddenly, in a vicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire. 
 
 Paul started to his feet. 
 
 "Waste your own stuff!" he cried. 
 
 "What— what!" suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clench- 
 ing his fist. "I'll show yer, yer young jockey!" 
 
 "All right!" said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. 
 "Show me!" 
 
 He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at 
 something. Morel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. 
 The young man stood, smiling with his lips. 
 
 "Ussha!" hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke 
 just past his son's face. He dared not, even though so close, really 
 touch the young man, but swerved an inch away. 
 
 "Right!" said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father's mouth, 
 where in another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that 
 stroke. But he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was 
 deadly pale and dark at the mouth. Morel was dancing up to de- 
 liver another blow. 
 
 "Father!" said Paul, so that the word rang. 
 
 Morel started, and stood at attention. 
 
 "Mother!" moaned the boy. "Mother!" 
 
 She began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him, 
 although she could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. 
 He laid her down on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky, 
 which at last she could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. 
 As he kneeled in front of her he did not cry, but the tears ran down 
 his face quickly. Morel, on the opposite side of the room, sat with 
 his elbows on his knees glaring across. 
 
 "What's a-matter with 'er?" he asked. 
 
 "Faint!" replied Paul. 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 The elderly man began to imlace his boots. He stumbled off to 
 bed. His last fight was fought in that home. 
 
 Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother's hand. 
 
226 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Don't be poorly, mother— don't be poorly!" lie said time after 
 time. 
 
 "It's nothing, my boy," she murmured. 
 
 At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and raked the 
 fire. Then he cleared the room, put everything straight, laid the 
 things for breakfast, and brought his mother's candle. 
 
 "Can you go to bed, mother?" 
 
 "Yes, I'U come." 
 
 "Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him." 
 
 "No. I'll sleep in my own bed." 
 
 "Don't sleep with him, mother." 
 
 "I'll sleep in my own bed." 
 
 She rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her closely up- 
 stairs, carrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close. 
 
 "Good-night, mother." 
 
 "Good-night!" she said. 
 
 He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery. And yet, 
 somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he still loved his 
 mother best. It was the bitter peace of resignation. 
 
 The eflforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a great 
 humihation to him. 
 
 Everybody tried to forget the scene. 
 
 CHAPTER DC 
 Defeat of Miriam 
 
 Paul was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deep- 
 est of his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt 
 her, or wounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was 
 spring, and there was batde between him and Miriam. This year he 
 had a good deal against her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old 
 feeling that she was to be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had 
 when she prayed, was mingled in all her emotions. She did not at 
 the bottom believe she ever would have him. She did not believe 
 in herself primarily: doubted whether she could ever be what he 
 would demand of her. Certainly she never saw herself living hap- 
 pily through a lifetime with him. She saw tragedy, sorrow, and 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 227 
 
 sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud, in renunciation she 
 was strong, for she did not trust herself to support everyday life. 
 She was prepared for the big things and the deep things, Uke trag- 
 edy. It was the suflSciency of the small day-life she could not trust. 
 
 The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. 
 Yet she felt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood 
 at her bedroom window, looking across at the oak-trees of the 
 wood, in whose branches a twiUght was tangled, below the bright 
 sky of the afternoon. Grey-green rosettes of honeysuckle leaves 
 hung before the window, some akeady, she fancied, showing bud. 
 It was spring, which she loved and dreaded. 
 
 Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a 
 bright grey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which 
 guttered as he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughed towards 
 the house. To-day he walked with shut Ups and cold, cruel bearing, 
 that had something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well 
 by now, and could tell from that keen-lookmg, aloof young body 
 of his what was happening inside him. There was a cold correct- 
 ness in the way he put his bicycle in its place, that made her heart 
 sink. 
 
 She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net 
 blouse that she thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny 
 ruff, reminding her of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she 
 thought, look wonderfully a woman, and dignified. At twenty she 
 was fuU-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was still like a 
 soft rich mask, imchangeable. But her eyes, once lifted, were won- 
 derful. She was afraid of him. He would notice her new blouse. 
 
 He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family 
 to a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist 
 Chapel, conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. 
 He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that 
 could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with 
 laughter, now taking on one expression and then another, in imita- 
 tion of various people he was mocking. His mockery always hurt 
 her; it was too near the reality. He was too clever and cruel. She 
 felt that when his eyes were like this, hard with mocking hate, he 
 would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers 
 was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers, just awake 
 from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The 
 
228 SONS Aisro lovers 
 
 three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance m their shirt- 
 sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved 
 a "take-off" more than anything. 
 
 He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her 
 new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won from him not 
 a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups 
 from the shelves. 
 
 When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him 
 personally. 
 
 "You were late," she said. 
 
 "Was I?" he answered. 
 
 There was silence for a while. 
 
 "Was it rough riding?" she asked. 
 
 "I didn't notice it." 
 
 She continued quickly to lay the table. When she had finished — 
 
 "Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the 
 daffodils?" she said. 
 
 He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden 
 under the budding damson-trees. The hiUs and the sky were clean 
 and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced 
 at Paul. He was pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his 
 eyes and brows, which she loved, could look so hurting. 
 
 "Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detected an un- 
 derneath feeling of weariness about him. 
 
 "No, I think not," he answered. 
 
 "It must be rough on the road— the wood moans so." 
 
 "You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helps me 
 here." 
 
 "You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand," she murmured. 
 
 "Is there need to cycle to know that!" he said. 
 
 She thought his sarcasms were imnecessary. They went forward 
 in silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house 
 was a thorn hedge, under which daffodils were craning forward 
 from among their sheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the 
 flowers were greenish with cold. But still some had burst, and their 
 gold ruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one 
 cluster, took a wild-looking daffodil between her hands, turned up 
 its face of gold to her, and bowed down, caressing it with her mouth 
 and cheeks and brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets, 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 229 
 
 watching her. One after another she turned up to him the faces of 
 the yellow, bursten flowers appealingjy, fondling them lavishly all 
 the while. 
 
 "Aren't they magnificent?" she murmured. 
 
 "Magnificent! It's a bit thick-they're pretty!" 
 
 She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He 
 watched her crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses, 
 
 "Why must you always be fondling things?" he said irritably. 
 
 "But I love to touch them," she replied, hurt. 
 
 "Can you never like things without clutching them as if you 
 wanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit 
 more restraint, or reserve, or something?" 
 
 She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke 
 her Ups against a ruffled flower. Thek scent, as she smeUed it, was 
 so much kinder than he; it ahnost made her cry. 
 
 "You wheedle the soul out of things," he said. "I would never 
 wheedle— at any rate, I'd go straight." 
 
 He scarcely knew what he was saying. These thipgs came from 
 him mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one 
 weapon, firm and hard against her. 
 
 "You're always beggmg things to love you," he said, "as if you 
 were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on 
 them — " 
 
 RhythmicaUy, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with 
 her mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder 
 as it came to her nostrils. 
 
 "You don't want to love— your eternal and abnormal craving is 
 to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, ab- 
 sorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a 
 shortage somewhere." 
 
 She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not 
 the faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted, 
 tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings 
 like sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. 
 She only sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. 
 She never realised in a flash. Over everything she brooded and 
 brooded. 
 
 After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no no- 
 tice of Miriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday. 
 
230 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 waited for him. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was 
 determined to track this mood of his to its origin. She counted it 
 not much more than a mood. 
 
 "Shall we go through the wood a Uttle way?" she asked him, 
 knowing he never refused a direct request. 
 
 They went down to the warren. On the middle path they passed 
 a trap, a narrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs, baited with 
 the guts of a rabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye. 
 
 "Isn't it dreadful?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rab- 
 bit's throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must 
 go!" 
 
 He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry 
 for him. 
 
 "We will go back to the house," he said. "I don't want to walk 
 out." 
 
 They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds were com- 
 ing unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monu- 
 ment squared and brown, like a pillar of stone. There was a little 
 bed of hay from the last cutting. 
 
 "Let us sit here a minute," said Miriam. 
 
 He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard 
 wall of hay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hUls that glowed 
 with sunset, tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the 
 woods dark and yet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops, dis- 
 tinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the east was ten- 
 der with a magenta flush under which the land lay still and rich. 
 
 "Isn't it beautiful?" she pleaded. 
 
 But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then. 
 
 At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open- 
 mouthed, pranced his two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking 
 his face. Paul drew back, laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. 
 He pushed the dog aside, but it came leaping back. 
 
 "Get out," said the lad, "or I'll dot thee one." 
 
 But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little bat- 
 tle with the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, how- 
 ever, only floimdered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The 
 two fought together, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning 
 all over. Miriam watched them. There was something pathetic 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 231 
 
 about the man. He wanted so badly to love, to be tender. The rough 
 way he bowled the dog over was really loving. Bill got up, panting 
 with happiness, his brown eyes rolling in his white face, and lum- 
 bered back again. He adored Paul. The lad frowned. 
 
 "Bill, I've had enough o' thee," he said. 
 
 But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with 
 love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew 
 back. 
 
 "No," he said— "no— I've had enough." 
 
 And m a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun. 
 
 He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still 
 beauty he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet 
 he had not the courage to leave Mkiam. 
 
 "Why are you sad?" she asked humbly. 
 
 "I'm not sad; why should I be," he answered. "I'm only normal." 
 
 She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was 
 disagreeable. 
 
 "But what is the matter?" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly. 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 "Nay!" she murmured. 
 
 He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it. 
 
 "You'd far better not talk," he said. 
 
 "But I wish to know — " she replied. 
 
 He laughed resentfully. 
 
 "You always do," he said. 
 
 "It's not fair to me," she murmured. 
 
 He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, dig- 
 ging up Uttle clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. 
 She gently and firmly laid her hand on his wrist. 
 
 "Don't!" she said. "Put it away." 
 
 He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now 
 he was bottled up. 
 
 "What is it?" she pleaded softly. 
 
 He lay perfectly stiU, only his eyes alive, and they fuU of torment. 
 
 "You know," he said at length, rather wearily— "you know— 
 we'd better break off." 
 
 It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken 
 before her eyes. 
 
 "Why!" she murmiured. "What has happened?" 
 
232 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no 
 good — " 
 
 She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being im- 
 patient with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed 
 him. 
 
 "We agreed on friendship," he went on m a dull, monotonous 
 voice. "How often have we agreed for friendship! And yet— it 
 neither stops there, nor gets anywhere else." 
 
 He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was 
 so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she 
 must be patient with him. 
 
 "I can only give friendship— it's all I'm capable of— it's a flaw 
 in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side— I hate a top- 
 pling balance. Let us have done." 
 
 There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved 
 him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she 
 had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive 
 of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither real- 
 ise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely 
 subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do 
 without him. She would never let herself want him. She would 
 merely see. 
 
 "But what has happened?" she said. 
 
 "Nothing— it's all in myself— it only comes out just now. We're 
 always Uke this towards Easter-time." 
 
 He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she never 
 floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was 
 chiefly humiliated. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked him. 
 
 "Why— I mustn't come often— that's all. Why should I monopo- 
 lise you when I'm not — You see, I'm deficient in somethiag with 
 regard to you — " 
 
 He was tellmg her he did not love her, and so ought to leave 
 her a chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shame- 
 fully clumsy he was! What were other men to her! What were men 
 to her at all! But he, ah! she loved his soul. Was he deficient in 
 something? Perhaps he was. 
 
 "But I don't understand," she said huskily. "Yesterday — " 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 233 
 
 The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight 
 faded. And she bowed under her suffering. 
 
 "I know," he cried, "you never will! You'll never believe that 
 I can't— can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a sky- 
 lark — " 
 
 "What?" she murmured. Now she dreaded. 
 
 "Love you." 
 
 He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suf- 
 fer. Love her! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. 
 This about not loving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity 
 on his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a 
 child. He belonged to her. His soul wanted her. She guessed some- 
 body had been influencing him. She felt upon him the hardness, 
 the foreignness of another influence. 
 
 "What have they been saying at home?" she asked. 
 
 "It's not that," he answered. 
 
 And then she knew it was. She despised them for their com- 
 monness, his people. They did not know what things were really 
 worth. 
 
 He and she talked very little more that night. After all he left 
 her to cycle with Edgar. 
 
 He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie 
 in his life. When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There 
 was a vague, unreal feel about her. And nobody else mattered. 
 There was one place in the world that stood soUd and did not melt 
 into xmreality: the place where his mother was. Everybody else 
 could grow shadowy, almost non-existent to him, but she could 
 not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life, from which he 
 could not escape, was his mother. 
 
 And in the same way she waited for him. In him was established 
 her life now. After all, the life beyond offered very httle to Mrs. 
 Morel. She saw that our chance for doing is here, and doing 
 counted with her. Paul was going to prove that she had been right; 
 he was going to make a man whom nothing should shift off his 
 feet; he was going to alter the face of the earth in some way which 
 mattered. Wherever he went she felt her soul went with him. What- 
 ever he did she felt her soul stood by him, ready, as it were, to hand 
 him his tools. She could not bear it when he was with Miriam. 
 William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul. 
 
234 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of the 
 satisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She 
 loved him first; he loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His 
 new young life, so strong and imperious, was urged towards some- 
 thing else. It made him mad with restlessness. She saw this, and 
 wished bitterly that Miriam had been a woman who could take this 
 new life of his, and leave her the roots. He fought against his 
 mother almost as he fought against Miriam. 
 
 It was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam 
 had suffered a great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she 
 now to endure the ignominy of his abandoning her? That would 
 only be superficial and temporary. He would come back. She held 
 the keys to his soul. But meanwhile, how he would torture her with 
 his battle against her. She shrank from it. 
 
 However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leivers 
 was glad to see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that 
 he found things hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And 
 she was good to him. She did him that great kindness of treating 
 him almost with reverence. 
 
 He met her with the young children in the front garden. 
 
 "I'm glad you've come," said the mother, looking at him with her 
 great appeaUng brown eyes. "It is such a sunny day. I was just go- 
 ing down the fields for the first time this year." 
 
 He felt she would Uke him to come. That soothed him. They 
 went, taUdng simply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept 
 with gratitude that she was deferential to him. He was feeling 
 humiliated. 
 
 At the bottom of the Mow Qose they found a thrush's nest. 
 
 "Shall I show you the eggs?" he said. 
 
 "Do!" repUed Mrs. Leivers. "They seem such a sign of spring, 
 and so hopeful." 
 
 He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holdmg them m 
 the palm of his hand. 
 
 "They are quite hot— I think we frightened her off them," he 
 said. 
 
 "Ay, poor thmg!" said Mrs. Leivers. 
 
 Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, 
 it seemed to her, cradled them so well. 
 
 "Isn't it a strange warmth!" she murmured, to get near him. 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRUM 235 
 
 "Blood heat," he answered. 
 
 She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the 
 hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand 
 folded carefully over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. 
 Seeing him so, she loved him; he seemed so simple and suflBcient 
 to himself. And she could not get to him. 
 
 After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took "Tartarin 
 de Tarascon". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the 
 stack. He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again 
 the dog came racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He 
 shoved his muzzle in the man's chest. Paul fingered his ear for a 
 moment. Then he pushed him away. 
 
 "Go away. Bill," he said. "I don't want you." 
 
 Bill slimk off, and Mkiam wondered and dreaded what was com- 
 ing. There was a silence about the youth that made her stiU with 
 apprehension. It was not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that 
 she feared. 
 
 Turning his face a Uttle to one side, so that she could not see 
 him, he began, speaking slowly and painfully: 
 
 "Do you think— if I didn't come up so much— you might get to 
 like somebody else— another man?" 
 
 So this was what he was still harping on, 
 
 "But I don't know any other men. Why do you ask?" she replied, 
 in a low tone that should have been a reproach to him, 
 
 "Why," he blurted, "because they say I've no right to come up 
 like this— without we mean to marry — " 
 
 Miriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between 
 them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to 
 Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much, 
 
 "Who says?" she asked, wondering if her people had anythmg 
 to do with it. They had not, 
 
 "Mother— and the others. They say at this rate everybody will 
 consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because 
 it's not fair to you. And I've tried to find out— and I don't think I 
 love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about 
 it?" 
 
 Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this 
 struggle. People should leave him and her alone, 
 
 "I don't know," she murmured. 
 
236 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Do you think we love each other enough to marry?" he asked 
 definitely. It made her tremble. 
 
 "No," she answered truthfully. "I don't think so— we're too 
 young." 
 
 "I thought perhaps," he went on miserably, "that you, with your 
 intensity in things, might have given me more— than I could ever 
 make up to you. And even now— it you think it better— well be 
 engaged." 
 
 Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was 
 always such a child for people to do as they liked with. 
 
 "No, I don't think so," she said firmly. 
 
 He pondered a minute. 
 
 "You see," he said, "with me— I don't think one person would 
 ever monopolize me— be everything to me— I think never." 
 
 This she did not consider. 
 
 "No," she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, 
 and her dark eyes flashed. 
 
 "This is your mother," she said. "I know she never liked me." 
 
 "No, no, it isn't," he said hastily. "It was for your sake she spoke 
 this time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider my- 
 self engaged." There was a silence. "And if I ask you to come down 
 any time, you won't stop away, will you?" 
 
 She did not answer. By this time she was very angry. 
 
 "Well, what shall we do?" she said shortly. "I suppose I'd better 
 drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose 
 I can go on alone." 
 
 "I don't see that we need," he said. "I can give you a French les- 
 son, surely." 
 
 "Well— and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop coming to 
 chapel, because I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've 
 no need to come home with me. I can go alone." 
 
 "All right," he answered, rather taken aback. "But if I ask 
 Edgar, he'll always come with us, and then they can say nothing." 
 
 There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For 
 all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. 
 She wished they would mind their own business. 
 
 "And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Oh no," replied Miriam, without looking at him. 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 237 
 
 He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of pur- 
 pose, no anchor of righteousness that held him. 
 
 "Because," he continued, "a man gets across his bicycle— and 
 goes to work— and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods." 
 
 "No, I shan't bother," said Miriam. And she meant it. 
 
 It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors. 
 
 "How white Paul looks!" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. "Miriam, you 
 shouldn't have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken 
 cold, Paul?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" he laughed. 
 
 But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. 
 Miriam pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he 
 rose to go. 
 
 "You're not going home, are you?" asked Mrs. Leivers 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Yes," he repUed. "I said I'd be early." He was very awkward. 
 
 "But this is early," said Mrs. Leivers. 
 
 Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, 
 expecting her to rise and go with him to the bam as usual for his 
 bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. 
 
 "Well-good-night, all!" he faltered. 
 
 She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he 
 went past the window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows 
 knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him, his eyes 
 dark with pain. 
 
 She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he 
 passed through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feel- 
 ing a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the 
 hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one's 
 neck. 
 
 Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging 
 her to read and be busy. 
 
 At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the 
 family so much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest 
 place on earth to him. His home was not so lovable. It was 
 his mother. But then he would have been just as happy with his 
 mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he loved passionately. He 
 loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots tramped, and the 
 dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden on; where 
 
238 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was so 
 silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of 
 romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved 
 the gardens and the buildmgs that stood with their scarlet roofs on 
 the naked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for 
 cosiness, the wild country scooping down a valley and up the un- 
 cultured hills of the other side. Only to be there was an exhilara- 
 tion and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness 
 and her quaint cynicism; he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and 
 young and lovable; he loved Edgar, who Ut up when he came, and 
 the boys and the children and Bill— even the sow Circe and the 
 Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides Miriam. He 
 could not give it up. 
 
 So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar, Only all 
 the family, including the father, joined in charades and games at 
 evening. And later, Miriam drew them together, and they read 
 "Macbeth" out of penny books, taking parts. It was great excite- 
 ment. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. Leivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers 
 enjoyed it. Then they all learned songs together from tonic sol-fa, 
 singing in a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely 
 alone with Mkiam. She waited. When she and Edgar and he 
 walked home together from chapel or from the literary society in 
 Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox 
 nowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling 
 with Paul, his Friday nights, his days working m the fields. For her 
 Friday nights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly 
 always alone, walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, 
 dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently. 
 
 One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony, 
 Edgar had stayed to Communion— he wondered what it was like 
 —with Mrs. Morel. So Paul came on alone with Miriam to his 
 home. He was more or less under her speU again. As usual, they 
 were discussmg the sermon. He was setting now full sail towards 
 Agnosticism, but such a religious Agnosticism that Miriam did not 
 suffer so badly. They were at the Renan "Vie de Jesus" stage, 
 Miriam was the threshing-floor on which he threshed out all his 
 beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, the truth came 
 out for him. She alone was his threshing-floor. She alone helped 
 him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to his 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 239 
 
 argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he 
 gradually realized where he was wrong. And what he realized, she 
 realized. She felt he could not do without her. 
 
 They came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullery 
 window, and they entered. All the time he went on with his dis- 
 cussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes 
 from the pantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her 
 knee. She wore a large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was 
 a cheap hat, but he liked it. Her face beneath was stiU and pensive, 
 golden-brown and ruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short 
 curls. She watched him. 
 
 She Uked him on Sxmdays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed 
 the lithe movement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look 
 about him. He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he 
 reached for a Bible. Miriam Uked the way he reached up— so sharp, 
 straight to the mark. He turned the pages quickly, and read her a 
 chapter of St. John. As he sat in the arm-chair reading, intent, his 
 voice only thinking, she felt as if he were using her unconsciously 
 as a man uses his tools at some work he is bent on. She loved it. 
 And the wistfulness of his voice was Uke a reaching to something, 
 and it was as if she were what he reached with. She sat back on the 
 sofa away from him, and yet feeling herself the very instrument 
 his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure. 
 
 Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when 
 he came to the verse, "A woman, when she is in travail, hath sor- 
 row because her hoiu: is come", he missed it out. Miriam had felt 
 him growing uncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known 
 words did not follow. He went on reading, but she did not hear. 
 A grief and shame made her bend her head. Six months ago he 
 would have read it simply. Now there was a scotch in his runnmg 
 with her. Now she felt there was really something hostile between 
 them, something of which they were ashamed. 
 
 She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argu- 
 ment, but could not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. 
 Mrs. Morel had gone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey 
 Farm. 
 
 Miriam brooded over his spUt with her. There was something 
 else he wanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no 
 peace. There was between them now always a ground for strife. 
 
240 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in life 
 was herself. If she could prove it, both to herself and to him, the 
 rest might go; she could simply trust to the future. 
 
 So in May she asked him to come to WiUey Farm and meet Mrs. 
 Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him, 
 whenever they spoke of Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. 
 He said he did not like her. Yet he was keen to know about her. 
 Well, he should put himself to the test. She believed that there 
 were in him desires for higher things, and desires for lower, and 
 that the desire for the higher would conquer. At any rate, he should 
 try. She forgot that her "higher" and "lower" were arbitrary. 
 
 He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. 
 Mrs. Dawes came for the day. 'Her heavy, dun-coloured hair was 
 coiled on top of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt, 
 and somehow, wherever she was, seemed to make things look 
 paltry and insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen 
 seemed too small and mean altogether. Miriam's beautiful twi- 
 lighty parlour looked stiff and stupid. All the Leivers were 
 eclipsed like candles. They found her rather hard to put up with. 
 Yet she was perfectly amiable, but indifferent, and rather hard. 
 
 Paul did not come tUl afternoon. He was early. As he swung off 
 his bicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He 
 would be disappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went 
 out to meet him, bowing her head because of the simshine. 
 Nasturtiums were coming out crimson under the cool green 
 shadow of their leaves. The girl stood, dark-haired, glad to see 
 him. 
 
 "Hasn't Qara come?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied Miriam in her musical tone. "She's reading." 
 
 He wheeled his bicycle into the bam. He had put on a hand- 
 some tie, of which he was rather proud, and socks to match. 
 
 "She came this morning?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. "You said 
 you'd bring me that letter from the man at Liberty's. Have you re- 
 membered?" 
 
 "Oh, dash, no!" he said. "But nag at me till you get it." 
 
 "I don't like to nag at you." 
 
 "Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?" he con- 
 tinued. 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 241 
 
 "You know I always think she is quite agreeable." 
 
 He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-day had been 
 the newcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together 
 towards the house. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too 
 lazy to brush the dust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and 
 tie. 
 
 Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her 
 white neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at 
 him indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in a 
 manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to 
 fling something to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside 
 her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomely imder the 
 thin muslin at the top of her arm. 
 
 "You have chosen a fine day," he said. 
 
 "It happens so," she said. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "I am glad." 
 
 She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness. 
 
 "What have you been doing all morning?" asked Paul of Miriam. 
 
 "Well, you see," said Miriam, coughing huskily, "Clara only 
 came with father— and so— she's not been here very long." 
 
 Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her 
 hands were large, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed al- 
 most coarse, opaque, and white, with fine golden hairs. She did not 
 mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her 
 heavy arm lay negligently on the table. Her mouth was closed as 
 if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted. 
 
 "You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening," 
 he said to her. 
 
 Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 "Why," asked Miriam, "how do you know?" 
 
 "I went in for a few minutes before the train came," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 Clara turned away again rather disdainfully. 
 
 "I think she's a lovable little woman," said Paul. 
 
 "Margaret Bonford!" exclaimed Clara. "She's a great deal 
 cleverer than most men." 
 
 "Well, I didn't say she wasn't," he said, deprecating. "She's lova- 
 ble for all that." 
 
242 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "And, of course, that is all that matters," said Qara witheringly. 
 
 He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed. 
 
 "I suppose it matters more than her cleverness," he said; 
 "which, after all, would never get her to heaven." 
 
 "It's not heaven she wants to get— it's her fair share on earth," 
 retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some dep- 
 rivation which Miss Bonford suffered. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I thought she was warm, and awfully nice- 
 only too frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace — " 
 
 " 'Darning her husband's stockings,' " said Clara scathingly. 
 
 "I'm sure she wouldn't mmd darning even my stockings," he 
 said. "And I'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind 
 blacking her boots if she wanted me to." 
 
 But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam 
 for a little while. The other woman held aloof. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the 
 land?" 
 
 "I believe," said Miriam, "he's gone for a load of coal. He should 
 be back directly." 
 
 "Then," he said, "I'll go and meet hka." 
 
 Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He 
 rose and left them. 
 
 On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking 
 lazily beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as 
 she dragged the clanking load of coal. The yoimg farmer's face 
 lighted up as he saw his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, 
 warm eyes. His clothes were old and rather disreputable, and he 
 walked with considerable pride. 
 
 "Hello!" he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. "Where are you 
 going?" 
 
 "Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore'." 
 
 Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement. 
 
 "Who is 'Nevermore'?" he asked. 
 
 "The lady-Mrs. Dawes— it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that 
 quothed 'Nevermore'." 
 
 Edgar laughed with glee. 
 
 "Don't you like her?" he asked. 
 
 "Not a fat lot," said Paul. "Why, do you?" 
 
 "No!" The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. "No!" 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 243 
 
 Edgar pursed up his lips. "I can't say she's much in my line." He 
 mused a Uttle. Then: "But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Well," said Paul, "if she looks at a man she says haughtily 
 'Nevermore', and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says 
 disdainfully 'Nevermore', and if she thinks back she says it in dis- 
 gust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically." 
 
 Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, 
 and said, laughing: 
 
 "You think she's a man-hater?" 
 
 "She thinks she is," replied Paul. 
 
 "But you don't think so?" 
 
 "No," repUed Paul. 
 
 "Wasn't she nice with you, then?" 
 
 "Could you imagme her nice with anybody?" asked the young 
 man. 
 
 Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. 
 Paul was rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see 
 if she looked out of the window. She didn't look. 
 
 On Satiurday afternoons the horses were brushed down and 
 groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust 
 that came from the pelts of Jimmy and Flower. 
 
 "Do you know a new song to teach me?" said Edgar, 
 
 He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was 
 sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush 
 were thick. Paul watched him sometimes. 
 
 " 'Mary Morrison'?" suggested the yoimger. 
 
 Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn 
 all the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst 
 he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a 
 good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar re- 
 peated the line m a clear tenor. At times they both broke off 
 to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused Ms horse. 
 
 Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse thern— 
 even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so 
 thoroughly absorbed in a triviality. 
 
 It was tea-time when they had finished. 
 
 "What song was that?" asked Miriam. 
 
 Edgar told her. The conversation turned to smging. 
 
244 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "We have such jolly times," Miriam said to Qara. 
 
 Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever 
 the men were present she grew distant. 
 
 "Do you like smging?" Miriam asked her. 
 
 "If it is good," she said. 
 
 Paul, of course, coloured. 
 
 "You mean if it is high-class and tramed?" he said. 
 
 "I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything," 
 she said. 
 
 "You might as well insist on having people's voices trained be- 
 fore you allowed them to talk," he replied. "Really, people sing for 
 their own pleasure, as a rule." 
 
 "And it may be for other people's discomfort." 
 
 "Then the other people should have flaps to their ears," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply, and 
 ate in silence. 
 
 After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leivers said 
 to Qara: 
 
 "And you find life happier now?" 
 
 "Infinitely," 
 
 "And you are satisfied?" 
 
 "So long as I can be free and independent." 
 
 "And you don't miss anything in your Ufe?" asked Mrs. Leivers 
 gently. 
 
 "I've put all that behind me." 
 
 Paul had been feeUng uncomfortable during this discourse. He 
 got up. 
 
 "You'U find you're always tumbling over the things you've put 
 behind you," he said. Then he took his departure to the cow-sheds. 
 He felt he had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He 
 whistled as he went down the brick track. 
 
 Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with 
 Qara and her for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. 
 As they were going beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, 
 looking through the brake at the edge of the wood, where pink 
 campions glowed under a few sunbeams, they saw, beyond the 
 tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay 
 horse through the guUies. The big red beast seemed to dance 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 245 
 
 romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift, away there 
 where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among the 
 fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult. 
 
 The three stood charmed. 
 
 "What a treat to be a knight," he said, "and to have a pavilion 
 here." 
 
 "And to have us shut up safely?" replied Qara. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "singing with your maids at your broidery. 
 I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I 
 would have 'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a 
 woman rampant." 
 
 "I have no doubt," said Gara, "that you would much rather fight 
 for a woman than let her fight for herself." 
 
 "I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog be- 
 fore a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow." 
 
 "And you are the looking-glass?" she asked, with a curl of the 
 lip. 
 
 "Or the shadow," he replied. 
 
 "I am afraid," she said, "that you are too clever." 
 
 "Well, I leave it to you to be good," he retorted, laughing. "Be 
 good, sweet maid, and just let me be clever." 
 
 But Qara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he 
 saw that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. 
 His heart grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle 
 with Miriam, whom he had neglected till then. 
 
 At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of 
 forty, tenant of StreUey Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. 
 He held the halter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he 
 were tired. The three stood to let him pass over the stepping- 
 stones of the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal 
 should walk on such springy toes, with an endless excess of vigour. 
 Limb pulled up before them. 
 
 "Tell your father. Miss Leivers," he said, in a peculiar piping 
 voice, "that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fence three 
 days an' runnin'." 
 
 "Which?" asked Miriam, tremulous. 
 
 The great horse breathed heavUy, shifting round its red flanks, 
 and looking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from 
 under its lowered head and falling mane. 
 
246 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Come along a bit," replied Limb, "an' I'll show you." 
 
 The man and the staUion went forward. It danced sideways, 
 shaking its white fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself 
 in the brook. 
 
 "No hanky-pankyin'," said the man affectionately to the beast. 
 
 It went up tile bank in Utfle leaps, then splashed finely through 
 the second brook. Clara, walking witii a kind of sulky abandon, 
 watched it half-fasdnated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped 
 and pointed to the fence under some wUlows. 
 
 "There, you see where they got through," he said. "My man's 
 druv 'em back three times." 
 
 "Yes," answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault. 
 
 "Are you comin' in?" asked the man. 
 
 "No, tiianks; but we should like to go by the pond." 
 
 "Well, just as you've a mind," he said. 
 
 The horse gave Uttle whinneys of pleasure at being so near 
 home. 
 
 "He is glad to be back," said Clara, who was interested in the 
 creature. 
 
 "Yes— 'e's been a tidy step to-day." 
 
 They went through the gate, and saw approaching them from 
 the big farm-house a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of 
 about thirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes 
 looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her 
 brother went forward. As it saw her, the big bay stallion whin- 
 neyed 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, duckmg his 
 head. She smuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yeUow apple she 
 had been hiding behind her back, then she kissed him near the 
 eyes. He gave a big sigh of pleasure. She held his head in her arms 
 against her breast. 
 
 "Isn't he splendid!" said Miriam to her. 
 
 Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul, 
 
 "Oh, good-evening. Miss Leivers," she said. "It's ages since 
 you've been down." 
 
 Miriam introduced her friends. 
 
 "Your horse is a fine fellow!" said Qara. 
 
 "Isn't he!" Again she kissed him. "As loving as any man!" 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 247 
 
 "More loving than most men, I should think," replied Clara. 
 
 "He's a nice boy!" cried the woman, again embracing the horse. 
 
 Qara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck. 
 
 "He's quite gentle," said Miss Limb. "Don't you think big fel- 
 lows are?" 
 
 "He's a beauty!" replied Qara. 
 
 She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted Mm 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 commg in? Do come in, Mr.-I didn't catch it." 
 
 "Morel," said Miriam. "No, we won't come in, but we should 
 like to go by the miU-pond." 
 
 "Yes-yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?" 
 
 "No," said Paul. 
 
 "Because if you do you might come and fish any time," said Miss 
 Limb. "We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I 
 should be thankful." 
 
 "What fish are there in the pond?" he asked. 
 
 They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the 
 steep bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded 
 islets. Paul walked with Miss Limb. 
 
 "I shouldn't mind swimming here," he said. 
 
 "Do," she replied. "Come when you like. My brother will be 
 awfuUy pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is 
 no one to talk to. Do come and swim." 
 
 Clara came up. 
 
 "It's a fine depth," she said, "and so clear." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Limb. 
 
 "Do you swim?" said Paul. "Miss Limb was just saying we could 
 come when we liked." 
 
 "Of course there's the farm-hands," said Miss Limb. 
 
 They talked a few moments, then went on up the wUd hill, leav- 
 ing 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 imcomfortable," said Paul. 
 
 "You mean Miss Limb?" asked Miriam. "Yes." 
 
248 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "What's a matter with her? Is she going dotty with bemg too 
 lonely?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miriam. "It's not the right sort of life for her. I think 
 it's cruel to bury her there. / 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 otiier two were silent for a few moments. 
 
 "But it's the loneliness sends her cracked," said Paul. 
 
 Gara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walking 
 with her hand hanging, her legs swmgmg as she kicked through 
 the dead thistles and the tussocky grass, her arms hangmg loose. 
 Rather than walking, her handsome body seemed to be blimdering 
 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 catfle might have walked through had 
 there been any cattle now. There the turf was smooth as velveteen, 
 padded and holed by the rabbits. The field itself was coarse, and 
 crowded with tall, big cowslips that had never been cut. Clusters 
 of strong flowers rose everywhere above the coarse tussocks of 
 bent. It was Hke a roadstead crowded with tall, fairy shipping. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes 
 dilating. He smiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. 
 Clara, a little way off, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. 
 Paul and Miriam stayed close together, talking in subdued tones. 
 He kneeled on one knee, quickly gathering the best blossoms, 
 moving from tuft to tuft restlessly, talking softly all the tune. Mir- 
 iam plucked the flowers lovingly, lingering over them. He always 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 249 
 
 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 diem, he ate the Uttle yellow trumpets. Clara 
 was still wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he 
 said: 
 
 "Why don't you get some?" 
 
 "I don't believe in it. They look better growing." 
 
 "But you'd Uke 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 caU 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." 
 
 Qara now ignored him. 
 
 "And even so— what right have you to puU 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 Not- 
 tingham." 
 
 "And I should have the pleasure of watching them die." 
 
 "But then— it does not matter if they do die." 
 
 Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of 
 tangled flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, 
 luminous foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, 
 breathing some scent from the cowslips. 
 
 "I think," said Miriam, "if you treat them with reverence you 
 don't do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that mat- 
 ters." 
 
 "Yes," he said. "But no, you get 'em because you want 'em, 
 and that's all." He held out his bunch. 
 
 Miriam was silent. He picked some more. 
 
250 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "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, bend- 
 ing forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp 
 pang, such a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her 
 breasts swung slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back 
 was beautiful and strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without 
 knowing, he was scattering a handful of cowslips over her hair 
 and neck, saying: 
 
 "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. 
 If the Lord won't have you the devil must." 
 
 The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with 
 almost pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. 
 Flowers fell on her face, and she shut her eyes. 
 
 Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward. 
 
 "I thought you wanted a funeral," he said, ill at ease. 
 
 Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowsUps from 
 her hair. She took up her hat and pmned it on. One flower had re- 
 mained 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 fadmg 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 thmk 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?" 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 251 
 
 "How should I know?" she answered queerly. 
 
 The conversation ended there. 
 
 The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the vaUey 
 was full of shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at 
 Crossleigh Bank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of 
 the hiUs. Miriam came up slowly, her face in her big, loose bunch 
 of flowers, walking ankle-deep through the scattered froth of the 
 cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming into shape, all 
 shadow. 
 
 "Shall we go?" she asked. 
 
 And the three turned away. They were aU silent. Going down 
 the path they could see the light of home right across, and on the 
 ridge of the lull a thin dark outline with Httle lights, where the col- 
 liery village touched the sky. 
 
 "It has been nice, hasn't it?" he asked. 
 
 Miriam murmured assent. Clara was sUent. 
 
 "Don't you think so?" he persisted. 
 
 But she walked with her head up, and stiU 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 fraU. He had a momentary sensation 
 as if she were slippmg away from him. Then he wanted to get hold 
 of her, to fasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep 
 hold of her with his hand. 
 
 They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for 
 the cathedral. 
 
 "There she is, mother!" he cried. 
 
 They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain. 
 
 "Ah!" she exclaimed. "So she is!" 
 
 He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the 
 cathedral quietiy. 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 aU his young will he could not alter it. He 
 saw her face, the skin stiU fresh and pink and downy, but crow's- 
 feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, sinking a little, her mouth 
 
252 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 aU 
 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 alto- 
 gether." 
 
 "So she does!" exclaimed his mother, breaking bright into life 
 again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the 
 window at the cathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the 
 relentlessness of life. And the crow's-feet near her eyes, and her 
 mouth shut so hard, made him feel he would go mad. 
 
 They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant. 
 
 "Don't imagine I like it," she said, as she ate her cutlet. "I don't 
 like it, I really don't! Just think of your money wasted!" 
 
 "You never mind my money," he said. "You forget I'm a fel- 
 low 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 nothmg to do. Stand still!" 
 
 And in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her 
 coat. 
 
 "An old thing like me!" she said, sniffing. 
 
 "You see," he said, "I want people to think we're awful swells. 
 So look ikey." 
 
 "I'll jowl your head," she laughed. 
 
 "Strut!" he conmianded. "Be a fantaU pigeon." 
 
 It took him an hour to get her through the street. She stood 
 above Glory Hole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood every- 
 where, and exclaimed. 
 
 A man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her. 
 
 "Can I show you the town, madam?" 
 
 "No, thank you," she answered. "I've got my son." 
 
 Then Paul was cross with her for not answering with more 
 dignity. 
 
 "You go away with you!" she exclaimed. "Ha! that's the 
 Jew's House. Now, do you remember that lecture, Paul — ?" 
 
 But she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not 
 notice. Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her 
 into a little public-house, where she rested. 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 253 
 
 "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 ofi 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 for- 
 gotten 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 httle 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 aU the time he was wanting to rage and smash things 
 and cry. 
 
 Afterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking at 
 the town below, he blurted suddenly: 
 
 "Why can't a man have a young mother? What is she old for?" 
 
 "Well," his mother laughed, "she can scarcely help it." 
 
 "And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look— they say the young 
 ones have the advantage— but look, they had the young mother. 
 You should have had me for your eldest son." 
 
 "/ 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 tune," she replied, "I could have run up that lull 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 Ul, Little, 
 it is — " 
 
254 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "111!" she cried. "I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it, 
 that's all." 
 
 They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They 
 got jolly again over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the 
 boats, he told her about Clara. His mother asked him innumerable 
 questions. 
 
 "Then who does she live with?" 
 
 "With her mother, on Bluebell Hill." 
 
 "And have they enough to keep them?" 
 
 "I don't think so. I think they do lace work." 
 
 "And wherein lies her charm, my boy?" 
 
 "I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And 
 she seems straight, you know— not a bit deep, not a bit." 
 
 "But she's a good deal older than you." 
 
 "She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three." 
 
 "You haven't told me what you like her for." 
 
 "Because I don't know— a sort of defiant way she's got— a sort 
 of angry way." 
 
 Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her 
 son to fall in love with some woman who would— she did not know 
 what. But he fretted so, got so furious suddenly, and again was 
 melancholic. She wished he knew some nice woman — She did 
 not know what she wished, but left it vague. At any rate, she was 
 not hostile to the idea of Qara. 
 
 Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to 
 work in Birmingham. One week-end when he was home she had 
 said to him: 
 
 "You don't look very well, my lad." 
 
 "I dunno," he said. "I feel anyhow or nohow, ma." 
 
 He called her "ma" already in his boyish fashion. 
 
 "Are you sure they're good lodgings?" she asked, 
 
 "Yes— yes. Only— it's a winder when you have to pour yovi own 
 tea out— an' nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and 
 sup it up. It somehow takes a' the taste out of it." 
 
 Mrs. Morel laughed. 
 
 "And so it knocks you up?" she said. 
 
 "I dunno. I want to get married," he blurted, twisting his fingers 
 and looking down at his boots. There was a silence. 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 255 
 
 "But," she exclaimed, "I thought you said you'd wait another 
 year." 
 
 "Yes, I did say so," he replied stubbornly. 
 
 Again she considered. 
 
 "And you know," she said, "Annie's a bit of a spendthrift. 
 She's saved no more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you 
 haven't had much chance." 
 
 He coloured up to the ears. 
 
 "I've got thirty-three quid," he said. 
 
 "It doesn't go far," she answered. 
 
 He said nothing, but twisted his fingers. 
 
 "And you know," she said, "I've nothing — " 
 
 "I didn't want, ma!" he cried, very red, suffering and 
 remonstrating. 
 
 "No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take away 
 five pounds for the wedding and things— it leaves twenty-nine 
 pounds. You won't do much on that." 
 
 He twisted still, impotent, stubborn, not looking up. 
 
 "But do you really want to get married?" she asked. "Do you 
 feel as if you ought?" 
 
 He gave her one straight look from his blue eyes. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "Then," she repUed, "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 Armie to feel handicapped," he said, struggling. 
 
 "My lad," she said, "you're steady— you've got a decent place. 
 If a man had needed me I'd have married him on his last week's 
 wages. She may find it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls are 
 like that. They look forward to the fine home they think they'll 
 have. But / had expensive furniture. It's not everything." 
 
 So the wedding took place almost immediately. Arthur came 
 home, and was splendid in uniform. Annie looked nice in a dove- 
 grey dress that she could take for Sundays. Morel called her a fool 
 for gettmg married, and was cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Morel 
 had white tips in her bonnet, and some white on her blouse, and 
 was teased by both her sons for fancying herself so grand. Leonard 
 was jolly and cordial, and felt a fearful fool. Paul could not quite 
 see what Annie wanted to get married for. He was fond of her, and 
 she of him. Still, he hoped rather lugubriously that it would turn 
 
256 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 out all right. Arthur was astonishingly handsome in his scarlet and 
 yellow, and he knew it well, but was secretly ashamed of the 
 uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen, on leaving her 
 mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on the back and 
 said: 
 
 "But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you." 
 
 Morel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. 
 Leonard looked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him: 
 
 "I s'll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsible for 
 her." 
 
 "You can," he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And it was all 
 over. 
 
 When Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as he 
 often did, with his mother. 
 
 "You're not sorry she's married, mother, are you?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm not sorry she's married— but— it seems strange that she 
 should go from me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer 
 to go with her Leonard. That's how mothers are— I know it's 
 silly." 
 
 "And shall you be miserable about her?" 
 
 "When I think of my own wedding day," his mother answered, 
 "I can only hope her life will be different." 
 
 "But you can trust him to be good to her?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. They say he's not good enough for her. But I say if 
 a man is genuine, as he is, and a girl is fond of him— then— it should 
 be all right. He's as good as she." 
 
 "So you don't mind?" 
 
 "I would never have let a daughter of mine marry a man I 
 didn't feel to be genuine through and through. And yet, there's a 
 gap now she's gone." 
 
 They were both miserable, and wanted her back again. It 
 seemed to Paul his mother looked lonely, in her new black silk 
 blouse with its bit of white trimming. 
 
 "At any rate, mother, I s'U never marry," he said. 
 
 "Ay, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet. Only 
 wait a year or two." 
 
 "But I shan't marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we'll have 
 a servant." 
 
 "Ay, my lad, it's easy to talk. We'll see when the time comes." 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 257 
 
 "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'U see." 
 
 "But you don't want me to marry?" 
 
 "I shouldn't like to think of you going through your Ufe without 
 anybody to care for you and do— no." 
 
 "And you think I ought to marry?" 
 
 "Sooner or later every man ought." 
 
 "But you'd rather it were later." 
 
 "It would be hard— and very hard. It's as they say: 
 
 "'A son's my son till he takes him a wife, 
 But my daughter's my daughter the whole of her life.' " 
 
 "And you think I'd let a wife take me from you?" 
 
 "Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as 
 you," Mrs. Morel smiled. 
 
 "She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere." 
 
 "She wouldn't— till she'd got you— and then you'd see." 
 
 "I never will see. I'U 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 gomg to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'll 
 give you till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four. 
 Then I'll marry a staid body. See!" 
 
 His mother sat and laughed. 
 
 "Go to bed," she said-"go to bed." 
 
 "And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and 
 it'U be just all right. I s'U perhaps be rich with my painting." 
 
 "Will you go to bed!" 
 
 "And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself— a little 
 Queen Victoria trotting roimd." 
 
 "I tell you to go to bed," she laughed. 
 
 He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always 
 the same. 
 
 Mrs. Morel sat brooding— about her daughter, about Paul, about 
 Arthur. She fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely 
 
258 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 bound. And she felt she must live now, to be with her children. 
 Life was so rich for her. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. 
 Arthur never knew how deeply he loved her. He was a creature of 
 the moment. Never yet had he been forced to realise himself. The 
 army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. He was in perfect 
 health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat close to his 
 smaUish head. There was something childish about his nose, some- 
 thing almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the fuU 
 red mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was 
 strong. It was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her 
 own mother's people— good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. 
 Morel was anxious about him. Once he had really run the rig he 
 was safe. But how far would he go? 
 
 The army had not really done him any good. He resented bit- 
 terly 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 dis- 
 appointed. Yet he was restless. Something seemed to gnaw him 
 inside. He was never stUl, he was never alone. With his mother he 
 was rather humble. Paul he admired and loved and despised 
 sUghtly. And Paul admired and loved and despised him sUghtly. 
 
 Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and 
 she decided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. 
 Now he was Uke a lad taking a holiday. 
 
 He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his 
 furlough he picked up with her again. She was stronger and better 
 in health. The two often went long walks together, Arthur taking 
 her arm in soldier's fashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play 
 the piano whilst he sang. Then Arthur would unhook his tunic 
 collar. He grew flushed, his eyes were bright, he sang in a manly 
 tenor. Afterwards they sat together on the sofa. He seemed to 
 flaunt his body: she was aware of him so— the strong chest, the 
 sides, the thighs in their close-fitting trousers. 
 
 He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 259 
 
 would sometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she would only 
 take a few whiffs at his cigarette. 
 
 "Nay," he said to her one evening, when she reached for his 
 cigarette. "Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss if ter's a 
 mind." 
 
 "I wanted a whifiE, no kiss at all," she answered. 
 
 "Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff," he said, "along wi' t' kiss." 
 
 "I want a draw at thy fag," she cried, snatching for the cigarette 
 between his lips. 
 
 He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was small and 
 quick as Ughtning. He just escaped. 
 
 "I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss," he said. 
 
 "Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel," she said, sitting back. 
 
 "Ha'e a smoke kiss?" 
 
 The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near 
 hers. 
 
 "Shonna!" she replied, turning away her head. 
 
 He took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth, and 
 put his lips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustache stood 
 out like a brush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips, then 
 suddenly snatched the cigarette from his fingers and darted away. 
 He, leaping after her, seized the comb from her back hair. She 
 turned, threw the cigarette at him. He picked it up, put it ia his 
 mouth, and sat down. 
 
 "Nuisance!" she cried. "Give me my comb!" 
 
 She was afraid that her hair, specially done for him, would come 
 down. She stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb be- 
 tween his knees. 
 
 "I've non got it," he said. 
 
 The cigarette trembled between his Ups with laughter as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Liar!" she said. 
 
 " 'S true as I'm here!" he laughed, showing his hands. 
 
 "You brazen imp!" she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the 
 comb, which he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him, 
 pulling at his smooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till he lay 
 back on the sofa shaking with laughter. The cigarette fell from his 
 mouth almost singeing his throat. Under his delicate tan the blood 
 flushed up, and he laughed till his blue eyes were blinded, his 
 
260 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 throat swollen almost to choking. Then he sat up. Beatrice was 
 putting in her comb. 
 
 "Tha tickled me, Beat," he said thickly. 
 
 Like a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his 
 face. He started up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. 
 Slowly the flush mounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then 
 her head. He sat down sulkily. She went into the scuUery to adjust 
 her hak. 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 ruflBed hair, was sulking upon the sofa. 
 She sat down opposite, in the arm-chair, and neither spoke. The 
 clock ticked in the silence like blows. 
 
 "You are a little cat. Beat," he said at length, half apologetically. 
 
 "Well, you shouldn't be brazen," she replied. 
 
 There was agam a long silence. He whistled to himself like a 
 man much agitated but defiant. Suddenly she went across to him 
 and kissed him. 
 
 "Did it, pore fing!" she mocked. 
 
 He lifted his face, smiling curiously. 
 
 "Kiss?" he invited her. 
 
 "Daren't I?" she asked. 
 
 "Go on!" he challenged, his mouth lifted to her. 
 
 Deliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile that seemed to 
 overspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immedi- 
 ately his arms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss was 
 finished she drew back her head from him, put her deUcate 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 Amiie 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 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRUM 261 
 
 house, as if the birds had flown. Paul became more and more un- 
 settled. Annie and Arthur had gone. He was restless to follow. 
 Yet home was for him beside his mother. And still there was some- 
 thing else, something outside, something he wanted. 
 
 He grew more and more restless. Miriam did not satisfy him. 
 His old mad desire to be with her grew weaker. Sometimes he 
 met Clara in Nottingham, sometimes he went to meetings with 
 her, sometimes he saw her at Willey Farm. But on these last oc- 
 casions 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 aU 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 Ustened to 
 him, gave him all her love and her faith. It seemed to her he 
 brought her the best of himself to keep, and that she would guard 
 it all her life. Nay, the sky did not cherish the stars more surely 
 and eternally than she would guard the good in the soul of Paul 
 Morel. She went on home alone, feeling exalted, glad in her faith. 
 
 And then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have tea in 
 the hayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to gold and 
 shadow. And all the time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made 
 higher and higher heaps of hay that they were jumping over. 
 Miriam did not care for the game, and stood aside. Edgar and 
 Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Paul jumped. Paul won, be- 
 cause he was Ught. Qara'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, turmng to Edgar. "I didn't touch, did I? 
 Wasn't I clear?" 
 
262 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I couldn't say," laughed Edgar. 
 
 None of them could say. 
 
 "But you touched," said Paul. "You're beaten." 
 
 "I did not touch!" she cried. 
 
 "As plain as anything," said Paul. 
 
 "Box his ears for me!" she cried to Edgar. 
 
 "Nay," Edgar laughed. "I daren't. You must do it yourself." 
 
 "And nothing can alter the fact that you touched," laughed Paul. 
 
 She was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads 
 and men was gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he 
 was to hxraible her. 
 
 "I think you are despicable!" she said. 
 
 And again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam. 
 
 "And I knew you couldn't jump that heap," he teased. 
 
 She turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the 
 only person she listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he 
 of her. It pleased the men to see this battle between them. 
 But Miriam was tortured. 
 
 Paul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. 
 He could be unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul 
 Morel. There was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his run- 
 ning 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 triviahty with Clara. She walked in bit- 
 terness and silence, while the other two raUied 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 reUgious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because 
 it feels itself carried to where it's going, not because it thinks it is 
 bemg eternal." 
 
 But Miriam knew that one should be reUgious 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." 
 
DEFEAT OF MIRIAM 263 
 
 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 un- 
 faithful to her even in her own presence; then he was ashamed, 
 then repentant; then he hated her, and went ofE 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 mm. 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 aU our relations no 
 body enters. I do not talk to you through the senses— rather 
 through the spirit. That is why we cannot love in the common 
 sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet we are mortal, 
 and to live side by side with one another would be dreadful, for 
 somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be 
 always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people 
 marry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be 
 commonplace with each other without feeling awkward— not as 
 two souls. So I feel it. 
 
 "Ought I to send this letter?— I doubt it. But there— it is best to 
 understand. Au revoir." 
 
 Miriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A 
 year later she broke the seal to show her mother the letter. 
 "You are a nun— you are a nun." The words went into her heart 
 
264 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 again and again. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so 
 deeply, fixedly, Uke a mortal wound. 
 
 She answered him two days after the party. 
 
 " 'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little 
 mistake,' " she quoted. "Was the mistake mine?" 
 
 Almost immediately he repUed to her from Nottingham, send- 
 ing her at the same time a Uttle "Omar Khayyam". 
 
 "I am glad you answered; you are so cahn and natural you put 
 me to shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympadiy. 
 But in fundamentals we may always be together I think. 
 
 "I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and 
 drawing. Many a sketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to 
 your criticisms, which, to my shame and glory, are always grand 
 appreciations. It is a lovely joke, that. Au revoir." 
 
 This was the end of the first phase of Paul's love affair. He was 
 now about twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex 
 instinct that Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew 
 particularly strong. Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that 
 thickening and quickening of his blood, that peculiar concentra- 
 tion in the breast, as if something were alive there, a new self or a 
 new centre of consciousness, warning him that sooner or later he 
 would have to ask one woman or another. But he belonged to 
 Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed her right 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Clara 
 
 When he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to 
 the winter exhibition at Nottmgham 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. Rushmg 
 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. 
 
CLARA 265 
 
 "Why, mother!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then 
 waved the letter, crying: 
 
 "Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!" 
 
 He was afraid of her— the small, severe woman with greying 
 hair suddenly bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came run- 
 ning back, afraid something had happened. They saw his tipped 
 cap over the short curtains. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door. 
 
 "His picture's got first prize, Fred," she cried, "and is sold for 
 twenty guineas." 
 
 "My word, that's something like!" said the young postman, 
 whom they had known all his life. 
 
 "And Major Moreton has bought it!" she cried. 
 
 "It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel," said 
 the postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such 
 a lucky letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. 
 Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter, and might 
 be disappointed after all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he 
 became convinced it was true. Then he sat down, his heart beat- 
 ing with joy. 
 
 "Mother!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Didn't I say we should do it!" she said, pretending she was not 
 crying. 
 
 He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea. 
 
 "You didn't think, mother — " he began tentatively. 
 
 "No, my son— not so much— but I expected a good deal." 
 
 "But not so much," he said. 
 
 "No— no— but I knew we should do it," 
 
 And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. 
 He sat with his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost 
 like a girl's, and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet. 
 
 "Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buy 
 Arthur out. Now you needn't borrow any. It'U just do." 
 
 "Indeed, I shan't take it all," she said. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Because I shan't." 
 
 "WeU— you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine." 
 
 They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to 
 
266 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 take only the five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So 
 they got over the stress of emotion by quarrelling. 
 
 Morel came home at night from the pit, saying: 
 
 "They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold it to 
 Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound." 
 
 "Oh, what stories people do teU!" she cried. 
 
 "Ha!" he answered. "I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said 
 tha'd told Fred Hodgkisson." 
 
 "As if I would tell him such stuff!" 
 
 "Ha!" assented the miner. 
 
 But he was disappointed nevertheless. 
 
 "It's true he has got the first prize," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 The miner sat heavily in his chair. 
 
 "Has he, beguy!" he exclaimed. 
 
 He stared across the room fixedly. 
 
 "But as for fifty pounds— such nonsense!" She was silent awhile. 
 "Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true." 
 
 "Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!" exclaimed Morel. 
 
 "Yes, and it was worth it." 
 
 "Ay!" he said. "I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a 
 bit of a paintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!" 
 
 He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed, as if 
 it were nothing. 
 
 "And when does he handle th' money?" asked the collier. 
 
 "That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home, I 
 suppose." 
 
 There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead of 
 eating his dioner. His black arm, with the hand aU gnarled with 
 work lay on the table. His wife pretended not to see him rub the 
 back of his hand across his eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust on 
 his black face. 
 
 "Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadna ha' 
 kiUed 'un," he said quiefly. 
 
 The thought of WiUiam went through Mrs. Morel like a cold 
 blade. It left her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest. 
 
 Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said: 
 
 "Mother, I want an evening suit." 
 
 "Yes, I was afraid you would," she said. She was glad. There 
 was a moment or two of silence. "There's that one of William's," 
 
CLARA 267 
 
 she continued, "that I know cost four pounds ten and which he'd 
 only worn three times." 
 
 "Should you like me to wear it, mother?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes. I think it would fit you— at least the coat. The trousers 
 would want shortening." 
 
 He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, 
 he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with 
 an evening coat and vest. It was rather large. 
 
 "The tailor can make it right," she said, smoothing her hand 
 over his shoulder. "It's beautiful stuff. I never could find in my 
 heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now." 
 
 And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought 
 of her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. 
 She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and 
 hers. The other was dead. 
 
 He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had 
 been William's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with pride 
 and joy. He was started now. The studs she and the children had 
 bou^t for William were in his shirt-front; he wore one of Wil- 
 Uam's dress shirts. But he had an elegant figure. His face was 
 rough, but warm-looking and rather pleasing. He did not look 
 particularly a gentleman, but she thought he looked quite a man. 
 
 He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. 
 It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her 
 to these new friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening. 
 
 "Go along with you!" she said. "What do they want to know me 
 for?" 
 
 "They do!" he cried indignantly. "If they want to know me— 
 and they say they do— then they want to know you, because you 
 are quite as clever as I am." 
 
 "Go along with you, child!" she laughed. 
 
 But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled 
 now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles 
 rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep them out of 
 soda. She regretted what they had been— so small and exquisite. 
 And when Aimie 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 
 
268 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. Major Moreton, and far, 
 far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morel remained im- 
 changed, or rather, lapsed slowly. 
 
 Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Re- 
 ligion was fading into the background. He had shovelled away all 
 the beUefs that would hamper him, had cleared the groimd, and 
 come more or less to the bedrock of beUef that one should feel 
 inside oneself for right and wrong, and should have the patience to 
 gradually reaUse 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 be- 
 long 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 ratiier different." 
 
 "Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do 
 you mix with now— among the common people? Those that ex- 
 change 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 gjrl— 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 frettmg. He still 
 kept up his connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor 
 go the whole length of engagement. And this indecision seemed 
 to bleed him of his energy. Moreover, his mother suspected him 
 of an unrecognised leaning towards Clara, and, since the latter 
 
CLARA 269 
 
 was a married woman, she wished he would fall in love with one 
 of the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid, and would 
 refuse to love or even to admire a girl much, just because she was 
 his social superior. 
 
 "My boy," said his mother to him, "all your cleverness, your 
 breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands, 
 doesn't seem to bring you much happiness." 
 
 "What is happiness!" he cried. "It's nothing to me! How am 
 I to be happy?" 
 
 The plump question disturbed her. 
 
 "That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some 
 good woman who would make you happy— and you began to think 
 of settling your life— when you have the means— so that you could 
 work without all this fretting— it would be much better for you." 
 
 He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound 
 of Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hak off his forehead, his eyes 
 fuU of pain and fire. 
 
 "You mean easy, mother," he cried. "That's a woman's whole 
 doctrine for Ufe— ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do de- 
 spise it." 
 
 "Oh, do you!" replied his mother. "And do you call yours a 
 divine discontent?" 
 
 "Yes. I don't care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! 
 So long as Ufe's fuU, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. 
 I'm afraid your happiness would bore me." 
 
 "You never give it a chance," she said. Then suddenly all her 
 passion of grief over him broke out. "But it does matter!" she 
 cried. "And you ought to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, 
 to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn't 
 be a happy one!" 
 
 "Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left you so 
 much worse off than the folk who've been happier. I reckon you've 
 done well. And I am the same. Aren't I well enough off?" 
 
 "You're not, my son. Battle— battle— and suffer. It's about all you 
 do, as far as I can see." 
 
 "But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best — " 
 
 "It isn't. And one ought to be happy, one ought." 
 
 By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of 
 this kmd often took place between her and her son, when she 
 
270 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 seemed to fight for his very life against his own will to die. He took 
 her in his arms. She was ill and pitiful. 
 
 "Never mind, Little," he murmured. "So long as you don't feel 
 life's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, hap- 
 piness or unhappiness." 
 
 She pressed him to her. 
 
 "But I want you to be happy," she said pathetically, 
 
 "Eh, my dear— say rather you want me to live." 
 
 Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate 
 she knew he would not live. He had that poignant carelessness 
 about himself, his own suffering, his own life, which is a form of 
 slow suicide. It almost broke her heart. With all the passion of 
 her strong nature she hated Miriam for having in this subtle way 
 undermined his joy. It did not matter to her that Miriam could not 
 help it. Miriam did it, and she hated her. 
 
 She wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equal to be 
 his mate— educated and strong. But he would not look at anybody 
 above him in station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate 
 that feeUng 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 bom six months after his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job 
 under the firm again, at twenty-one shillings a week. She furnished 
 for him, with the help of Beatrice's mother, a litde 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 ahnost distracted when the 
 baby, which was delicate, cried or gave trouble. He grumbled for 
 hours to his mother. She only said: "WeU, my lad, you did it your- 
 self, 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 Not- 
 
CLARA 271 
 
 tingham, owing to his acquaintance with Qara. One day a friend of 
 his and of Qara's, in Bestwood, asked liini to take a message to 
 Mrs. Dawes. He went in the evening across Sneinton Market to 
 Bluebell Hill. He found the house in a mean little street paved 
 with granite cobbles and having causeways of dark blue, grooved 
 bricks. The front door went up a step from off this rough pave- 
 ment, 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 parlour, which opened on to the street. 
 It was a small, stuffy, defunct room, of mahogany, and deathly en- 
 largements of photographs of departed people done in carbon. 
 Mrs. Radford left him. She was stately, almost martial. In a moment 
 Qara appeared. She flushed deeply, and he was covered with con- 
 fusion. 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 in- 
 vited him out of the mausoleum of a parloiu" into the kitchen. 
 
 That was a Kttle, 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 moimtain 
 of lace web, piling the hearthrug. Threads of curly cotton, pulled 
 out from between the lengths of lace, strewed over the fender and 
 the fireplace. Paul dared not go forward, for fear of treadmg on 
 piles of white stuff. 
 
 On the table was a jenny for carding the lace. There was a pack 
 of brown cardboard squares, a pack of cards of lace, a little box 
 of pins, and on the sofa lay a heap of drawn lace. 
 
 The room was all lace, and it was so dark and warm that the 
 white, snowy stuff seemed the more distinct. 
 
 "If you're coming in you won't have to mind the work," said Mrs. 
 Radford. "I know we're about blocked up. But sit you down." 
 
 Clara, much embarrassed, gave him a chair against the wall op- 
 
272 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 posite the white heaps. Then she herself took her place on the 
 sofa, shamedly. 
 
 "Will you drink a bottle of stout?" Mrs. Radford asked. "Clara, 
 get him a bottle of stout." 
 
 He protested, but Mrs. Radford insisted. 
 
 "You look as if you could do with it," she said. "Haven't you 
 never any more colour than that?" 
 
 "It's only a thick skin I've got that doesn't show the blood 
 through," he answered. 
 
 Clara, ashamed and chagrined, brought him a bottle of stout 
 and a glass. He poured out some of the black stuff. 
 
 "Well," he said, lifting the glass, "here's health!" 
 
 "And thank you," said Mrs. Radford. 
 
 He took a drink of stout. 
 
 "And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don't set the house 
 on fire," said Mrs. Radford. 
 
 "Thank you," he repUed. 
 
 "Nay, you needn't thank me," she answered. "I s'U be glad to 
 smell a bit of smoke in th' 'ouse again. A house o' women is as 
 dead as a house wi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'm not a spider as Ukes 
 a comer 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 fuU of life beside the white lace; her large, well- 
 kept hands worked with a balanced movement, as if nothing would 
 hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her all the time. He saw the 
 arch of her neck from the shoulder, as she bent her head; he saw 
 the coil of dun hair; he watched her moving, gleaming arms. 
 
 "I've heard a bit about you from Clara," contmued the mother. 
 "You're in Jordan's, aren't you?" She drew her lace unceasing. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to 
 ask me for one of my tofBes." 
 
CLARA 273 
 
 "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 aU and gives naught, he is— or used to be." 
 
 "I thmk he's very decent," said Paul. 
 
 "Yes; well, I'm glad to hear it." 
 
 Mrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was some- 
 thing determined about her that he Uked. Her face was falling loose, 
 but her eyes were calm, and there was something strong in her that 
 made it seem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheeks 
 were an anachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a 
 woman in the prime of life. She continued drawing the lace with 
 slow, dignified movements. The big web came up inevitably over 
 her apron; the length of lace fell away at her side. Her arms were 
 finely shapen, but glossy and yellow as old ivory. They had not the 
 peculiar dull gleam that made Clara's so fascinating to him. 
 
 "And you've been going with Miriam Leivers?" the mother 
 asked him. 
 
 "WeU — " 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 Ufting his head in expectation. 
 
 "Do you like jennying?" he asked. 
 
 "What can a woman do!" she replied bitterly. 
 
 "Is it sweated?" 
 
 "More or less. Isn't all woman's work? That's another trick the 
 men have played, since we force ourselves into the labour market." 
 
 "Now then, you shut up about the men," said her mother. "If 
 the women wasn't fools, the men wouldn't be bad uns, that's what 
 I say. No man was ever that bad wi' me but what he got it back 
 again. Not but what they're a lousy lot, there's no denying it." 
 
 "But they're aU 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. 
 
274 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Yes, she would!" cried her mother; "thank her stars if she could 
 get back. Don't you listen to her. She's for ever on that 'igh horse 
 of hers, an' it's back's that thin an' starved it'll cut her i' two one 
 of these days." 
 
 Clara suffered badly from her mother. Paul felt as if his eyes 
 were coming very wide open. Wasn't he to take Clara's fulminations 
 so seriously, after all? She spun steadily at her work. He experi- 
 enced a thrill of joy, thinking she might need his help. She seemed 
 denied and deprived of so much. And her arm moved mechani- 
 cally, that should never have been subdued to a mechanism, and 
 her head was bowed to the lace, that never should have been 
 bowed. She seemed to be stranded there among the refuse that life 
 has thrown away, doing her jennying. It was a bitter thing to her to 
 be put aside by life, as if it had no use for her. No wonder she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 She came with him to the door. He stood below in the mean 
 street, looking up at her. So fine she was ui her stature and her bear- 
 ing, she reminded him of Juno dethroned. As she stood in the door- 
 way, she winced from the street, from her surroundings. 
 
 "And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall?" 
 
 He was talkmg quite meaninglessly, only watching her. Her grey 
 eyes at last met his. They looked dumb with humiliation, pleading 
 with a kind of captive misery. He was shaken and at a loss. He had 
 thought her high and mighty. 
 
 When he left her, he wanted to run. He went to the station in a 
 sort of dream, and was at home without realising he had moved out 
 of her street. 
 
 He had an idea that Susan, the overseer of the Spiral girls, was 
 about to be married. He asked her the next day. 
 
 "I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your gettmg married. What 
 about it?" 
 
 Susan flushed red. 
 
 "Who's been talkmg to you?" she replied. 
 
 "Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you were thinking — " 
 
 "Well, I am, though you needn't tell anybody. What's more, I 
 wish I wasn't!" 
 
 "Nay, Susan, you won't make me believe that." 
 
 "Shan't I? You can believe it, though. I'd rather stop here a 
 thousand times." 
 
CLARA 275 
 
 Paul was perturbed. 
 
 "Why, Susan?" 
 
 The girl's colour was high, and her eyes flashed. 
 
 "That's why!" 
 
 "And must you?" 
 
 For answer, she looked at him. There was about him a candour 
 and gentleness which made the women trust him. He understood. 
 
 "Ah, I'm sorry," he said. 
 
 Tears came to her eyes. 
 
 "But you'll see it'll turn out all right. You'll make the best of 
 it," he continued rather wistfully. 
 
 "There's nothing else for it." 
 
 "Yea, there's making the worst of it. Try and make it all right." 
 
 He soon made occasion to call again on Clara. 
 
 "Would you," he said, "care to come back to Jordan's?" 
 
 She put down her work, laid her beautiful arms on the table, and 
 looked at him for some moments without answering. Gradually the 
 flush mounted her cheek. 
 
 "Why?" she asked. 
 
 Paul felt rather awkward. 
 
 "Well, because Susan is thinking of leaving," he said. 
 
 Clara went on with her jennying. The white lace leaped in Uttle 
 jumps and bounds on to the card. He waited for her. Without rais- 
 ing her head, she said at last, in a pecuUar 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 wUl 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 earUer rule, and cordially disliked the mem- 
 ory. Clara had always been "ikey", reserved, and superior. She had 
 never mixed with the girls as one of themselves. If she had occa- 
 sion to find fault, she did it cooUy and with perfect politeness, 
 which the defaulter felt to be a bigger insult than crossness. To- 
 wards Fanny, the poor, overstrung hunchback, Clara was unfail- 
 ingly compassionate and gentle, as a result of which Fanny shed 
 
276 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 more bitter tears than ever the rough tongues of the other over- 
 seers had caused her. 
 
 There was something in Clara that Paul disliked, and much that 
 piqued him. If she were about, he always watched her strong throat 
 or her neck, upon which the blonde hair grew low and fluffy. There 
 was a fine down, almost invisible, upon the skm of her face and 
 arms, and when once he had perceived it, he saw it always. 
 
 When he was at his work, painting in the afternoon, she would 
 come and stand near to him, perfectly motionless. Then he felt 
 her, though she neither spoke nor touched him. Although she stood 
 a yard away he felt as if he were in contact with her. Then he could 
 paint no more. He flung down the brushes, and turned to talk to 
 her. 
 
 Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and 
 cold. 
 
 "You are affected in that piece," she would say; and, as there 
 was an element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled 
 with anger. 
 
 Again: "What of this?" he would ask enthusiastically. 
 
 "H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound. "It doesn't interest 
 me much." 
 
 "Because you don't understand it," he retorted. 
 
 "Then why ask me about it?" 
 
 "Because I thought you would imderstand." 
 
 She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She mad- 
 dened him. He was furious. Then he abused her, and went into pas- 
 sionate 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, hav- 
 mg had some of Miriam's passion to be instructed, had taught her- 
 self French, and could read m 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 Qara 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 
 
CLARA 277 
 
 her. She was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her his- 
 tory was open on the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden 
 from everybody. It was exciting. And then sometimes he caught her 
 looking at him from under her brows with an almost furtive, sullen 
 scrutiny, which made him move quickly. Often she met his eyes. 
 But then her own were, as it were, covered over, revealing nothing. 
 She gave him a little, lenient smile. She was to him extraordinarily 
 provocative, because of the knowledge she seemed to possess, and 
 gathered fruit of experience he could not attain. 
 
 One day he picked up a copy of Lettres de mon Moulin from 
 her work-bench. 
 
 "You read French, do you?" he cried. 
 
 Qara glanced roimd negligently. She was making an elastic 
 stocking of heUotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, 
 balanced regularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or 
 to adjust the needles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and 
 fine pencils of hair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. 
 She turned a few more rounds, and stopped. 
 
 "What did you say?" she asked, smiling sweetly. 
 
 Paul's eyes glittered at her insolent indifference to him. 
 
 "I did not know you read French," he said, very polite. 
 
 "Did you not?" she replied, with a faint, sarcastic smile. 
 
 "Rotten swank!" he said, but scarcely loud enough to be heard. 
 
 He shut his mouth angrily as he watched her. She seemed to 
 scorn the work she mechanically produced; yet the hose she made 
 were as nearly perfect as possible. 
 
 "You don't like Spiral work," he said. 
 
 "Oh, well, aU work is work," she answered, as if she knew all 
 about it. 
 
 He marvelled at her coldness. He had to do everything hotly. She 
 must be something special. 
 
 "What would you prefer to do?" he asked. 
 
 She laughed at him indulgently, as she said: 
 
 "There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice, that 
 I haven't wasted time considering." 
 
 "Pah!" he said, contemptuous on his side now. "You only say 
 that because you're too proud to own up what you want and can't 
 get." 
 
 "You know me very well," she replied coldly. 
 
278 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "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 Qara for?" He was rather annoyed 
 with himself, at the same time glad. "Serve her right; she stinks 
 with silent pride," he said to himself angrily. 
 
 In the afternoon he came down. There was a certain weight on 
 his heart which he wanted to remove. He thought to do it by offer- 
 ing her chocolates. 
 
 "Have one?" he said. "I bought a handful to sweeten me up." 
 
 To his great relief, she accepted. He sat on the work-bench be- 
 side her machine, twisting a piece of sUk round his finger. She 
 loved him for his quick, unexpected movements, like a young ani- 
 mal. 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. What- 
 ever I see you doing, you're not reaUy there; you are waiting- 
 like Penelope when she did her weaving." He could not help a 
 spurt of wickedness. "I'll call you Penelope," he said. 
 
 "Would it make any difference?" she said, carefully removing 
 one of her needles. 
 
 "That doesn't matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say, you 
 seem to forget I'm your boss. It just occurs to me." 
 
 "And what does that mean?" she asked coolly. 
 
 "It means I've got a right to boss you." 
 
 "Is there anything you want to complain about?" 
 
 "Oh, I say, you needn't be nasty," he said angrily. 
 
 "I don't know what you want," she said, continuing her task. 
 
 "I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully." 
 
 "Call you 'sir', perhaps?" she asked quietly. 
 
 "Yes, call me 'sir'. I should love it." 
 
 "Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir." 
 
CLARA 279 
 
 IDs mouth closed, and a frown came on his face. He jumped sud- 
 denly 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 laugh- 
 ing, 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 Qara's 
 machine. He left them. In the morning they were still there, and 
 Clara was at work. Later on Minnie, a Uttle brunette they called 
 Pussy, called to him: 
 
 "Hey, haven't you got a chocolate for anybody?" 
 
 "Sorry, Pussy," he replied. "I meant to have offered them; then 
 I went and forgot 'em." 
 
 "I think you did," she answered. 
 
 "I'll bring you some this afternoon. You don't want them after 
 they've been lying about, do you?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not particular," smiled Pussy. 
 
 "Oh no," he said. "They'll be dusty." 
 
 He went up to Clara's bench. 
 
 "Sorry I left these things Uttering about," he said. 
 
 She flushed scarlet. He gathered them together in his fist. 
 
 "They'll be dirty now," he said. "You should have taken them. 
 I wonder why you didn't. I meant to have told you I wanted you 
 to." 
 
 He flung them out of the window into the yard below. He just 
 glanced at her. She winced from his eyes. 
 
 In the afternoon he brought another packet. 
 
 "Win you take some?" he said, offering them first to Oara. 
 "These are fresh." 
 
 She accepted one, and put it on to the bench, 
 
 "Oh, take several— for luck," he said. 
 
 She took a couple more, and put them on the bench also. Then 
 she turned in confusion to her work. He went on up the room. 
 
 "Here you are, Pussy," he said. "Don't be greedy!" 
 
 "Are they all for her?" cried the others, rushing up. 
 
 "Of course they're not," he said. 
 
 The girls clamoured round. Pussy drew back from her mates. 
 
280 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Come out!" she cried. "I can have first pick, can't I, Paul?" 
 
 "Be nice with 'em," he said, and went away. 
 
 "You are a dear," the girls cried. 
 
 "Tenpence," he answered. 
 
 He went past Clara without speaking. She felt the three chocolate 
 creams would bum her if she touched them. It needed all her cour- 
 age to sUp them into the pocket of her apron. 
 
 The girls loved him and were afraid of him. He was so nice while 
 he was nice, but if he were offended, so distant, treating them as if 
 they scarcely existed, or not more than the bobbins of thread. And 
 then, if they were impudent, he said quietly: "Do you mind going 
 on with your work," and stood and watched. 
 
 When he celebrated his twenty-third birthday, the house was 
 in trouble. Arthur was just going to be married. His mother was 
 not well. His father, getting an old man, and lame from his acci- 
 dents, 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 direc- 
 tions. He was not glad it was his birthday. It made him bitter. 
 
 He got to work at eight o'clock. Most of the clerks had not 
 turned up. The girls were not due till 8.30. As he was changing his 
 coat, he heard a voice behind him say: 
 
 "Paul, Paul, I want you." 
 
 It was Fanny, the hunchback, standing at the top of her stairs, 
 her face radiant with a secret. Paul looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 "I want you," she said. 
 
 He stood, at a loss. 
 
 "Come on," she coaxed. "Come before you begin on the letters." 
 
 He went down the half-dozen steps into her dry, narrow, "finish- 
 ing-off" room. Fanny walked before him: her black bodice was 
 short— the waist was under her armpits— and her green-black cash- 
 mere skirt seemed very long, as she strode with big strides before 
 the yoimg man, himself so graceful. She went to her seat at 
 the narrow end of the room, where the window opened on to 
 chimney-pots. Paul watched her thin hands and her flat red wrists 
 as she excitedly twitched her white apron, which was spread on the 
 bench in front of her. She hesitated. 
 
 "You didn't think we'd forgot you?" she asked, reproachful, 
 
 "Why?" he asked. He had forgotten his birthday himself. 
 
CLARA 281 
 
 "'Why,' he says! 'Why!' Why, look here!" She pointed to the 
 calendar, and he saw, surrounding the big black number "21", 
 hundreds of little crosses in black-lead. 
 
 "Oh, kisses for my birthday," he laughed. "How did you know?" 
 
 "Yes, you want to know, don't you?" Fanny mocked, hugely de- 
 Ughted. "There's one from everybody— except Lady Clara— and two 
 from some. But I shan't tell you how many I put." 
 
 "Oh, I know, you're spooney," he said. 
 
 "There you cere mistaken!" she cried, indignant. "I could never 
 be so soft." Her voice was strong and contralto. 
 
 "You always pretend to be such a hard-hearted hussy," he 
 laughed. "And you know you're as sentimental — " 
 
 "I'd rather be called sentimental than frozen meat," Fanny 
 blurted. Paul knew she referred to Clara, and he smiled. 
 
 "Do you say such nasty things about me?" he laughed. 
 
 "No, my duck," the hunchback woman answered, lavishly ten- 
 der. 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 dehghted her. 
 
 "Why, we're not better than one another, are we?" he replied. 
 
 "But I'm as good as you, aren't I, Paul?" she persisted daringly. 
 
 "Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you're better." 
 
 She was rather afraid of the situation. She might get hysterical. 
 
 "I thought I'd get here before the others— won't they say I'm 
 deep! Now shut your eyes — " she said. 
 
 "And open your mouth, and see what God sends you," he con- 
 tinued, suiting action to words, and expecting a piece of chocolate. 
 He heard the rustle of the apron, and a faint cUnk 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 httle bundle of paint- 
 tubes on the bench before him. He turned pale. 
 
 "No, Fanny," he said quickly. 
 
 "From us aU," she answered hastily. 
 
 "No, but — " 
 
 "Are they the right sort?" she asked, rocking herseK with delight. 
 
 "Jove! they're the best in the catalogue." 
 
 "But they're the rigjit sorts?" she cried. 
 
282 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "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 conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "They was all on thorns to do it; they all paid their shares, all 
 except title Queen of Sheba." 
 
 The Queen of Sheba was Clara. 
 
 "And wouldn't she join?" Paul asked. 
 
 "She didn't get the chance; we never told her; we wasn't going 
 to have her bossing this show. We didn't want her to join." 
 
 Paul laughed at the woman. He was much* moved. At last he 
 must go. She was very close to him. Suddenly she flung her arms 
 round his neck and kissed him vehemently. 
 
 "I can give you a kiss to-day," she said apologetically. "You've 
 looked so white, it's made my heart ache." 
 
 Paul kissed her, and left her. Her arms were so pitifully thm that 
 his heart ached also. 
 
 That day he met Clara as he ran downstairs to wash his hands 
 at dinner-time. 
 
 "You have stayed to dinner!" he exclaimed. It was unusual for 
 her. 
 
 "Yes; and I seem to have dined on old surgical-appliance stock. 
 I must go out now, or I shall feel stale india-rubber right through." 
 
 She lingered. He instantly caught at her wish. 
 
 "You are going anywhere?" he asked. 
 
 They went together up to the Castle. Outdoors she dressed very 
 plainly, down to ugliness; indoors she always looked nice. She 
 walked with hesitating steps alongside Paul, bowing and turning 
 away from him. Dowdy in dress, and drooping, she showed to great 
 disadvantage. He could scarcely recognise her strong form, that 
 seemed to slumber with power. She appeared almost insignificant, 
 drowning her stature in her stoop, as she shrank from the public 
 gaze. 
 
 The Castle grounds were very green and fresh. Oimbmg the 
 precipitous ascent, he laughed and chattered, but she was silent, 
 seeming to brood over something. There was scarcely time to go 
 inside the squat, square building diat crowns the bluff of rock. They 
 leaned upon the wall where the cliff runs sheer down to the Park. 
 Below them, in their holes in the sandstone, pigeons preened them- 
 
CLARA 283 
 
 selves and cooed softly. Away down upon the boulevard at the foot 
 of the rock, tiny trees stood m 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 propor- 
 tionately. The trees are much more significant." 
 
 "Bulk only," he said. 
 
 She laughed cynically. 
 
 Away beyond the boulevard the thin stripes of the metals 
 showed upon the railway-track, whose margin was crowded with 
 little stacks of timber, beside which smoking toy engines fussed. 
 Then the silver string of the canal lay at random among the black 
 heaps. Beyond, the dwellings, very dense on the river flat, looked 
 like black, poisonous herbage, in thick rows and crowded beds, 
 stretching right away, broken now and then by taller plants, right 
 to where the river glistened in a hieroglyph across the country. The 
 steep scarp cliffs across the river looked puny. Great stretches of 
 country darkened with trees and faintly brightened with corn-land, 
 spread towards the haze, where the hills rose blue beyond grey. 
 
 "It is comforting," said Mrs. Dawes, "to think the town goes no 
 farther. It is only a little sore upon the coimtry yet." 
 
 "A Uttle scab," Paul said. 
 
 She shivered. She loathed the town. Looking drearily across at 
 the country which was forbidden her, her impassive face, pale and 
 hostile, she reminded Paul of one of the bitter, remorseful angels. 
 
 "But the town's all right," he said; "it's only temporary. This is 
 the crude, clumsy make-shift we've practised on, till we find out 
 what the idea is. The town will come all right." 
 
 The pigeons in the pockets of rock, among the perched bushes, 
 cooed comfortably. To the left the large church of St. Mary rose 
 into space, to keep close company with the Castle, above the 
 heaped rubble of the town. Mrs. Dawes smiled brightly as she 
 looked across the country. 
 
 "I feel better," she said. 
 
 "Thank you," he replied. "Great compliment!" 
 
 "Oh, my brother!" she laughed. 
 
284 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "H'm! that's snatching back with the left hand what you gave 
 with the right, and no mistake," he said. 
 
 She laughed in amusement at him. 
 
 "But what was the matter with you?" he asked. "I know you 
 were brooding something special. I can see the stamp of it on your 
 face yet." 
 
 "I think I will not tell you," she said. 
 
 "All right, hug it," he answered. 
 
 She flushed and bit her lip, 
 
 "No," she said, "it was the girls." 
 
 "What about 'em?" Paul asked. 
 
 "They have been plotting something for a week now, and to- 
 day they seem particularly full of it. All alike; they insult me with 
 thek 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, brood- 
 ing bitterly; "but they might refrain from glorying in them, and 
 makmg me feel more out of it than ever. It is— it is almost unbear- 
 able," 
 
 Paul thought for a few minutes. He was much perturbed. 
 
 "I will tell you what it's all about," he said, pale and nervous. 
 "It's my birthday, and they've bought me a fine lot of paints, all 
 the girls. They're jealous of you"— he felt her stiffen coldly at the 
 word "jealous"— "merely because I sometimes bring you a book," 
 he added slowly. "But, you see, it's only a trifle. Don't bother about 
 it, win 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 
 
CLARA 285 
 
 his hands were small and vigorous. Hers were large, to match her 
 large limbs, but white and powerful looking. As Paul looked at 
 them he knew her. "She is wanting somebody to take her hands— 
 for all she is so contemptuous of us," he said to himself. And she 
 saw nothing but his two hands, so warm and alive, which seemed 
 to live for her. He was brooding now, staring out over the country 
 from under suUen brows. The little, interesting diversity of shapes 
 had vanished from the scene; all that remamed was a vast, dark 
 matrix of sorrow and tragedy, the same in all the houses and the 
 river-flats and the people and the birds; they were only shapen dif- 
 ferently. And now that the forms seemed to have melted away, 
 there remained the mass from which all the landscape was com- 
 posed, a dark mass of struggle and pain. The factory, the girls, his 
 mother, the large, upUfted 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 indi- 
 viduaUty, its forgetfuhiess, and its cheerfulness. 
 
 They hurried back to work. 
 
 When he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post, ex- 
 aminmg the work up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing, 
 the evening postman came in. 
 
 " 'Mr. Paul Morel,' " he said, smiling, handmg Paul a package. 
 "A lady's handwriting! Don't let the girls see it." 
 
 The postman, himself a favoiurite, was pleased to make fun of 
 the girls' affection for Paxil. 
 
 It was a volume of verse with a brief note: "You will allow me 
 to send you this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathise 
 and wish you weU.— CD." Paul flushed hot. 
 
 "Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord, who 
 ever'd have thought it!" 
 
 He was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmth 
 of her. In the glow he could almost feel her as if she were present— 
 her arms, her shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them, almost 
 contain them. 
 
 This move on the part of Clara brought them into closer inti- 
 macy. 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 
 
286 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 im- 
 aware of the state of his own feeling, and that nothing was wrong. 
 He talked to her now with some of the old fervour with which he 
 had talked to Miriam, but he cared less about the talk; he did not 
 bother about his conclusions. 
 
 One day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly 
 they came to a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate, 
 she sat on the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still, with a dim 
 haze, and yellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet. 
 
 "How old were you when you married?" he asked quiedy. 
 
 "Twenty-two." 
 
 Her voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would teU him 
 now. 
 
 "It is eight years ago?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And when did you leave him?" 
 
 "Three years ago." 
 
 "Five years! Did you love him when you married him?" 
 
 She was silent for some time; then she said slowly: 
 
 "I thought I did— more or less. I didn't think much about it. And 
 he wanted me. I was very prudish then." 
 
 "And you sort of walked into it without thinking?" 
 
 "Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life." 
 
 "Somnambule? But— when did you wake up?" 
 
 "I don't know that I ever did, or ever have— since I was a child." 
 
 "You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! 
 And he didn't wake you?" 
 
 "No; he never got there," she replied, in a monotone. 
 
 The brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hips 
 stood naked and scarlet. 
 
 "Got where?" he asked. 
 
 "At me. He never really mattered to me." 
 
 The afternoon was so gently warm and dim. Red roofs of the 
 cottages burned among the blue haze. He loved the day. He could 
 feel, but he could not understand, what Clara was saying. 
 
 "But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?" 
 
CLARA 287 
 
 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 ran, as if I was 
 fastened and boimd 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 bratal— 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. Sud- 
 denly Paul jumped down. 
 
 "Come on," he said. "Let's go and get some tea." 
 
 They found a cottage, where they sat in the cold parlour. She 
 poured out his tea. She was very quiet. He felt she had withdrawn 
 again from him. After tea, she stared broodiagly 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. Tha 
 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. 
 
288 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 But she was a married woman, and he believed in simple friend- 
 ship. 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 compHcated in him that he would have denied that he ever 
 could want Clara or Miriam or any woman whom he knew. Sex 
 desire was a sort of detached thing, that did not belong to a woman. 
 He loved Miriam with his soul. He grew warm at the thought of 
 Clara, he battled with her, he knew the curves of her breast and 
 shoulders as if they had been moulded inside him; and yet he did 
 not positively desire her. He would have denied it for ever. He be- 
 lieved himself really bound to Miriam. If ever he should marry, 
 some time in the far future, it would be his duty to marry Miriam, 
 That he gave Clara to understand, and she said nothing, but left 
 him to his courses. He came to her, Mrs. Dawes, whenever he 
 could. Then he wrote frequently to Miriam, and visited the girl oc- 
 casionally. 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 Uttle of each other; but they always came together agam. 
 
 "Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?" he asked her. It was a 
 thing that seemed to trouble him. 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. But weren't you horrid with him? Didn't 
 you do something that knocked him to pieces?" 
 
CLARA 289 
 
 "What, pray?" 
 
 "Making him feel as if he were nothing— 7 know," Paul declared. 
 
 "You are so clever, my friend," she said coolly. 
 
 The conversation broke off there. But it made her cool with him 
 for some time. 
 
 She very rarely saw Miriam now. The friendship between the 
 two women was not broken off, but considerably weakened. 
 
 "Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?" Clara 
 asked him just after Christmas. 
 
 "I promised to go up to Willey Farm," he replied. 
 
 "Oh, very well." 
 
 "You don't mind, do you?" he asked. 
 
 "Why should I?" she answered. 
 
 Which almost annoyed him. 
 
 "You know," he said, "Miriam and I have been a lot to each 
 other ever since I was sixteen— that's seven years now." 
 
 "It's a long time," Clara repHed. 
 
 "Yes; but somehow she— it doesn't go rigjit — " 
 
 "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, Uke me and you." 
 
 "Yes; I should love her better then. She sort of wants me so 
 much that I can't give myself." 
 
 "Wants you how?" 
 
 "Wants the soul out of my body. I can't help shrinking back 
 from her." 
 
 "And yet you love her!" 
 
 "No, I don't love her. I never even kiss her." 
 
 "Why not?" Clara asked. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I suppose you're afraid," she said. 
 
 "I'm not. Something in me shrinks from her like hell— she's so 
 good, when I'm not good." 
 
 "How do you know what she is?" 
 
290 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I do! I know she wants a sort of soul union." 
 "But how do you know what she wants?" 
 "I've been with her for seven years." 
 "And you haven't found out the very first thing about her." 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "That she doesn't want any of your soul communion. That's your 
 own imagination. She wants you." 
 
 He pondered over this. Perhaps he was wrong. 
 "But she seems — " he began. 
 "You've never tried " she answered. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Test on Miriam 
 
 With the spring came again the old madness and battle. Now he 
 knew he would have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? 
 He told himself it was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and 
 him which neither could break through. He might have married 
 her; but his circumstances at home made it difficult, and, more- 
 over, he did not want to marry. Marriage was for life, and because 
 they had become close companions, he and she, he did not see that 
 it should inevitably foUow they should be man and wife. He did 
 not feel that he wanted marriage with Miriam. He wished he did. 
 He would have given his head to have felt a joyous desire to marry 
 her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? There was 
 some obstacle; and what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical 
 bondage. He shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her 
 he felt bound up inside himself. He could not go out to her. Some- 
 thing struggled in him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved 
 him. Clara said she even wanted him; then why couldn't he go to 
 her, make love to her, kiss her? Why, when she put her arm in his, 
 timidly, as they walked, did he feel he would burst forth in brutality 
 and recoil? He owed himself to her; he wanted to belong to her. 
 Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking from her was love in its first 
 fierce modesty. He had no aversion for her. No, it was the opposite; 
 it was a strong desire battling with a still stronger shyness and vir- 
 ginity. It seemed as if virgmity were a positive force, which fought 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 291 
 
 and won in both of them. And with her he felt it so hard to over- 
 come; yet he was nearest to her, and with her alone could he deUb- 
 erately break through. And he owed himself to her. Then, if they 
 could get things right, they could marry; but he would not marry 
 imless he could feel strong in the joy of it— never. He could not have 
 faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself in a 
 marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all 
 his life, make it a nullity. He would try what he could do. 
 
 And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, 
 dreaming her reUgion; and he was nearly a reUgion to her. He could 
 not bear to fail her. It would all come right if they tried. 
 
 He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were 
 like himself, bound in by their own virginity, which they could 
 not break out of. They were so sensitive to their women that they 
 would go without them for ever rather than do them a hurt, an 
 injustice. Being the sons of mothers whose husbands had blun- 
 dered rather brutally through their feminine sanctities, they were 
 themselves too difl&dent and shy. They could easier deny them- 
 selves than incur any reproach from a woman; for a woman was 
 like their mother, and they were full of the sense of their mother. 
 They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of ceKbacy, rather 
 than risk the other person. 
 
 He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, 
 brought the tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her 
 as she sang. Annie was playing a song on the piano. As Miriam 
 sang her mouth seemed hopeless. She sang like a nun singing to 
 heaven. It reminded him so much of the mouth and eyes of one 
 who smgs beside a Botticelli Madonna, so spiritual. Again, hot as 
 steel, came up the pain in him. Why must he ask her for the other 
 thing? Why was there his blood battling with her? If only he could 
 have been always gentle, tender with her, breathiag with her the 
 atmosphere of reverie and reUgious dreams, he would give his 
 right hand. It was not fair to hurt her. There seemed an eternal 
 maidenhood about her; and when he thought of her mother, he 
 saw the great brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and 
 shocked out of her virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of 
 her seven children. They had been bom almost leaving her out of 
 count, not of her, but upon her. So she could never let them go, 
 because she never had possessed them. 
 
292 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Mrs. Morel saw him going again frequently to Miriam, and was 
 astonished. He said nothing to his mother. He did not explain nor 
 excuse himself. If he came home late, and she reproached him, he 
 frowned and turned on her in an overbearing way; 
 
 "I shall come home when I like," he said; "I am old enough." 
 
 "Must she keep you till this time?" 
 
 "It is I who stay," he answered. 
 
 "And she lets you? But very well," she said. 
 
 And she went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for him; but 
 she lay listening imtil he came, often long after. It was a great bit- 
 terness to her that he had gone back to Miriam. She recognised, 
 however, the uselessness of any further interference. He went to 
 Willey Farm as a man now, not as a youth. She had no right over 
 him. There was a coldness between him and her. He hardly told 
 her anything. Discarded, she waited on him, cooked for him still, 
 and loved to slave for him; but her face closed again like a mask. 
 There was nothing for her to do now but the housework; for all the 
 rest he had gone to Miriam. She could not forgive him. Miriam 
 killed the joy and the warmth in him. He had been such a jolly lad, 
 and fuU of the warmest affection; now he grew colder, more and 
 more irritable and gloomy. It reminded her of William; but Paul 
 was worse. He did things with more intensity, and more realisation 
 of what he was about. His mother knew how he was suffering for 
 want of a woman, and she saw him going to Miriam. If he had 
 made up his mind, nothing on earth would alter him. Mrs. Morel 
 was tired. She began to give up at last; she had finished. She was 
 in the way. 
 
 He went on determinedly. He realised more or less what his 
 mother felt. It only hardened his soul. He made himself callous 
 towards her; but it was like being callous to his own health. It un- 
 dermined him quickly; yet he persisted. 
 
 He lay back in the rocking-chair at Willey Farm one evening. 
 He had been talking to Miriam for some weeks, but had not come 
 to the point. Now he said suddenly: 
 
 "I am twenty-four, almost." 
 
 She had been brooding. She looked up at him suddenly in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Yes. What makes you say it?" 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 293 
 
 There was something in the charged atmosphere that she 
 dreaded. 
 
 "Sir Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four." 
 
 She laughed quamtly, saying: 
 
 "Does it need Sir Thomas More's sanction?" 
 
 ''No; but one ought to marry about then." 
 
 "Ay," she answered broodingly; and she waited. 
 
 "I can't marry you," he continued slowly, "not now, because 
 we've no money, and they depend on me at home." 
 
 She sat half-guessing what was coming. 
 
 "But I want to marry now — " 
 
 "You want to marry?" she repeated. 
 
 "A woman— you know what I mean." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "Now, at last, I must," he said. 
 
 "Ay," she answered. 
 
 "And you love me?" 
 
 She laughed bitterly. 
 
 "Why are you ashamed of it," he answered. "You wouldn't be 
 ashamed before your God, why are you before people?" 
 
 "Nay," she answered deeply, "I am not ashamed." 
 
 "You are," he replied bitterly; "and it's my fault. But you know 
 I can't help being— as I am— don't you?" 
 
 "I know you can't help it," she replied. 
 
 "I love you an awful lot— then there is something short." 
 
 "Where?" she answered, looking at him. 
 
 "Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed— like a spiritual 
 cripple. And I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied Miriam. 
 
 "And I don't know," he repeated. "Don't you think we have 
 been too fierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that 
 to be so much afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness?" 
 
 She looked at him with startled dark eyes. 
 
 "You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the 
 motion from you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse." 
 
 There was silence in the room for some time. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "it is so." 
 
 "There is between us," he said, "all these years of intimacy. I 
 feel naked enough before you. Do you understand?" 
 
294 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I think so," she answered. 
 
 "And you love me?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Don't be bitter," he pleaded. 
 
 She looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were dark 
 with torture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have 
 this deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly 
 mated. He was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find 
 a way out. He might do as he Uked, and have what he Uked of her. 
 
 "Nay," she said softly, "I am not bitter." 
 
 She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for 
 him. She put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his 
 chair. He took it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was 
 putting himself aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which 
 felt more Uke nullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, 
 when it would drive her away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet 
 slowly he drew her to him and kissed her. 
 
 They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she 
 kissed him, she watched his eyes; they were staring across the 
 room, with a peculiar dark blaze in them that fascinated her. He 
 was perfectly still. She could feel his heart throbbing heavily in his 
 breast. 
 
 "What are you thinking about?" she asked. 
 
 The blaze in his eyes shuddered, became uncertain. 
 
 "I was thinking, aU the while, I love you. I have been obstinate." 
 
 She sank her head on his breast. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "That's all," he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouth 
 was kissing her throat. 
 
 Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her fuU 
 gaze of love. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from 
 her, and then was quenched. He tinned his head quickly aside. It 
 was a moment of anguish. 
 
 "Kiss me," she whispered. 
 
 He shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer 
 and closer. 
 
 When she walked home with him over the fields, he said: 
 
 "I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you— as if 
 there was nothing to hide. We will be happy?" 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 295 
 
 "Yes," she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes. 
 
 "Some sort of perversity in our souls," he said, "makes us not 
 want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight 
 against that." 
 
 "Yes," she said, and she feh stunned. 
 
 As she stood under the drooping-thom tree, in the darkness by 
 the roadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her 
 face. In the darkness, where he could not see her but only feel 
 her, his passion flooded him. He clasped her very close. 
 
 "Sometime you will have me?" he murmured, hiding his face 
 on her shoulder. It was so difficult. 
 
 "Not now," she said. 
 
 His hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 His clasp of her slackened. 
 
 "I love to feel your arm there!" she said, pressing his arm against 
 her back, where it went round her waist. "It rests me so." 
 
 He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back 
 to rest her. 
 
 "We belong to each other," he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether?" 
 
 "But — " she faltered. 
 
 "I know it's a lot to ask," he said; "but there's not much risk for 
 you really— not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?" 
 
 "Oh, I can trust you." The answer came quick and strong. "It's 
 not that-it's not that at ail-but — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 She hid her face m his neck with a little cry of misery. 
 
 "I don't know!" she cried. 
 
 She seemed slightly hysterical, but with a sort of horror. His 
 heart died ia him. 
 
 "You don't thmk it ugly?" he asked. 
 
 "No, not now. You have taught me it isn't." 
 
 "You are afraid?" 
 
 She calmed herself hastily. 
 
 "Yes, I am only afraid," she said. 
 
 He kissed her tenderly. 
 
 "Never mmd," he said. "You should please yourself." 
 
296 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Suddenly she gripped his arms round her, and clenched her 
 body stiff. 
 
 "You shall have me," she said, through her shut teeth. 
 
 His heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close, and his 
 mouth was on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. 
 He disengaged her. 
 
 "Won't you be late?" she asked gently. 
 
 He sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited, wishing 
 he would go. At last he kissed her quickly and climbed the fence. 
 Looking roxmd he saw the pale blotch of her face down in the 
 darkness under the hanging tree. There was no more of her but this 
 pale blotch. 
 
 "Good-bye!" she called softly. She had no body, only a voice 
 and a dim face. He turned away and ran down the road, his fists 
 clenched; and when he came to the wall over the lake he leaned 
 there, almost stunned, looking up the black water. 
 
 Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid 
 of people, what they might say; but she dreaded the issue with 
 him. Yes, she would let him have her if he insisted; and then, 
 when she thought of it afterwards, her heart went down. He would 
 be disappointed, he would find no satisfaction, and then he would 
 go away. Yet he was so insistent; and over this, which did not 
 seem so all-important to her, was their love to break down. After 
 aU, he was only like other men, seeking his satisfaction. Oh, but 
 there was something more in him, somethmg deeper! She could 
 trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession was a great 
 moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there. Perhaps 
 it was so. There was something divine in it; then she would submit, 
 religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And at the thought 
 her whole body clenched itself involuntarily, hard, as if against 
 something; but Life forced her through this gate of suffering, too, 
 and she would submit. At any rate, it would give him what he 
 wanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded 
 and brooded herself towards accepting him. 
 
 He courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot, she 
 put his face from her, held it between her hands, and looked in his 
 eyes. He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love, ear- 
 nest and searching, made him turn away. Not for an instant would 
 she let him forget. Back again he had to torture himself into a sense 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 297 
 
 of his responsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leav- 
 ing himself to the great hunger and impersonality of passion; he 
 must be brought back to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if 
 from a swoon of passion she called him back to the littleness, the 
 personal relationship. He could not bear it. "Leave me alone- 
 leave me alone!" he wanted to cry; but she wanted him to look at 
 her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full of the dark, impersonal fire 
 of desire, did not belong to her. 
 
 There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at the 
 back of the house, very large and taU, hung thick with scarlet and 
 crimson drops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gather- 
 ing the fruit one evening. It had been a hot day, and now the 
 clouds were rolling in the sky, dark and warm. Paul climbed high 
 in the tree, above the scarlet roofs of the buildings. The wind, 
 moaning steadily, made the whole tree rock with a subtle, thrilling 
 motion that stirred the blood. The young man, perched insecurely 
 in the slender branches, rocked till he felt slightly drunk, reached 
 down the boughs, where the scarlet beady cherries hung thick un- 
 derneath, and tore off handful after handful of the sleek, cool- 
 fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck as he 
 stretched forward, their chill finger-tips sending a flash down his 
 blood. All shades of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crim- 
 son, glowed and met his eyes under a darkness of leaves. 
 
 The sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Im- 
 mense piles of gold flared out in the south-east, heaped in soft, 
 glowing yellow right up the sky. The world, till now dusk and grey, 
 reflected the gold glow, astonished. Everywhere the trees, and 
 the grass, and the far-off water, seemed roused from the twilight 
 and s hinin g. 
 
 Miriam came out wondering. 
 
 "Oh!" Paul heard her mellow voice call, "isn't it wonderful?" 
 
 He looked down. There was a faint gold glimmer on her face, 
 that looked very soft, turned up to him. 
 
 "How high you are!" she said. 
 
 Beside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds, thieves 
 that had been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hanging quite 
 bleached, like skeletons, picked clear of flesh. He looked down 
 again to Miriam. 
 
 "Clouds are on fire," he said. 
 
298 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Beautiful!" she cried. 
 
 She seemed so small, so soft, so tender, down there. He threw 
 a handful of cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He 
 laughed with a low, chuckUng sound, and pelted her. She ran for 
 shelter, picking up some cherries. Two fine red pairs she hung over 
 her ears; then she looked up again. 
 
 "Haven't you got enough?" she asked. 
 
 "Nearly. It is like being on a ship up here." 
 
 "And how long wiU you stay?" 
 
 "While the sunset lasts." 
 
 She went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds 
 fall to pieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the 
 darkness. Gold flamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. 
 Then the scarlet sank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quickly the 
 passion went out of the sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul 
 scrambled quickly down with his basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve 
 as he did so. 
 
 "They are lovely," said Miriam, fingering the cherries. 
 
 "I've torn my sleeve," he answered. 
 
 She took the three-cornered rip, saying: 
 
 "I shall have to mend it." It was near the shoulder. She put her 
 fingers through the tear. "How warm!" she said. 
 
 He laughed. There was a new, strange note in his voice, one that 
 made her pant. 
 
 "Shall we stay out?" he said. 
 
 "Won't it rain?" she asked. 
 
 "No, let us walk a little way." 
 
 They went down the fields and into the thick plantation of fir- 
 trees and pines. 
 
 "Shall we go in among the trees?" he asked. 
 
 "Do you want to?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 It was very dark among the firs, and the sharp spines pricked 
 her face. She was afraid. Paul was silent and strange. 
 
 "I like the darkness," he said. "I wish it were thicker— good, 
 thick darkness." 
 
 He seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person: she was 
 only to him then a woman. She was afraid. 
 
 He stood against a pine-tree trunk and took her in his arms. She 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 299 
 
 relinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which she felt 
 something of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man was a 
 stranger to her. 
 
 Later it began to rain. The pine-trees smelled very strong. Paul 
 lay with his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles, hsten- 
 ing to the sharp hiss of the rain— a steady, keen noise. His heart 
 was down, very heavy. Now he reaUsed that she had not been with 
 him all the time, that her soul had stood apart, in a sort of horror. 
 He was physically at rest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very 
 sad, and very tender, his fingers wandered over her face pitifully. 
 Now again she loved him deeply. He was tender and beautiful. 
 
 "The rain!" he said. 
 
 "Yes— is it coming on you?" 
 
 She put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feel 
 if the raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he lay 
 with his face on the dead pine-leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. 
 He did not mind if the raindrops came on him: he would have lain 
 and got wet through: he felt as if nothuag mattered, as if his Uving 
 were smeared away mto the beyond, near and quite lovable. This 
 strange, gentle reaching-out to death was new to him. 
 
 "We must go," said Mkiam. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, but did not move. 
 
 To him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, 
 and death, and stiUness, and inaction, this seemed like being. To 
 be ahve, to be urgent and insistent— that was not-to-be. The high- 
 est of all was to melt out into the darkness and sway there, 
 identified with the great Being. 
 
 "The rain is coming in on us," said Miriam. 
 
 He rose, and assisted her. 
 
 "It is a pity," he said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "To have to go. I feel so still." 
 
 "Still!" she repeated. 
 
 "Stiller than I have ever been in my life." 
 
 He was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers, 
 feeling a slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fear 
 lest she should lose him. 
 
 "The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only 
 a presence." 
 
300 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 She was afraid, and said nothing. 
 
 "A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I sup- 
 pose that's what we do in death— sleep in wonder." 
 
 She had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the 
 mystic. She trod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy 
 "Hush!" on the trees. At last they gained the cart-shed. 
 
 "Let us stay here awhile," he said. 
 
 There was a sound of rain everywhere, smothering everything. 
 
 "I feel so strange and still," he said; "along with everything." 
 
 "Ay," she answered patiently. 
 
 He seemed again unaware of her, though he held her hand close. 
 
 "To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our 
 effort— to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep— that is very 
 beautiful, I think; that is our after-life— our immortality." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Yes— and very beautiful to have." 
 
 "You don't usually say that." 
 
 "No." 
 
 In a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them 
 curiously. He still kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness 
 in his voice. Instinctively, they all left him alone. 
 
 About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cot- 
 tage in Woodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It 
 was a beautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, 
 with red brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At 
 the back another garden was separated from the fields by a tall old 
 hedge. It was very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found 
 time for her beloved reading, and for writing little introspective 
 pieces which interested her. 
 
 At the hoUday-time her grandmother, being better, was driven 
 to Derby to stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a 
 crotchety old lady, and might return the second day or the third; 
 so Miriam stayed alone in the cottage, which also pleased her. 
 
 Paul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rule peaceful 
 and happy times. He did not embarrass her much; but then on the 
 Monday of the holiday he was to spend a whole day with her. 
 
 It was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where he 
 was going. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over 
 him; but he had three days that were all his own, when he was go- 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 301 
 
 ing to do as he liked. It was sweet to rush through the morning 
 lanes on his bicycle. 
 
 He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy 
 preparing dinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the Uttle 
 kitchen, ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The 
 room was small and cosy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort 
 of Unen in squares of red and pale blue, old, much washed, but 
 pretty. There was a stuffed owl in a case over a comer cupboard. 
 The sunlight came through the leaves of the scented geraniums in 
 the window. She was cooking a chicken in his honour. It was their 
 cottage for the day, and they were man and wife. He beat the eggs 
 for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought she gave a feeling of 
 home almost like his mother; and no one could look more beauti- 
 ful, with her tumbled curls, when she was flushed from the fire. 
 
 The dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he 
 carved. They talked all the tune with unflagging zest. Then he 
 wiped the dishes she had washed, and they went out down the 
 fields. There was a bright little brook that ran into a bog at the foot 
 of a very steep bank. Here they wandered, picking still a few 
 marsh-marigolds and many big blue forget-me-nots. Then she sat 
 on the bank with her hands full of flowers, mostly golden water- 
 blobs. As she put her face down mto the marigolds, it was all over- 
 cast with a yeUow shine. 
 
 "Your face is bright," he said, "like a transfiguration." 
 
 She looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her, 
 laying his hands on hers. Then he kissed her fingers, then her face. 
 
 The world was aU steeped in sunshine, and quite stiU, yet not 
 asleep, but quivering with a kind of expectancy. 
 
 "I have never seen anythkig more beautiful than this," he said. 
 He held her hand fast aU the time. 
 
 "And the water singmg to itself as it runs— do you love it?" She 
 looked at him full of love. His eyes were very dark, very bright. 
 
 "Don't you think it's a great day?" he asked. 
 
 She murmured her assent. She was happy, and he saw it. 
 
 "And our day— just between us," he said. 
 
 They lingered a little while. Then they stood up upon the sweet 
 thyme, and he looked down at her simply. 
 
 "Will you come?" he asked. 
 
 They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The 
 
302 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 chickens came scampering down the path to her. He locked the 
 door, and they had the little house to themselves. 
 
 He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he was 
 mifastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was 
 blind with it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imag- 
 ined. He stood unable to move or speak, looking at her, his face 
 half-smiling with wonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went 
 forward to her, her hands lifted in a little pleading movement, and 
 he looked at her face, and stopped. Her big brown eyes were 
 watching him, still and resigned and loving; she lay as if she had 
 given herself up to sacrifice: there was her body for him; but the 
 look at the back of her eyes, like a creature awaiting immolation, 
 arrested him, and all his blood fell back. 
 
 "You are sure you want me?" he asked, as if a cold shadow had 
 come over him. 
 
 "Yes, quite sure." 
 
 She was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that she was 
 doing something for him. He could hardly bear it. She lay to be 
 sacrificed for him because she loved him so much. And he had to 
 sacrifice her. For a second, he wished he were sexless or dead. 
 Then he shut his eyes again to her, and his blood beat back again. 
 
 And afterwards he loved her— loved her to the last fibre of his 
 being. He loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was 
 something he could not bear for her sake. He stayed with her till 
 quite late at night. As he rode home he felt that he was finally initi- 
 ated. He was a youth no longer. But why had he the dull pain in his 
 soul? Why did the thought of death, the after-life, seem so sweet 
 and consoling? 
 
 He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his pas- 
 sion before it was gone. He had always, almost wiMuUy, to put 
 her out of count, and act from the brute strength of his own feel- 
 ings. And he could not do it often, and there remained afterwards 
 always the sense of failure and of death. If he were really with 
 her, he had to put aside himself and his desire. If he would have 
 her, he had to put her aside. 
 
 "When I come to you," he asked her, his eyes dark with pain 
 and shame, "you don't really want me, do you?" 
 
 "Ah, yes!" she replied quickly. 
 
 He looked at her. 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 303 
 
 "Nay," he said. 
 
 She began to tremble. 
 
 "You see," she said, taking his face and shutting it out against 
 her shoulder— "you see— as we are— how can I get used to you? It 
 would come all right if we were married." 
 
 He lifted her head, and looked at her. 
 
 "You mean, now, it is always too much shock?" 
 
 "Yes-and — " 
 
 "You are always clenched against me." 
 
 She was trembling with agitation. 
 
 "You see," she said, "I'm not used to the thought — " 
 
 "You are lately," he said. 
 
 "But all my life, mother said to me: 'There is one thing in 
 marriage that is always dreadful, but you have to bear it.' And I 
 believed it." 
 
 "And stiU believe it," he said. 
 
 "No!" she cried hastily. "I beheve, as you do, that loving, even 
 in that way, is the high-water mark of Uving." 
 
 "That doesn't alter the fact that you never want it." 
 
 "No," she said, taking his head in her arms and rocking in 
 despair. "Don't say so! You don't understand." She rocked with 
 pain. "Don't I want your children?" 
 
 "But not me." 
 
 "How can you say so? But we must be married to have 
 children — " 
 
 "Shall we be married, then? / want you to have my children." 
 
 He kissed her hand reverently. She pondered sadly, watching him. 
 
 "We are too yoimg," she said at length. 
 
 "Twenty-four and twenty-three — " 
 
 "Not yet," she pleaded, as she rocked herself in distress. 
 
 "When you will," he said. 
 
 She bowed her head gravely. The tone of hopelessness in 
 which he said these things grieved her deeply. It had always been 
 a failure between them. Tacitly, she acquiesced in what he felt. 
 
 And after a week of love he said to his mother suddenly one 
 Sunday night, just as they were going to bed: 
 
 "I shan't go so much to Miriam's, mother." 
 
 She was surprised, but she would not ask him anything. 
 
 "You please yourself," she said. 
 
304 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 So he went to bed. But there was a new quietness about him 
 which she had wondered at. She ahnost guessed. She would leave 
 him alone, however. Precipitation might spoil things. She watched 
 him in his loneliness, wondering where he would end. He was sick, 
 and much too quiet for him. There was a perpetual little knitting 
 of his brows, such as she had seen when he was a small baby, 
 and which had been gone for many years. Now it was the same 
 agam. And she could do nothing for him. He had to go on alone, 
 make his own way. 
 
 He continued faithful to Miriam. For one day he had loved her 
 utterly. But it never came again. The sense of failure grew stronger. 
 At first it was only a sadness. Then he began to feel he could not 
 go on. He wanted to run, to go abroad, anything. Gradually he 
 ceased to ask her to have him. Instead of drawing them together, 
 it put them apart. And then he realised, consciously, that it was 
 no good. It was useless trying: it would never be a success be- 
 tween them. 
 
 For some months he had seen very little of Qara. They had oc- 
 casionally walked out for half an hour at dmner-time. But he al- 
 ways reserved himself for Miriam. With Clara, however, his 
 brow cleared, and he was gay agam. She treated him indulgently, 
 as if he were a child. He thought he did not mind. But deep below 
 the surface it piqued him. 
 
 Sometimes Miriam said: 
 
 "What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately." 
 
 "I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday," he replied. 
 
 "And what did she talk about?" 
 
 "I don't know. I suppose I did all the jawing— I usually do. I 
 think I was telling her about the strike, and how the women took 
 it." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 So he gave the account of himself. 
 
 But insidiously, without his knowing it, the warmth he felt for 
 Clara drew him away from Mhiam, for whom he felt responsible, 
 and to whom he felt he belonged. He thought he was being quite 
 faithful to her. It was not easy to estimate exactly the strength and 
 warmth of one's feelings for a woman till they have run away with 
 one. 
 
 He began to give more tune to his men friends. There was Jes- 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 305 
 
 sop, at the art school; Swain, who was chemistry demonstrator 
 at the university; Newton, who was a teacher; besides Edgar and 
 Miriam's younger brothers. Pleading work, he sketched and stud- 
 ied with Jessop. He called in the university for Swain, and the two 
 went "down town" together. Having come home in the train with 
 Newton, he called and had a game of billiards with him in the 
 Moon and Stars. If he gave to Mkiam the excuse of his men 
 friends, he felt quite justified. His mother began to be relieved. He 
 always told her where he had been. 
 
 During the summer Clara wore sometimes a dress of soft cotton 
 stuff with loose sleeves. When she lifted her hands, her sleeves fell 
 back, and her beautiful strong arms shone out. 
 
 "Half a minute," he cried. "Hold your arm stUl." 
 
 He made sketches of her hand and arm, and the drawings con- 
 tained some of the fascination the real thing had for him. Miriam, 
 who always went scrupulously through his books and papers, 
 saw the drawings. 
 
 "I think Clara has such beautiful arms," he said. 
 
 "Yes! When did you draw them?" 
 
 "On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I've got a comer 
 where I can work. Often I can do every single thing they need in the 
 department, before dinner. Then I work for myself in the after- 
 noon, and just see to things at night." 
 
 "Yes," she said, turning the leaves of his sketch-book. 
 
 Frequently he hated Miriam. He hated her as she bent forward 
 and pored over his things. He hated her way of patiently casting 
 him up, as if he were an endless psychological account. When he 
 was with her, he hated her for having got him, and yet not got 
 him, and he tortured her. She took aU and gave nothing, he said. 
 At least, she gave no living warmth. She was never alive, and giv- 
 ing off life. Looking for her was like looking for something which 
 did not exist. She was only his conscience, not his mate. He hated 
 her violently, and was more cruel to her. They dragged on till the 
 next summer. He saw more and more of Clara. 
 
 At last he spoke. He had been sitting working at home one eve- 
 ning. There was between him and his mother a peculiar condition 
 of people frankly finding fault with each other. Mrs. Morel was 
 strong on her feet agam. He was not going to stick to Miriam. Very 
 well; then she would stand aloof till he said something. It had been 
 
306 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 coming a long time, this bursting of the storm in him, when he 
 would come back to her. This evening there was between them a 
 peculiar condition of suspense. He worked feverishly and mechani- 
 cally, so that he could escape from himself. It grew late. Through 
 the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost 
 as if it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got up and went out of 
 doors. 
 
 The beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half-moon, 
 dusky gold, was siiiking behind the black sycamore at the end of 
 the garden, making the sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a 
 dim white fence of lilies went across the garden, and the air all 
 round seemed to stir with scent, as if it were aUve. He went across 
 the bed of pinks, whose keen perfume came sharply across 
 the rocking, heavy scent of the lilies, and stood alongside the white 
 barrier of flowers. They flagged all loose, as if they were panting. 
 The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field to watch the 
 moon sink imder. 
 
 A corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moon slid 
 quite quickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind him the 
 great flowers leaned as if they were calling. And then, like a shock, 
 he caught another perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting 
 roxmd, he found the purple iris, touched their fleshy throats and 
 their dark, grasping hands. At any rate, he had found something. 
 They stood stiff in the darkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon 
 was melting down upon the crest of the hiU. It was gone; all was 
 dark. The corncrake called still. 
 
 Breaking off a pink, he suddenly went indoors. 
 
 "Come, my boy," said his mother. "I'm sure it's time you went 
 to bed." 
 
 He stood with the pink against his Hps. 
 
 "I shall break off with Miriam, mother," he answered calmly. 
 
 She looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring back at 
 her, unswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took off her 
 glasses. He was white. The male was up ia him, dominant. She did 
 not want to see him too clearly. 
 
 "But I thought — " she began. 
 
 "WeU," he answered, "I don't love her. I don't want to marry 
 her— so I shall have done." 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 307 
 
 "But," exclaimed Ms mother, amazed, "I thought lately you had 
 made up your miud to have her, and so I said nothing." 
 
 "I had— I wanted to— but now I don't want. It's no good. I shall 
 break off on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I?" 
 
 "You know best. You know I said so long ago." 
 
 "I can't help that now. I shall break off on Sunday." 
 
 "Well," said his mother, "I think it will be best. But lately I de- 
 cided you had made up your mind to have her, so I said nothing, 
 and should have said nothmg. But I say as I have always said, I 
 don't think she is suited to you." 
 
 "On Sunday I break off," he said, smelling the pink. He put the 
 flower in his mouth. Unthinking, he bared his teeth, closed them on 
 the blossom slowly, and had a mouthful of petals. These he spat 
 into the fire, kissed his mother, and went to bed. 
 
 On Sunday he went up to the farm in the early afternoon. He had 
 written Miriam that they would walk over the fields to Hucknall. 
 His mother was very tender with him. He said nothing. But she saw 
 the effort it was costing. The peculiar set look on his face stilled 
 her. 
 
 "Never mind, my son," she said. "You will be so much better 
 when it is all over." 
 
 Paul glanced swifdy at his mother in surprise and resentment. 
 He did not want sympathy. 
 
 Miriam met him at the lane-end. She was wearing a new dress 
 of figured muslin that had short sleeves. Those short sleeves, and 
 Miriam's brown-skinned arms beneath them— such pitiful, re- 
 signed arms— gave him so much pain that they helped to make him 
 cruel. She had made herself look so beautiful and fresh for him. 
 She seemed to blossom for him alone. Every time he looked at her 
 —a mature young woman now, and beautiful in her new dress— it 
 hurt so much that his heart seemed almost to be bursting with the 
 restraint he put on it. But he had decided, and it was irrevocable. 
 
 On the hills they sat down, and he lay with his head in her lap, 
 whilst she fingered his hair. She knew that "he was not there," as 
 she put it. Often, when she had him with her, she looked for him, 
 and could not find him. But this afternoon she was not prepared. 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock when he told her. They were sitting 
 on the bank of a stream, where the Hp of turf hung over a hollow 
 
308 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 bank of yellow earth, and he was hackmg away with a stick, as be 
 did when he was perturbed and cruel. 
 
 "I have been thinking," he said, "we ought to break off." 
 
 "Why?" she cried in surprise. 
 
 "Because it's no good going on." 
 
 "Why is it no good?" 
 
 "It isn't. I don't want to marry. I don't want ever to marry. And 
 if we're not going to marry, it's no good going on." 
 
 "But why do you say this now?" 
 
 "Because I've made up my mind." 
 
 "And what about these last months, and the things you told me 
 then?" 
 
 "I can't help it! I don't want to go on." 
 
 "You don't want any more of me?" 
 
 "I want us to break off— you be free of me, I free of you." 
 
 "And what about these last months?" 
 
 "I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was 
 true." 
 
 "Then why are you different now?" 
 
 "I'm not— I'm the same— only I know it's no good going on." 
 
 "You haven't told me why it's no good." 
 
 "Because I don't want to go on— and I don't want to marry." 
 
 "How many times have you offered to marry me, and I 
 wouldn't?" 
 
 "I know; but I want us to break off." 
 
 There was silence for a moment or two, while he dug viciously 
 at the earth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasona- 
 ble child. He was like an infant which, when it has drunk its fill, 
 throws away and smashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she 
 could get hold of him and wring some consistency out of him. But 
 she was helpless. Then she cried: 
 
 "I have said you were only fourteen— you are only four!" 
 
 He still dug at the earth viciously. He heard. 
 
 "You are a child of four," she repeated m her anger. 
 
 He did not answer, but said in his heart: "AU right; if I'm a child 
 of four, what do you want me for? / don't want another mother." 
 But he said nothing to her, and there was silence. 
 
 "And have you told your people?" she asked. 
 
 "I have told my motiier." 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 309 
 
 There was another long mterval of silence, 
 
 "Then what do you want?" she asked. 
 
 "Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all 
 these years; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you, 
 and you wiU go your way without me. You will have an independ- 
 ent Ufe of your own then." 
 
 There was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness, she 
 could not help registering. She knew she felt in a sort of bondage 
 to him, which she hated because she could not control it. She 
 hated her love for him from the moment it grew too strong for her. 
 And, deep down, she had hated him because she loved him and he 
 dominated her. She had resisted his domination. She had fought 
 to keep herself free of him in the last issue. And she was free of 
 him, even more than he of her. 
 
 "And," he continued, "we shall always be more or less each 
 other's work. You have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us 
 start and live by ourselves." 
 
 "What do you want to do?" she asked. 
 
 "Nothing— only to be free," he answered. 
 
 She, however, knew in her heart that Clara's influence was over 
 him to liberate him. But she said nothing. 
 
 "And what have I to tell my mother?" she asked. 
 
 "I told my mother," he answered, "that I was breaking off— clean 
 and altogether." 
 
 "I shall not tell them at home," she said. 
 
 Frowning, "You please yourself," he said. 
 
 He knew he had landed her in a nasty hole, and was leaving her 
 in the lurch. It angered him. 
 
 "Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken 
 off," he said. "It's true enough." 
 
 She bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. 
 She had known it would come to this; she had seen it all along. 
 It chimed with her bitter expectation. 
 
 "Always— it has always been so!" she cried. "It has been one 
 long battle between us— you fighting away from me." 
 
 It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's 
 heart stood still. Was this how she saw it? 
 
 "But we've had some perfect hours, some perfect times, when 
 we were together!" he pleaded. 
 
310 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Never!" she cried; "never! It has always been you fighting me 
 off." 
 
 "Not always— not at first!" he pleaded. 
 
 "Always, from the very beginning— always the same!" 
 
 She had finished, but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He 
 had wanted to say: "It has been good, but it is at an end." And 
 she— she whose love he had beUeved in when he had despised 
 himself— denied that their love had ever been love. "He had always 
 fought away from her?" Then it had been monstrous. There had 
 never been anything really between them; all the time he had been 
 imagining something where there was nothing. And she had 
 known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She 
 had known aU the tune. All the time this was at the bottom of her! 
 
 He sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appeared in a 
 cynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with 
 her. She had hidden aU her condemnation from him, had flattered 
 him, and despised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual 
 and cruel. 
 
 "You ought to marry a man who worships you," he said; "then 
 you could do as you liked with him. Plenty of men wiU worship 
 you, if you get on the private side of their natures. You ought to 
 marry one such. They would never fight you off." 
 
 "Thank you!" she said. "But don't advise me to marry some- 
 one else any more. You've done it before." 
 
 "Very weU," he said; "I will say no more." 
 
 He sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow, instead of giving 
 one. Their eight years of friendship and love, the eight years of 
 his life, were nullified. 
 
 "When did you think of this?" she asked. 
 
 "I thought definitely on Thxarsday night." 
 
 "I knew it was commg," she said. 
 
 That pleased him bitterly. "Oh, very well! If she knew then it 
 doesn't come as a surprise to her," he thought. 
 
 "And have you said anything to Clara?" she asked. 
 
 "No; but I shall teU her now." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "Do you remember the things you said this time last year, in my 
 grandmother's house— nay last month even?" 
 
THE TEST ON MIRIAM 311 
 
 "Yes," he said; '1 do! And I meant them! I can't help that it's 
 failed." 
 
 "It has failed because you want something else." 
 
 "It would have failed whether or not. You never believed in 
 me." 
 
 She laughed strangely. 
 
 He sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she had deceived 
 him. She had despised him when he thought she worshipped him. 
 She had let him say wrong things, and had not contradicted him. 
 She had let him fight alone. But it stuck in his throat that she had 
 despised him whilst he thought she worshipped him. She should 
 have told him when she found fault with him. She had not played 
 fair. He hated her. All these years she had treated him as if he were 
 a hero, and thought of him secretly as an infant, a foolish child. 
 Then why had she left the foolish child to his folly? His heart was 
 hard against her. 
 
 She sat fuU of bitterness. She had known— oh, well she had 
 known! All the time he was away from her she had summed him 
 up, seen his Uttleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had 
 guarded her soul against him. She was not overthrown, not 
 prostrated, not even much hurt. She had known. Only why, as he 
 sat there, had he stiU this strange dominance over her? His very 
 movements fascinated her as if she were hypnotised by him. Yet 
 he was despicable, false, mconsistent, and mean. Why this 
 bondage for her? Why was it the movement of his arm stirred her 
 as nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? 
 Why, even now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would 
 she have to obey? She would obey him in liis trifling commands. 
 But once he was obeyed, then she had him in her power, she knew, 
 to lead him where she would. She was sure of herself. Only, this 
 new influence! Ah, he was not a man! He was a baby that cries for 
 the newest toy. And all the attachment of his soul would not keep 
 him . Very well, he would have to go. But he would come back when 
 he had tired of his new sensation. 
 
 He hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She rose. 
 He sat flinging lumps of earth in the stream. 
 
 "We will go and have tea here?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
312 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 They chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea. He held forth 
 on the love of ornament— the cottage parlour moved him thereto— 
 and its connection with aesthetics. She was cold and quiet. As they 
 walked home, she asked: 
 
 "And we shall not see each other?" 
 
 "No— or rarely," he answered. 
 
 "Nor write?" she asked, almost sarcastically. 
 
 "As you will," he answered. "We're not strangers— never should 
 be, whatever happened. I wiU write to you now and again. You 
 please yourself." 
 
 "I see!" she answered cuttingly. 
 
 But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made 
 a great cleavage in his Ufe. He had had a great shock when she had 
 told him their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mat- 
 tered. If it never had been much, there was no need to make a fuss 
 that it was ended. 
 
 He left her at the lane-end. As she went home, solitary, in her 
 new frock, having her people to face at the other end, he stood stiU 
 with shame and pain in the highroad, thinking of the suffering he 
 caused her. 
 
 In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went into 
 the Willow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who had been 
 out for the day, drinking a modest glass of port. They had some 
 chocolates on the table. Paul sat near with his whisky. He noticed 
 the girls whispering and nudging. Presently one, a bonny dark 
 hussy, leaned to him and said: 
 
 "Have a chocolate?" 
 
 The others laughed loudly at her impudence. 
 
 "AU right," said Paul. "Give me a hard one— nut. I don't Uke 
 creams." 
 
 "Here you are, then," said the girl; "here's an almond for you." 
 
 She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. 
 She popped it in, and blushed. 
 
 "You are nice!" he said. 
 
 "Well," she answered, "we thought you looked overcast, and 
 they dared me offer you a chocolate." 
 
 "I don't mind if I have another— another sort," he said. 
 
 And presently they were all laughing together. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when he got home, falling dark. He entered 
 
PASSION 313 
 
 the house in silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose 
 anxiously. 
 
 "I told her," he said. 
 
 "I'm glad," replied the mother, with great relief. 
 
 He hung up his cap wearily. 
 
 "I said we'd have done altogether," he said. 
 
 "That's right, my son," said the mother. "It's hard for her now, 
 but best in the long run. I know. You weren't suited for her." 
 
 He laughed shakily as he sat down. 
 
 "I've had such a lark with some girls in a pub," he said. 
 
 His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He 
 told her about the girls in the WiUow Tree. Mrs. Morel looked at 
 him. It seemed unreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much 
 horror and misery. 
 
 "Now have some supper," she said very gently. 
 
 Afterwards he said wistfully: 
 
 "She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first, 
 and so she's not disappointed." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said his mother, "she doesn't give up hopes of you 
 yet." 
 
 "No," he said, "perhaps not." 
 
 "You'U find it's better to have done," she said. 
 
 "I don't know," he said desperately. 
 
 "Well, leave her alone," replied his mother. 
 
 So he left her, and she was alone. Very few people cared for 
 her, and she for very few people. She remained alone with herself, 
 waiting. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn 
 
 Passion 
 
 He was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood by his 
 art. Liberty's had taken several of his painted designs on various 
 stuffs, and he could sell designs for embroideries, for altar-cloths, 
 and similar things, in one or two places. It was not very much he 
 made at present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends 
 with the designer for a pottery firm, and was gaining some knowl- 
 
314 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 edge 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, fuU of hght, 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, shrink- 
 ing, everything, he beheved 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 pamter that they'll attend to." 
 
 She snified in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleased shrug 
 of the shoulders. 
 
 "Very weU, 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!" 
 
 "WeU, 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 
 
PASSION 315 
 
 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 liis chest. Then she was 
 better again, and he forgot. But the anxiety remamed 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! 7 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 immedi- 
 ately he ran away. He had touched her. His whole body was 
 quivering with the sensation. 
 
 There was already a sort of secret imderstanding 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 teU Miriam?" she replied sarcastically. 
 
 "I have broken off with her," he said. 
 
316 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Last Sunday." 
 
 "You quarreUed?" 
 
 "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 win 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 resent- 
 ful, 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 roimd. 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 sUence. 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 aU. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There he sat, 
 
PASSION 317 
 
 dressed, with Ms 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 stiQ, 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 Mon- 
 day. 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. After- 
 noon! It seemed years ahead. 
 
 Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard him pot- 
 tering 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 mUe! The train was near 
 Nottingham. Would it stop before the timnels? 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. Agam 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 chloro- 
 form. 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 carefuUy to see he 
 made no mistake. 
 
318 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 com- 
 bining the Uving 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 fuU 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 roimd from the 
 
PASSION 319 
 
 anaesthetic, begiiming 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 re- 
 mained 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 raming. 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 fuU. 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 gUsten 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 sUd by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwin- 
 ing among itself like some subtie, complex creature. Clara walked 
 moodily beside him. 
 
 "Why," she asked at length, ui 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." 
 
320 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 
 batded her ofE." 
 
 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, al- 
 ready sticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between 
 the grass. On either side stood the elm-trees Uke 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 re- 
 leased 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 
 
PASSION 321 
 
 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 dis- 
 consolate. She stirred against him as she walked, and his body was 
 Uke a taut string. 
 
 Half-way 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, imder 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 
 foUage. 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 spendid 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. 
 
 "WiU you go down to the river?" he asked. 
 
 She looked at him, leaving herself in his hands. He went over 
 the brim of the dechvity 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 
 Uttle platform at the foot of a tree. There he waited for her, laugh- 
 ing 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 be- 
 
322 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 low. 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 Uttle parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!" 
 
 They stood perched on the face of the declivity, under the trees. 
 
 "Well, I'll go agam," he said. 
 
 Away he went, slippmg, 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 boxmded down, leaped into the water, and sailed smoothly 
 away. He hung on to his tree. 
 
 "Well, rU 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, wait- 
 ing. "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 feedmg 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 m 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 Uttered with rub- 
 ble from the water, but at any rate it was easier. They cleaned their 
 boots with twigs. His heart was beating thick and fast. 
 
PASSION 323 
 
 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 wamingly to Qara. 
 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 hke 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 Up. 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 Qara. 
 
 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 Uttered 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 aU but the smaU, 
 lonely cows over the river. He sunk his mouth on her throat, where 
 he felt her heavy pulse beat under his Ups. Everything was perfectly 
 stiU. There was nothing in the afternoon but themselves. 
 
 When she arose, he, lookmg on the ground aU the time, saw 
 suddenly sprinkled on the black wet beech-roots many scarlet 
 carnation petals, Uke splashed drops of blood; and red, smaU 
 
324 SONS A^a3 lovers 
 
 splashes fell from her bosom, streammg 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 cUmb 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 repUed. 
 
 "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 Uttle nibblmg kisses. 
 
 "T-t-t-t!" he went with his tongue, like his mother. "I teU you, 
 nothmg gets done when there's a woman about." 
 
 And he returned to his boot-cleaning, smging 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 
 
PASSION 
 
 325 
 
 restoring you to respectability? Stand up! There, you look as ir- 
 reproachable as Britannia herself!" 
 
 He cleaned his own boots a Uttle, 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." 
 
 Qara flushed. She looked very handsome. 
 
 "I should Uke some radishes," she answered. 
 
 And the old lady pottered off gJeefuUy. 
 
 "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 gomg away, the 
 old lady came timidly with three tiny dahlias m fuU 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 Qara, accepting the flowers. 
 
 "Shall she have them all?" asked Paul reproachfully of the old 
 woman. 
 
326 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "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, smiUng. And 
 she bobbed a Uttle curtsey of deUght. 
 
 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!' " 
 
 "K 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 Uke your Uttle bit of guiltiness, I believe," he said. "I be- 
 lieve 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 him- 
 self 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 for- 
 got. 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 Qara." 
 
 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!" 
 
PASSION 
 
 327 
 
 "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 — " 
 
 "WeU, I can't help it. Their jaw isn't so abnighty important, af- 
 ter 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 ahready 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'U 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 Uke to know what 
 she's Uke." 
 
 "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 un- 
 derhand 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. 
 
328 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "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. K you think a 
 horrid thing about her, I shan't forgive you." 
 
 His mother laughed. 
 
 "As if it would make any diJSerence!" she said. He knew he had 
 won. 
 
 "Oh, but it feels so fine, when she's there! She's such a queen in 
 her way." 
 
 Occasionally he still walked a little way from chapel with Miriam 
 and Edgar. He did not go up to the farm. She, however, was very 
 much the same with him, and he did not feel embarrassed in her 
 presence. One evening she was alone when he accompanied her. 
 They began by talking books: it was their unfailing topic. Mrs. 
 Morel had said that his and Miriam's affair was like a fire fed on 
 books— if there were no more volumes it would die out. Miriam, 
 for her part, boasted that she could read him like a book, could 
 place her finger any minute on the chapter and the fine. He, easily 
 taken in, believed that Miriam knew more about him than any- 
 one else. So it pleased him to talk to her about himself, like the 
 simplest egoist. Very soon the conversation drifted to his own do- 
 ings. 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 gar- 
 den, that is nearly right at last. It's the himdredth 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 fuU." 
 
 "And did you go to Barton?" she asked. 
 
 "No; we had tea in Clifton." 
 
 "Did you! That would be nice," 
 
PASSION 329 
 
 "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 uncon- 
 scious of concealing anything from her. 
 
 "What made her give them you?" she asked. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Because she Uked us— because we were joUy, 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 re- 
 plied. "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 aU in the day's march— it would have 
 to come— and Dawes— well, a good many women would have given 
 
330 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 beUeve, 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 smre 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 
 
PASSION 331 
 
 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 in- 
 tense, 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 some- 
 thing 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 Qara 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 trymg to examijie 
 in himself if he had a premonition. 
 
 "Do I jeel 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 commg. 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. 
 
332 SONS AISOJ LOVERS 
 
 Suddenly he saw the train crawling, sneaking round the comer. 
 Here, then, was the train, but of course she had not come. The 
 green engine Mssed 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 Httle 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 gettmg 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 collieiy. 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 
 Qara. 
 
 "Do you think so?" he answered. "You see, I am so used to it I 
 
PASSION 333 
 
 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 piUar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, 
 and its Ughts, 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 pecuUar 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 Uved in a house in an ugly street that ran down a 
 steep hill. The street itself was hideous. The house was rather su- 
 perior 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 Httle 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," rephed Mrs. 
 Morel. 
 
334 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 thing? 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 WiUiam'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 stiU somewhat on her dignity. She chpped 
 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 sm-- 
 
PASSION 
 
 335 
 
 prised to find this little interested woman chatting with such readi- 
 ness; 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, ruflBed and yawning, from his after- 
 noon 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 puUed 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 Nottmgham," 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 interrupt- 
 ing her in her talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the 
 china of dark blue wUlow-pattem 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 ahnost like 
 
336 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 the hither and thither of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of 
 herself went with hun. By the way she leaned forward, as if listen- 
 ing, 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 move- 
 ment, 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. 
 
 Qara, 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 Michael- 
 mas 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 Qara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come 
 to rest together. Something in then: 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. 
 
PASSION 337 
 
 "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 dovm 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 Qara 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 aU 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 
 tousled 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 
 
338 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 Uke?" 
 
 "You've not seen Mrs. Morel before?" Miriam was saymg 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." 
 
 "Hal" 
 
 There was silence until he returned with the book. 
 
 "When will you want it back?" Miriam asked. 
 
 "When you like," he answered. 
 
 Qara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriam to 
 the gate. 
 
 "When will you come up to WiUey 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 
 ^ven 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 feU guilty towards her. She was bitter, and she 
 
PASSION 339 
 
 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 runnmg 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 bloodhoimd quahty 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 Qara'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 mdoors. 
 His mother looked excited. She was beating with her hand rhyth- 
 mically 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 
 Qara, in exactly the same way as he used for herself. And during 
 the sermon he could see the girl across the chapel, her hat throw- 
 ing a dark shadow over her face. What did she think, seeing Clara 
 with hun? 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 con- 
 flict. 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. 
 
340 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Only talk. There never was a great deal more than talk be- 
 tween 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 jawmg 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. 
 
 StiU there was no answer. She walked resentfully, han^g 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 Qara. 
 
 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 m a kiss of rage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He 
 held her fast. Hard and relentiess 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 dimly beside him. They went on in 
 silence. 
 
PASSION 341 
 
 "We will go over the fields," he said; and then she woke up. 
 
 But she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in 
 silence with him over the first dark field. It was the way to Notting- 
 ham and to the station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. 
 They came out on a bare hilltop where stood the dark figure of the 
 ruined windmill. There he halted. They stood together high up in 
 the darkness, looking at the lights scattered on the night before 
 them, handfuls of glittering points, villages lying high and low on 
 the dark, here and there. 
 
 "Like treading among the stars," he said, with a quaky laugh. 
 
 Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved 
 aside her mouth to ask, dogged and low: 
 
 "What tune is it?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter," he pleaded thickly. 
 
 "Yes it does— yes! I must go!" 
 
 "It's early yet," he said. 
 
 "What time is it?" she insisted. 
 
 All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the 
 joints fuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket, while he 
 stood panting. In the darkness she could see the round, pale face 
 of the watch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was pant- 
 ing tin he could take her in his arms again. 
 
 "I can't see," she said. 
 
 "Then don't bother." 
 
 "Yes; I'm going!" she said, turning away. 
 
 "Wait! I'll look!" But he could not see. "I'll strike a match." 
 
 He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the 
 glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the fight: then his face 
 fit up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all was dark again. All 
 was black before her eyes; only a glowing match was red near her 
 feet. Where was he? 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, afraid. 
 
 "You can't do it," his voice answered out of the darkness. 
 
 There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heard the ring 
 in his voice. It frightened her. 
 
 "What time is it?" she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless. 
 
342 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Two minutes to nine," he replied, telling the truth with a 
 struggle. 
 
 "And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?" 
 
 "No. At any rate — " 
 
 She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She 
 wanted to escape. 
 
 "But can't I do it?" she pleaded. 
 
 "If you hurry," he said brusquely. "But you could easily walk 
 it, Clara; it's only seven mUes to the tram. I'll come with you." 
 
 "No; I want to catch the train." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "I do— I want to catch the train." 
 
 Suddenly his voice altered. 
 
 "Very well," he said, dry and hard. "Come along, then." 
 
 And he plxmged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him, 
 wanting to cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran over the 
 rough, dark fields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But 
 the double row of Ughts at the station drew nearer. Suddenly: 
 
 "There she is!" he cried, breaking into a run. 
 
 There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train, like 
 a luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling 
 ceased. 
 
 "She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it." 
 
 Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The 
 whistle blew. He was gone. Gone!— and she was in a carriage full 
 of people. She felt the cruelty of it. 
 
 He turned round and plimged home. Before he knew where he 
 was he was in the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His 
 eyes were dark and dangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His 
 mother looked at him. 
 
 "Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!" she said. 
 
 He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother 
 wondered it he were drunk. 
 
 "She caught the train then?" she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I hope her feet weren't So filthy. Where on earth you dragged 
 her I don't know!" 
 
 He was silent and motionless for some time. 
 
 "Did you like her?" he asked grudgingly at last. 
 
PASSION 343 
 
 "Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you know you 
 will." 
 
 He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his 
 breathing. 
 
 "Have you been running?" she asked. 
 
 "We had to run for the tram." 
 
 "You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk." 
 
 It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and 
 went to bed. There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed 
 tears of rage and pain. There was a physical pain that made him 
 bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable 
 to think, almost to feel. 
 
 "This is how she serves me, is it?" he said in his heart, over and 
 over, pressing his face in the quUt. And he hated her. Again he 
 went over the scene, and again he hated her. 
 
 The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara was 
 very gentle, almost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a 
 touch of contempt. She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came 
 round. 
 
 One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre 
 Royal in Nottingham, giving "La Dame aux Cornelias". Paul 
 wanted to see this old and famous actress, and he asked Clara to 
 accompany him. He told his mother to leave the key in the win- 
 dow for him. 
 
 "Shall I book seats?" he asked of Clara. 
 
 "Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seen you 
 in it." 
 
 "But, good Lord, Clara! Think of me in evening suit at the 
 theatre!" he remonstrated. 
 
 "Would you rather not?" she asked. 
 
 "I will if you want me to; but I s'll feel a fool." 
 
 She laughed at him. 
 
 "Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?" 
 
 The request made his blood flush up. 
 
 "I suppose I s'll have to." 
 
 "What are you taking a suitcase for?" his mother asked. 
 
 He blushed furiously. 
 
 "Clara asked me," he said. 
 
 "And what seats are you going in?" 
 
344 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Circle— three-and-six each!" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed his mother sarcastically. 
 
 "It's only once in the bluest of blue moons," he said. 
 
 He dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met 
 Qara in a cafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She 
 wore an old long coat, which did not suit her, and had a Uttle wrap 
 over her head, which he hated. The three went to the theatre 
 together. 
 
 Qara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was 
 in a sort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and 
 part of her breast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, 
 a simple thing of green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, 
 he thought. He could see her figure inside the frock, as if that were 
 wrapped closely round her. The firmness and the softness of her 
 upright body could almost be felt as he looked at her. He clenched 
 his fists. 
 
 And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked 
 arm, watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watch- 
 ing the breasts under the green stuff, the curve of her hmbs in the 
 tight dress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him 
 to this torture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her 
 head and stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, 
 as if she yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for 
 her. She could not help herself; she was in the grip of something 
 bigger than herself. A kind of eternal look about her, as if she were 
 a wistful sphinx, made it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped 
 his programme, and crouched down on the floor to get it, so that 
 he could kiss her hand and wrist. Her beauty was a torture to him. 
 She sat immobile. Only, when the Ughts went down, she sank a 
 little against him, and he caressed her hand and arm with his 
 fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the time his blood 
 kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed his con- 
 sciousness momentarily. 
 
 The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going on 
 somewhere; he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside 
 him. He was Clara's white heavy arms, her throat, her moving 
 bosom. That seemed to be himself. Then away somewhere the 
 play went on, and he was identified with that also. There was no 
 himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara, her bosom coming 
 
PASSION 345 
 
 down on him, her arm that he held gripped between his 
 hands, were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and help- 
 less, her towering in her force above him. 
 
 Only the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expres- 
 sibly. He wanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark 
 again. In a maze, he wandered out for a drink. Then the lights 
 were out, and the strange, insane reality of Clara and the drama 
 took hold of him again. 
 
 The play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire to kiss the 
 tiny blue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel 
 it. His whole face seemed suspended till he had put his lips there. 
 It must be done. And the other people! At last he bent quickly 
 forward and touched it with his lips. His moustache brushed the 
 sensitive flesh. Clara shivered, drew away her arm. 
 
 When all was over, the Ughts up, the people clapping, he came 
 to himself and looked at his watch. His train was gone. 
 
 "I s'll have to walk homel" he said. 
 
 Clara looked at him. 
 
 "It is too late?" she asked. 
 
 He nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat. 
 
 "I love you! You look beautiful in that dress," he murmured 
 over her shoidder, among the throng of bustling people. 
 
 She remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He 
 saw the cabs waiting, the people passiag. It seemed he met a pair 
 of brown eyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and 
 Clara turned away, mechanically taking the direction to the station. 
 
 The train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," he said. "I shall enjoy it." 
 
 "Won't you," she said, flushing, "come home for the night? I 
 can sleep with mother." 
 
 He looked at her. Their eyes met. 
 
 "What will your mother say?" he asked. 
 
 "She won't mind." 
 
 "You're sure?" 
 
 "Quite!" 
 
 "Shall I come?" 
 
 "If you will." 
 
 "Very weU." 
 
 And they turned away. At the first stopping-place they took 
 
346 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 the car. The wind blew fresh in their faces. The town was dark; 
 the tram tipped in its haste. He sat with her hand fast in his. 
 
 "Will your mother be gone to bed?" he asked. 
 
 "She may be. I hope not." 
 
 They hurried along the silent, dark little street, the only people 
 out of doors. Clara quickly entered the house. He hesitated. 
 
 He leaped up the step and was in the room. Her mother appeared 
 in the inner doorway, large and hostile. 
 
 "Who have you got there?" she asked. 
 
 "It's Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we might put 
 him up for the night, and save him a ten-mile walk." 
 
 "H'm," exclaimed Mrs. Radford. "That's your look-out! K 
 you've invited him, he's very welcome as far as I'm concerned. 
 You keep the house!" 
 
 "If you don't like me, I'll go away again," he said. 
 
 "Nay, nay, you needn't! Come along in! I dunno what you'll 
 think of the supper I'd got her." 
 
 It was a little dish of chip potatoes and a piece of bacon. The 
 table was roughly laid for one. 
 
 "You can have some more bacon," continued Mrs. Radford. 
 "More chips you can't have." 
 
 "It's a shame to bother you," he said. 
 
 "Oh, don't you be apologetic! It doesn't do wi' me! You treated 
 her to the theatre, didn't you?" There was a sarcasm in the last 
 question. 
 
 "Well?" laughed Paul uncomfortably. 
 
 "Well, and what's an inch of bacon! Take your coat off." 
 
 The big, straight-standing woman was trymg to estimate the 
 situation. She moved about the cupboard. Clara took his coat. The 
 room was very warm and cosy in the lamplight. 
 
 "My sirs!" exclaimed Mrs. Radford; "but you two's a pair of 
 bright beauties, I must say! What's all that get-up for?" 
 
 "I believe we don't know," he said, feelmg a victun. 
 
 "There isn't room in this house for two such bobby-dazders, 
 if you fly your kites that high!" she rallied them. It was a nasty 
 thrust. 
 
 He in his dinner jacket, and Clara in her green dress and bare 
 arms, were confused. They felt they must shelter each other in that 
 little kitchen. 
 
PASSION 347 
 
 "And look at that blossom!" continued Mrs. Radford, point- 
 ing to Clara. "What does she reckon she did it for?" 
 
 Paul looked at Clara. She was rosy; her neck was warm 
 with blushes. There was a moment of silence. 
 
 "You like to see it, don't you?" he asked. 
 
 The mother had them in her power. AU the time his heart was 
 beating hard, and he was tight with anxiety. But he would fight her. 
 
 "Me Uke to see it!" exclaimed the old woman. "What should I 
 Uke to see her make a fool of herself for?" 
 
 "I've seen people look bigger fools," he said. Clara was under 
 his protection now. 
 
 "Oh, ay! and when was that?" came the sarcastic rejoinder. 
 
 "When they made frights of themselves," he answered. 
 
 Mrs. Radford, large and threatening, stood suspended on the 
 hearthrug, holding her fork. 
 
 "They're fools either road," she answered at length, turning to 
 the Dutch oven. 
 
 "No," he said, fighting stoutly. "Folk ought to look as well as 
 they can." 
 
 "And do you call that looking nice!" cried the mother, pointing 
 a scornful fork at Clara. "That— that looks as if it wasn't properly 
 dressed!" 
 
 "I believe you're jealous that you can't swank as well," he said 
 laughing. 
 
 "Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I'd 
 wanted to!" came the scornful answer. 
 
 "And why didn't you want to?" he asked pertinently. "Or did 
 you wear it?" 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Radford readjusted the bacon in 
 the Dutch oven. His heart beat fast, for fear he had offended her. 
 
 "Me!" she exclaimed at last. "No, I didn't! And when I was in 
 service, I knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bare 
 shoulders what sort she was, going to her sixpenny hop!" 
 
 "Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?" he said. 
 
 Clara sat with bowed head. His eyes were dark and gUttering. 
 Mrs. Radford took the Dutch oven from the fire, and stood near 
 him, putting bits of bacon on his plate. 
 
 "There's a nice crozzly bit!" she said. 
 
 "Don't give me the best!" he said. 
 
348 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "She's got what she wants," was the answer. 
 
 There was a sort of scornful forbearance in the woman's tone 
 that made Paul know she was mollified. 
 
 "But do have some!" he said to Clara. 
 
 She looked up at him with her grey eyes, humiliated and lonely. 
 
 "No thanks!" she said. 
 
 "Why won't you?" he answered carelessly. 
 
 The blood was beating up like fire in his veins. Mrs. Radford 
 sat down again, large and impressive and aloof. He left Clara al- 
 together to attend to the mother. 
 
 "They say Sarah Bemhardt's fifty," he said. 
 
 "Fifty! She's turned sixty!" came the scornful answer. 
 
 "Well," he said, "you'd never think it! She made me want to 
 howl even now." 
 
 "I should like to see myself howling at that bad old baggage!" 
 said Mrs. Radford. "It's time she began to think herself a grand- 
 mother, not a shrieking catamaran — " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "A catamaran is a boat the Malays use," he said. 
 
 "And it's a word as / use," she retorted. 
 
 "My mother does sometimes, and it's no good my telling her," 
 he said. 
 
 "I s'd think she boxes your ears," said Mrs. Radford, good- 
 humouredly. 
 
 "She'd like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool 
 to stand on." 
 
 "That's the worst of my mother," said Clara. "She never wants 
 a stool for anything." 
 
 "But she often can't touch that lady with a long prop," retorted 
 Mrs. Radford to Paul. 
 
 "I s'd think she doesn't want touching with a prop," he laughed. 
 "I shouldn't." 
 
 "It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head 
 with one," said the mother, laughing suddenly. 
 
 "Why are you so vindictive towards me?" he said. "I've not 
 stolen anything from you." 
 
 "No; I'U watch that," laughed the older woman. 
 
 Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her 
 
PASSION 349 
 
 chair. Paul lit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a 
 sleeping-suit, which she spread on the fender to air. 
 
 "Why, I'd forgot all about them!" said Mrs. Radford. "Where 
 have they sprung from?" 
 
 "Out of my drawer." 
 
 "H'm! You bought 'em for Baxter, an' he wouldn't wear 'em, 
 would he?"— laughing. "Said he reckoned to do wi'out trousers i' 
 bed." She turned confidentially to Paul, saying: "He couldn't bear 
 'em, them pyjama things." 
 
 The young man sat making rings of smoke. 
 
 "Well, it's everyone to his taste," he laughed. 
 
 Then followed a Uttle discussion of the merits of pyjamas. 
 
 "My mother loves me in them," he said. "She says I'm a pierrot." 
 
 "I can imagine they'd suit you," said Mrs. Radford. 
 
 After a while he glanced at the little clock that was ticking on 
 the mantelpiece. It was half-past twelve. 
 
 "It is funny," he said, "but it takes hours to settle dovra to sleep 
 after the theatre." 
 
 "It's about time you did," said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table. 
 
 "Are you tired?" he asked of Clara. 
 
 "Not the least bit," she answered, avoiding his eyes. 
 
 "Shall we have a game at cribbage?" he said. 
 
 "I've forgotten it." 
 
 "Well, I'U teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "You'U please yourselves," she said; "but it's pretty late." 
 
 "A game or so wiU make us sleepy," he answered. 
 
 Clara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-ring 
 whilst he shuffled them. Mrs. Radford was washing up in the 
 scullery. As it grew later Paul felt the situation getting more and 
 more tense. 
 
 "Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two's eight — !" 
 
 The clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radford 
 had done all the little jobs preparatory to going to bed, had locked 
 the door and filled the kettle. Still Paul went on dealing and count- 
 ing. He was obsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He beUeved he 
 could see where the division was just beginning for her breasts. He 
 could not leave her. She watched his hands, and felt her joints melt 
 as they moved quickly. She was so near; it was almost as if he 
 
350 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 touched her, and yet not quite. His mettle was roused. He hated 
 Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly dropping asleep, but determined 
 and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her, then at Clara. She 
 met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard as steel. Her 
 own answered him in shame. He knew she, at any rate, was of 
 his mind. He played on. 
 
 At last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiflEly, and said: 
 
 "Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?" 
 
 Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiendy to 
 murder her. 
 
 "Half a minute," he said. 
 
 The elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery, 
 returning with his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then 
 she sat down again. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, 
 he dropped his cards. 
 
 "We'll stop, then," he sdd, but his voice was still a challenge. 
 
 Clara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It 
 seemed like an agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing, to 
 clear her throat. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad you've finished," said Mrs. Radford. "Here, 
 take your things"— she thrust the warm suit in his hand— "and this 
 is your candle. Your room's over this; there's only two, so you 
 can't go far wrong. Well, good-night. I hope you'll rest well." 
 
 "I'm sure I shall; I always do," he said. 
 
 "Yes; and so you ought at your age," she replied. 
 
 He bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting staurs of 
 white, scrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He 
 went doggedly. The two doors faced each other. He went in his 
 room, pushed the door to, without fastening the latch. 
 
 It was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara's haur-pins 
 were on the dressing-table— her hair-brush. Her clothes and some 
 skirts hung under a cloth in a comer. There was actually a pair 
 of stockings over a chair. He explored the room. Two books of his 
 own were there on the shelf. He undressed, folded his suit, and sat 
 on the bed, Ustening. Then he blew out the candle, lay down, and 
 in two minutes was almost asleep. Then click!— he was wide awake 
 and writhing in torment. It was as if, when he had nearly got to 
 sleep, something had bitten him suddenly and sent him mad. He 
 sat up and looked at the room in the darkness, his feet doubled 
 
PASSION 351 
 
 under him, perfectly motionless, listening. He heard a cat some- 
 where away outside; then the heavy, poised tread of the mother; 
 then Clara's distiact voice: 
 
 "Will you unfasten my dress?" 
 
 There was silence for some time. At last the mother said: 
 
 "Now then! aren't you coming up?" 
 
 "No, not yet," rephed the daughter calmly. 
 
 "Oh, very well then! If it's not late enough, stop a bit longer. 
 Only you needn't come waking me up when I've got to sleep." 
 
 "I shan't be long," said Clara. 
 
 Immediately afterwards Paul heard the mother slowly mounting 
 the stairs. The candlelight flashed through the cracks in his door. 
 Her dress brushed the door, and his heart jumped. Then it was 
 dark, and he heard the clatter of her latch. She was very leisurely 
 indeed in her preparations for sleep. After a long time it was quite 
 still. He sat strung up on the bed, shivering sUghtly. His door was 
 an inch open. As Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He 
 waited. All was dead silence. The clock struck two. Then he heard 
 a sUght scrape of the fender downstairs. Now he could not help 
 himself. His shivering was uncontrollable. He felt he must go or die. 
 
 He stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then 
 he went straight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first stair 
 cracked like a shot. He listened. The old woman stirred in her 
 bed. The staircase was dark. There was a slit of light under the 
 stair-foot door, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. 
 Then he went on, mechanically. Every step creaked, and his back 
 was creeping, lest the old woman's door should open behind him 
 up above. He fumbled with the door at the bottom. The latch 
 opened with a loud clack. He went through into the kitchen, and 
 shut the door noisily behind him. The old woman daren't come 
 now. 
 
 Then he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of white 
 underclothing on the hearth-rug, her back towards him, warming 
 herself. She did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, 
 and her rounded beautiful back was towards him, and her face was 
 hidden. She was warming her body at the fire for consolation. The 
 glow was rosy on one side, the shadow was dark and warm on the 
 other. Her arms hung slack. 
 
352 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hard to 
 keep control. Then he went forward to her. He put one hand on 
 her shoulder, the fingers of the other hand under her chin to raise 
 her face. A convulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his 
 touch. She kept her head bent. 
 
 "Sorry!" he murmured, realismg that his hands were very cold. 
 
 Then she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that is afraid 
 of death. 
 
 "My hands are so cold," he murmured. 
 
 "I Uke it," she whispered, closing her eyes. 
 
 The breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms clasped 
 his knees. The cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and 
 made her shiver. As the warmth went into him, his shuddering 
 became less. 
 
 At length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and she 
 buried her head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowly 
 with an infinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him, try- 
 ing to hide herself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at 
 last she looked at him, mute, imploring, looking to see if she must 
 be ashamed. 
 
 His eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if her 
 beauty and his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked 
 at her with a little pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before 
 her. She kissed him fervently on the eyes, first one, then the other, 
 and she folded herself to him. She gave herself. He held her fast. 
 It was a moment intense almost to agony. 
 
 She stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It 
 healed her hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It made her 
 feel erect and proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside 
 her. She had been cheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride 
 again. It was her restoration and her recognition. 
 
 Then he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed to each 
 other, and he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off, the 
 minutes passed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together, 
 mouth to mouth, like a statue in one block. 
 
 But again his fingers went seekmg over her, restless, wandering, 
 dissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her 
 head on his shoulder, 
 
 "Come you to my room," he murmured. 
 
PASSION 353 
 
 She looked at him and shook her head, her mouth pouting dis- 
 consolately, her eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly. 
 
 "Yes!" he said. 
 
 Again she shook her head. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 She looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again she shook 
 her head. His eyes hardened, and he gave way. 
 
 When, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she had 
 refused to come to him openly, so that her mother would know. 
 At any rate, then things would have been definite. And she could 
 have stayed with him the night, without having to go, as she was, 
 to her mother's bed. It was strange, and he could not understand 
 it. And then almost immediately he feU asleep. 
 
 He awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Open- 
 ing his eyes, he saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking down 
 on him. She held a cup of tea in her hand. 
 
 "Do you think you're going to sleep till Doomsday?" she said. 
 
 He laughed at once. 
 
 "It ought only to be about five o'clock," he said. 
 
 "Well," she answered, "it's half-past seven, whether or not. 
 Here, I've brought you a cup of tea." 
 
 He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, 
 and roused himself. 
 
 "What's it so late for!" he grumbled. 
 
 He resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neck 
 in the flannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl's. He 
 rubbed his hair crossly. 
 
 "It's no good your scratching your head," she said. "It won't 
 make it no earlier. Here, an' how long d'you think I'm going to 
 stand waiting wi' this here cup?" 
 
 "Oh, dash the cup!" he said. 
 
 "You should go to bed earlier," said the woman. 
 
 He looked up at her, laughing with impudence. 
 
 "I went to bed before you did," he said. 
 
 "Yes, my Guyney, you did!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Fancy," he said, stirring his tea, "having tea brought to bed to 
 me! My mother'll think I'm ruined for life." 
 
 "Don't she never do it?" asked Mrs. Radford. 
 
 "She'd as leave think of flying." 
 
354 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That's why they've turned out such 
 bad uns," said the elderly woman. 
 
 "You'd only Clara," he said. "And Mr. Radford's in heaven. So 
 I suppose there's only you left to be the bad un." 
 
 "I'm not bad; I'm only soft," she said, as she went out of the 
 bedroom. "I'm only a fool, I am!" 
 
 Qara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of air of 
 proprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radford 
 was evidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting. 
 
 "What's the good," exclaimed the mother, "of your whittling 
 and worrying and twistin' and too-in' at that painting of yours? 
 What good does it do you, I should like to know? You'd better be 
 enjoyin' yourself." 
 
 "Oh, but," exclaimed Paul, "I made over thirty guineas last 
 year." 
 
 "Did you! Well, that's a consideration, but it's nothing to the 
 time you put in." 
 
 "And I've got four poimds owing. A man said he'd give me 
 five poimds if I'd paint him and his missis and the dog and the 
 cottage. And I went and put the fowls in instead of the dog, and 
 he was waxy, so I had to knock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I 
 didn't Uke the dog. I made a picture of it. What shall I do when 
 he pays me the foiu: poimds?" 
 
 "Nay! you know your own uses for your money," said Mrs. 
 Radford. 
 
 "But I'm going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the 
 seaside for a day or two?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "You and Clara and me." 
 
 "What, on your money!" she exclaimed, half-wrathful. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You wouldn't be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!" 
 she said. 
 
 "So long as I get a good run for my money! WOl you?" 
 
 "Nay; you may settle that atween you." 
 
 "And you're willing?" he asked, amazed and rejoicing. 
 
 "You'll do as you like," said Mrs. Radford, "whether I'm willing 
 or not." 
 
BAXTER DAWES 355 
 
 CHAPTER Xm 
 Baxter Dawes 
 
 Soon after Paul had been to the theatre with Clara, he was drink- 
 ing in the Punch Bowl with some friends of his when Dawes came 
 in. Clara's husband was growing stout; his eyeUds were getting 
 slack over his brown eyes; he was losing his healthy firmness of 
 flesh. He was very evidently on the downward track. Having 
 quarrelled with his sister, he had gone into cheap lodgings. His 
 mistress had left him for a man who would marry her. He had 
 been in prison one night for fighting when he was drunk, and there 
 was a shady betting episode in which he was concerned. 
 
 Paul and he were confirmed enemies, and yet there was be- 
 tween them that pecuUar feeling of intimacy, as if they were 
 secretly near to each other, which sometimes exists between two 
 people, although they never speak to one another, Paul often 
 thought of Baxter Dawes, often wanted to get at him and be friends 
 with him. He knew that Dawes often thought about him, and that 
 the man was drawn to him by some bond or other. And yet the 
 two never looked at each other save in hostility. 
 
 Since he was a superior employee at Jordan's, it was the thing 
 for Paul to offer Dawes a drink. 
 
 "What'll you have?" he asked of Mm. 
 
 "Nowt wi' a bleeder like you!" replied the man. 
 
 Paul turned away with a slight disdainful movement of the 
 shoulders, very irritating. 
 
 "The aristocracy," he continued, "is really a military institu- 
 tion. Take Germany, now. She's got thousands of aristocrats whose 
 only means of existence is the army. They're deadly poor, and 
 life's deadly slow. So they hope for a war. They look for war as 
 a chance of getting on. TQl there's a war they are idle good-for- 
 nothings. When there's a war, they are leaders and commanders. 
 There you are, then— they want war!" 
 
 He was not a favourite debater in the public-house, being too 
 quick and overbearing. He irritated the older men by his assertive 
 
356 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 manner, and his cocksureness. They listened in silence, and were 
 not sorry when he finished. 
 
 Dawes interrupted the young man's flow of eloquence by asking, 
 in a loud sneer: 
 
 "Did you learn all that at th' theatre th' other night?" 
 
 Paul looked at him; their eyes met. Then he knew Dawes had 
 seen him coming out of the theatre with Qara. 
 
 "Why, what about th' theatre?" asked one of Paul's associates, 
 glad to get a dig at the young fellow, and sniflBng something tasty. 
 
 "Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!" sneered 
 Dawes, jerking his head contemptuously at Paul. 
 
 "That's comin' it strong," said the mutual friend. "Tart an' all?" 
 
 "Tart, begod!" said Dawes. 
 
 "Go on; let's have it!" cried the mutual friend. 
 
 "You've got it," said Dawes, "an' I reckon Morelly had it an' 
 all." 
 
 "Well, I'll be jiggered!" said the mutual friend. "An' was it a 
 proper tart?" 
 
 "Tart, God blimey-yes!" 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Oh," said Dawes, "I reckon he spent th' night — " 
 
 There was a good deal of laughter at Paul's expense. 
 
 "But who was she? D'you know her?" asked the mutual friend. 
 
 "I should shay sho," said Dawes. 
 
 This brought another burst of laughter. 
 
 "Then spit it out," said the mutual friend. 
 
 Dawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer. 
 
 "It's a wonder he hasn't let on himself," he said. "He'll be brag- 
 gin' of it m a bit." 
 
 "Come on, Paul," said the friend; "it's no good. You might just 
 as well own up." 
 
 "Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?" 
 
 "Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad," said the 
 friend. 
 
 "She was all right," said Dawes. 
 
 Paul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his 
 fingers, sneering. 
 
 "Strike me — ! One o' that sort?" said the mutual friend. "Paul, 
 boy, I'm surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?" 
 
 "Just a bit, Uke!" 
 
BAXTER DAWES 357 
 
 He winked at the other men. 
 
 "Oh weU," said Paul, "I'U be going!" 
 
 The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Nay," he said, "you don't get off as easy as that, my lad. We've 
 got to have a fuU account of this business." 
 
 "Then get it from Dawes!" he said. 
 
 "You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man," remonstrated the 
 friend. 
 
 Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half 
 a glass of beer in his face. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Morel!" cried the barmaid, and she rang the beU for 
 the "chucker-out". 
 
 Dawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a 
 brawny fellow with his shkt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers 
 tight over his haunches intervened. 
 
 "Now, then!" he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes. 
 
 "Come out!" cried Dawes. 
 
 Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail 
 of the bar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate 
 him at that minute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on 
 the man's forehead, he thought he looked pathetic. He did not 
 move. 
 
 "Come out, you — ," said Dawes. 
 
 "That's enough, Dawes," cried the barmaid. 
 
 "Come on," said the "chucker-out", with kindly insistence, 
 "you'd better be getting on." 
 
 And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, 
 he worked him to the door. 
 
 "Thafs the little sod as started it!" cried Dawes, half-cowed, 
 pointing to Paul Morel. 
 
 "Why, what a story, Mr, Dawes!" said the barmaid. "You know 
 it was you all the time." 
 
 Still the "chucker-out" kept thrusting his chest forward at him, 
 still he kept edgmg back, until he was m the doorway and on the 
 steps outside; then he turned round. 
 
 "All right," he said, nodding straight at his rival. 
 
 Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled 
 with violent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there 
 was silence in the bar. 
 
 "Serve him joUy well right!" said the barmaid. 
 
358 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes," said 
 the mutual friend. 
 
 "I tell you / was glad he did," said the barmaid. "Will you have 
 another, Mr. Morel?" 
 
 She held up Paul's glass questioningly. He nodded. 
 
 "He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes," 
 said one. 
 
 "Pooh! is he?" said the barmaid. "He's a loud-mouthed one, 
 he is, and they're never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken 
 chap, if you want a devil!" 
 
 "Well, Paul, my lad," said the friend, "you'll have to take care 
 of yourself now for a while." 
 
 "You won't have to give him a chance over you, that's all," 
 said the barmaid. 
 
 "Can you box?" asked a friend. 
 
 "Not a bit," he answered, still very white. 
 
 "I might give you a turn or two," said the friend. 
 
 "Thanks, I haven't time." 
 
 And presently he took his departure. 
 
 "Go along with him, Mr. Jenkinson," whispered the barmaid, 
 tipping Mr. Jenkinson the wink. 
 
 The man nodded, took his hat, said: "Good-night all!" very 
 heartily, and followed Paul, calling: 
 
 "Half a minute, old man. You an' me's going the same road, 
 I beUeve." 
 
 "Mr. Morel doesn't like it," said the barmaid. "You'll see, we 
 shan't have him in much more. I'm sorry; he's good company. 
 And Baxter Dawes wants locking up, that's what he wants." 
 
 Paul would have died rather than his mother should get to know 
 of this affair. He suffered tortures of humiliation and self- 
 consciousness. There was now a good deal of his life of which 
 necessarily he could not speak to his mother. He had a life apart 
 from her— his sexual life. The rest she still kept. But he felt he had 
 to conceal something from her, and it irked him. There was a 
 certain silence between them, and he felt he had, in that silence, 
 to defend himself against her; he felt condemned by her. Then 
 sometimes he hated her, and pulled at her bondage. His life wanted 
 to free itself of her. It was Uke a circle where life turned back on 
 itself, and got no farther. She bore him, loved him, kept him, and 
 
BAXTER DAWES 359 
 
 his love turned back into her, so that he could not be free to go 
 forward with his own life, reaUy love another woman. At this 
 period, unknowingly, he resisted his mother's influence. He did 
 not tell her things; there was a distance between them. 
 
 Clara was happy, almost sure of him. She felt she had at last 
 got him for herself; and then again came the uncertainty. He told 
 her jestingly of the affair with her husband. Her colour came up, 
 her grey eyes flashed. 
 
 "That's him to a 'T'," she cried-"like a navvy! He's not fit for 
 mixing with decent folk." 
 
 "Yet you married him," he said. 
 
 It made her furious that he reminded her. 
 
 "I did!" she cried. "But how was I to know?" 
 
 "I think he mi^t have been rather nice," he said. 
 
 "You think / made him what he is!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh no! he made himself. But there's something about him — " 
 
 Qara looked at her lover closely. There was something in him 
 she hated, a sort of detached criticism of herself, a coldness which 
 made her woman's soul harden against him. 
 
 "And what are you gomg to do?" she asked. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "About Baxter." 
 
 "There's nothing to do, is there?" he replied. 
 
 "You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?" she said. 
 
 "No; I haven't the least sense of the 'fist'. It's funny. With 
 most men there's the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It's not so 
 with me. I should want a knife or a pistol or something to fight 
 with." 
 
 "Then you'd better carry something," she said. 
 
 "Nay," he laughed; "Fm not daggeroso." 
 
 "But he'll do somethmg to you. You don't know him." 
 
 "All right," he said, "we'll see." 
 
 "And you'U let him?" 
 
 "Perhaps, if I can't help it." 
 
 "And if he kills you?" she said. 
 
 "I should be sorry, for his sake and mine." 
 
 Clara was silent for a moment. 
 
 "You do make me angry!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "That's nothing afresh," he laughed. 
 
360 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "But why are you so silly? You don't know him." 
 "And don't want." 
 
 "Yes, but you're not going to let a man do as he hkes with you?" 
 "What must I do?" he replied, laughing. 
 "/ should carry a revolver," she said. "I'm sure he's dangerous." 
 "I might blow my fingers off," he said. 
 "No; but won't you?" she pleaded. 
 "No." 
 
 "Not anything?" 
 "No." 
 
 "And you'll leave him to — ?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are a fool!" 
 "Fact!" 
 
 She set her teeth with anger. 
 
 "I could shake you!" she cried, trembling with passion. 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Let a man like him do as he likes with you." 
 "You can go back to him if he triumphs," he said. 
 "Do you want me to hate you?" she asked. 
 "Well, I only tell you," he said. 
 
 "And you say you love me!" she exclaimed, low and indignant. 
 "Ought I to slay him to please you?" he said. "But if I did, see 
 what a hold he'd have over me." 
 
 "Do you think I'm a fool!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Not at all. But you don't xmderstand me, my dear." 
 
 There was a pause between them. 
 
 "But you ought not to expose yourself," she pleaded. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "'The man in righteousness arrayed. 
 
 The pure and blameless liver. 
 
 Needs not the keen Toledo blade. 
 
 Nor venom-freighted quiver,'" 
 
 he quoted. 
 
 She looked at him searchingly. 
 
 "I wish I could understand you," she said. 
 
 "There's simply nothing to understand," he laughed. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 361 
 
 She bowed her head, brooding. 
 
 He did not see Dawes for several days; then one morning as 
 he ran upstairs from the Spiral room he almost collided with the 
 burly metal-worker. 
 
 "What the — !" cried the smith. 
 
 "Sorry!" said Paul, and passed on. 
 
 "Sorry!" sneered Dawes. 
 
 Paul whistled Ughtly, "Put Me among the Girls". 
 
 "I'll stop your whistle, my jockey!" he said. 
 
 The other took no notice. 
 
 "You're goin' to answer for that job of the other night." 
 
 Paul went to his desk in his comer, and turned over the leaves 
 of the ledger. 
 
 "Go and tell Fanny I want order 097, quick!" he said to his boy. 
 
 Dawes stood in the doorway, tall and threatening, looking at 
 the top of the young man's head. 
 
 "Six and five's eleven and seven's one-and-six," Paul added 
 aloud. 
 
 "An' you hear, do you!" said Dawes. 
 
 "Five and ninepence!" He wrote a figure. "What's that?" he 
 said. 
 
 "I'm going to show you what it is," said the smith. 
 
 The other went on adding the figures aloud. 
 
 "Yer crawlin' Uttle — , yer daresn't face me proper!" 
 
 Paul quickly snatched the heavy ruler. Dawes started. The young 
 man ruled some lines in his ledger. The elder man was infuriated. 
 
 "But wait till I Ught on you, no matter where it is, I'll settle your 
 hash for a bit, yer httle swme!" 
 
 "All right," said Paul. 
 
 At that the smith started heavily from the doorway. Just then 
 a whistle piped shrilly. Paul went to the speaking-tube. 
 
 "Yes!" he said, and he Ustened. "Er— yes!" He listened, then 
 he laughed. "I'll come down directly. I've got a visitor just now." 
 
 Dawes knew from his tone that he had been speaking to Clara. 
 He stepped forward. 
 
 "Yer little devil!" he said. "I'll visitor you, inside of two min- 
 utes! Think I'm goin' to have you whipperty-snappin' round?" 
 
 The other clerks in the warehouse looked up. Paul's office-boy 
 appeared, holding some white article. 
 
362 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Fanny says you could have had it last night if you'd let her 
 know," he said. 
 
 "All right," answered Paul, looking at the stocking. "Get it off." 
 
 Dawes stood frustrated, helpless with rage. Morel turned round. 
 
 "Excuse me a minute," he said to Dawes, and he would have 
 run downstairs. 
 
 "By God, I'll stop your gallop!" shouted the smith, seizing him 
 by the arm. He turned quickly. 
 
 "Hey! Hey!" cried the office-boy, alarmed. 
 
 Thomas Jordan started out of his little glass office, and came 
 running down the room. 
 
 "What's a-matter, what's a-matter?" he said, in Ms old man's 
 sharp voice. 
 
 "I'm just goin' ter settle this Uttle — , that's aU," said Dawes 
 desperately. 
 
 "What do you mean?" snapped Thomas Jordan. 
 
 "What I say," said Dawes, but he hung fire. 
 
 Morel was leaning against the coimter, ashamed, half-grinniag. 
 
 "What's it all about?" snapped Thomas Jordan. 
 
 "Couldn't say," said Paul, shaking his head and shrugging his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Couldn't yer, couldn't yer!" cried Dawes, thrusting forward 
 his handsome, furious face, and squaring his fist. 
 
 "Have you finished?" cried the old man, strutting. "Get off about 
 your business, and don't come here tipsy in the morning." 
 
 Dawes turned his big frame slowly upon him. 
 
 "Tipsy!" he said. "Who's tipsy? I'm no more tipsy than you are!" 
 
 "We've heard that song before," snapped the old man. "Now 
 you get off, and don't be long about it. Comin' here with your 
 rowdying." 
 
 The smith looked down contemptuously on his employer. His 
 hands, large, and grimy, and yet well shaped for his labour, worked 
 restlessly. Paul remembered they were the hands of Clara's hus- 
 band, and a flash of hate went through him. 
 
 "Get out before you're turned out!" snapped Thomas Jordan. 
 
 "Why, who'll turn me out?" said Dawes, beginning to sneer. 
 
 Mr. Jordan started, marched up to the smith, waving him off, 
 thrusting his stout little figure at the man, saying: 
 
 "Get off my premises— get off!" 
 
BAXTER DAWES 363 
 
 He seized and twitched Dawes's arm. 
 
 "Come off!" said the smith, and with a jerk of the elbow he 
 sent the httle manufacturer staggering backwards. 
 
 Before anyone could help him, Thomas Jordan had collided 
 with the flimsy spring-door. It had given way, and let him crash 
 down the half-dozen steps into Fanny's room. There was a second 
 of amazement; then men and girls were running. Dawes stood a 
 moment looking bitterly on the scene, then he took his departure. 
 
 Thomas Jordan was shaken and bruised, not otherwise hurt. 
 He was, however, beside himself with rage. He dismissed Dawes 
 from his employment, and summoned him for assault. 
 
 At the trial Paul Morel had to give evidence. Asked how the 
 trouble began, he said: 
 
 "Dawes took occasion to insult Mrs. Dawes and me because 
 I accompanied her to the theatre one evening; then I threw some 
 beer at him, and he wanted his revenge." 
 
 "Cherchez la femme!" smiled the magistrate. 
 
 The case was dismissed after the magistrate had told Dawes 
 he thought him a skunk. 
 
 "You gave the case away," snapped Mr. Jordan to Paul. 
 
 "I don't think I did," replied the latter. "Besides, you didn't 
 really want a conviction, did you?" 
 
 "What do you think I took the case up for?" 
 
 "Well," said Paul, "I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing." Clara 
 was also very angry. 
 
 "Why need my name have been dragged in?" she said. 
 
 "Better speak it openly than leave it to be whispered." 
 
 "There was no need for anything at all," she declared. 
 
 "We are none the poorer," he said indifferently. 
 
 "You may not be," she said. 
 
 "And you?" he asked. 
 
 "I need never have been mentioned." 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said; but he did not sound sorry. 
 
 He told himself easily: "She vwU come round." And she did. 
 
 He told his mother about the fall of Mr. Jordan and the trial 
 of Dawes. Mrs. Morel watched him closely. 
 
 "And what do you think of it all?" she asked him. 
 
 "I think he's a fool," he said. 
 
 But he was very uncomfortable, nevertheless. 
 
364 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Have you ever considered where it will end?" his mother said. 
 
 "No," he answered; "things work out of themselves." 
 
 "They do, in a way one doesn't like, as a rule," said his mother. 
 
 "And then one has to put up with them," he said. 
 
 "You'll find you're not as good at 'putting up' as you imagine," 
 she said. 
 
 He went on workmg rapidly at his design. 
 
 "Do you ever ask her opinion?" she said at length. 
 
 "What of?" 
 
 "Of you, and the whole thing." 
 
 "I don't care what her opinion of me is. She's fearfully in love 
 with me, but it's not very deep." 
 
 "But quite as deep as your feeling for her." 
 
 He looked up at his mother curiously. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "You know, mother, I thmk there must be 
 something the matter with me, that I can't love. When she's there, 
 as a rule, I do love her. Sometimes, when I see her just as the 
 woman, I love her, mother; but then, when she talks and criticises, 
 I often don't listen to her." 
 
 "Yet she's as much sense as Miriam." 
 
 "Perhaps; and I love her better than Miriam. But why don't 
 they hold me?" 
 
 The last question was almost a lamentation. His mother turned 
 away her face, sat looking across the room, very quiet, grave, with 
 something of remmciation. 
 
 "But you wouldn't want to marry Clara?" she said. 
 
 "No; at first perhaps I would. But why— why don't I want to 
 marry her or anybody? I feel sometimes as if I wronged my 
 women, mother." 
 
 "How wronged them, my son?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 He went on painting rather despairingly; he had touched the 
 quick of the trouble. 
 
 "And as for wanting to marry," said his mother, "there's plenty 
 of time yet." 
 
 "But no, mother. I even love Qara, and I did Miriam; but to 
 give myself to them in marriage I couldn't. I couldn't belong to 
 them. They seem to want me, and I can't ever give it them." 
 
 "You haven't met the right woman." 
 
BAXTER DAWES 365 
 
 "And I never shall meet the right woman while you live," he 
 said. 
 
 She was very quiet. Now she began to feel again tired, as if she 
 were done. 
 
 "We'U see, my son," she answered. 
 
 The feeling that things were going in a circle made him mad. 
 
 Clara was, indeed, passionately in love with him, and he with 
 her, as far as passion went. In the daytime he forgot her a good 
 deal. She was working in the same building, but he was not aware 
 of it. He was busy, and her existence was of no matter to him. 
 But all the time she was in her Spiral room she had a sense that 
 he was upstairs, a physical sense of his person in the same build- 
 ing. Every second she expected him to come through the door, 
 and when he came it was a shock to her. But he was often short 
 and offhand with her. He gave her his directions in an ofiBcial man- 
 ner, keeping her at bay. With what wits she had left she Ustened 
 to him. She dared not misunderstand or fail to remember, but it 
 was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew 
 exactly how his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she 
 wanted to touch it. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice 
 giving orders about the work. She wanted to break through the 
 sham of it, smash the trivial coating of business which covered 
 him with hardness, get at the man again; but she was afraid, and 
 before she could feel one touch of his warmth he was gone, and 
 she ached again. 
 
 He knew that she was dreary every evening she did not see 
 him, so he gave her a good deal of his time. The days were often 
 a misery to her, but the evenings and the nights were usually a 
 bhss to them both. Then they were silent. For hours they sat 
 together, or walked together in the dark, and talked only a few, 
 almost meaningless words. But he had her hand in his, and her 
 bosom left its warmth in his chest, making him feel whole. 
 
 One evening they were walking down by the canal, and some- 
 thing was troubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the 
 time he whistled softly and persistently to himself. She hstened, 
 feeling she could learn more from his whistling than from his 
 speech. It was a sad dissatisfied tune— a tune that made her feel 
 he would not stay with her. She walked on in silence. When they 
 came to the swmg bridge he sat down on the great pole, looking 
 
366 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 at the stars in the water. He was a long way from her. She had 
 been thinking. 
 
 "Will you always stay at Jordan's?" she asked. 
 
 "No," he answered without reflecting. "No; I s'll leave Notting- 
 ham and go abroad— soon." 
 
 "Go abroad! What for?" 
 
 "I duimo! I feel restless." 
 
 "But what shall you do?" 
 
 "I shall have to get some steady designing work, and some sort 
 of sale for my pictures first," he said. "I am gradually making my 
 way. I know I am." 
 
 "And when do you think you'll go?" 
 
 "I don't know. I shall hardly go for long, while there's my 
 mother." 
 
 "You couldn't leave her?" 
 
 "Not for long." 
 
 She looked at the stars in the black water. They lay very white 
 and staring. It was an agony to know he would leave her, but it 
 was almost an agony to have him near her. 
 
 "And if you made a nice lot of money, what would you do?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Go somewhere in a pretty house near London with my mother." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 "I could still come and see you," he said. "I don't know. Don't 
 ask me what I should do; I don't know." 
 
 There was a silence. The stars shuddered and broke upon the 
 water. There came a breath of wmd. He went suddenly to her, 
 and put his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Don't ask me anything about the future," he said miserably. 
 "I don't know anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter what 
 it is?" 
 
 And she took him in her arms. After all, she was a married 
 woman, and she had no right even to what he gave her. He needed 
 her badly. She had him in her arms, and he was miserable. With 
 her warmth she folded him over, consoled him, loved him. She 
 would let the moment stand for itself. 
 
 After a moment he lifted his head as if he wanted to speak. 
 
 "Clara," he said, struggling. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 367 
 
 She caught him passionately to her, pressed his head down on 
 her breast with her hand. She could not bear the suffering in his 
 voice. She was afraid in her soul. He might have anything of her 
 —anything; but she did not want to know. She felt she could not 
 bear it. She wanted him to be soothed upon her— soothed. She 
 stood clasping him and caressing him, and he was something un- 
 known to her— something almost uncanny. She wanted to soothe 
 him into forgetfulness. 
 
 And soon the struggle went down in his soul, and he forgot. 
 But then Qara was not there for him, only a woman, warm, some- 
 thing he loved and almost worshipped, there in the dark. But it was 
 not Clara, and she submitted to him. The naked hunger and in- 
 evitabihty of his loving her, something strong and blind and ruth- 
 less in its primitiveness, made the hour almost terrible to her. 
 She knew how stark and alone he was, and she felt it was great 
 that he came to her; and she took him simply because his need 
 was bigger either than her or him, and her soul was stiU within 
 her. She did this for him in his need, even if he left her, for she 
 loved him. 
 
 AH the while the peewits were screaming in the field. When 
 he came to, he wondered what was near his eyes, curving and 
 strong with life in the dark, and what voice it was speaking. Then 
 he reahsed it was the grass, and the peewit was calling. The warmth 
 was Clara's breathing heaving. He Ufted his head, and looked into 
 her eyes. They were dark and shining and strange, life wild at 
 the source staring into his life, stranger to him, yet meeting him; 
 and he put his face down on her throat, afraid. What was she? 
 A strong, strange, wild life, that breathed with his in the darkness 
 through this hour. It was all so much bigger than themselves that 
 he was hushed. They had met, and included m their meeting the 
 thrust of the manifold grass stems, the cry of the peewit, the wheel 
 of the stars. 
 
 When they stood up they saw other lovers stealing down the 
 opposite hedge. It seemed natural they were there; the night con- 
 tained them. 
 
 And after such an evening they both were very still, having 
 known the immensity of passion. They felt small, half-afraid, 
 childish and wondering, Uke Adam and Eve when they lost their 
 innocence and reahsed the magnificence of the power which drove 
 
368 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 them out of Paradise and across the great night and the great day 
 of humanity. It was for each of them an initiation and a satisfac- 
 tion. To know their own nothingness, to know the tremendous 
 living flood which carried them always, gave them rest within 
 themselves. K so great a magnificent power could overwhelm 
 them, identify them altogether with itself, so that they knew they 
 were only grains in the tremendous heave that lifted every grass 
 blade its little height, and every tree, and Uving thing, then why 
 fret about themselves? They could let themselves be carried by 
 life, and they felt a sort of peace each in the other. There was a 
 verification which they had had together. Nothing could nullify 
 it, nothing could take it away; it was almost their belief in life. 
 
 But Clara was not satisfied. Something great was there, she 
 knew; something great enveloped her. But it did not keep her. 
 In the morning it was not the same. They had known, but she 
 could not keep the moment. She wanted it again; she wanted some- 
 thing permanent. She had not realised fully. She thought it was he 
 whom she wanted. He was not safe to her. This that had been 
 between them might never be again; he might leave her. She had 
 not got him; she was not satisfied. She had been there, but she 
 had not gripped the— the something— she knew not what— which 
 she was mad to have. 
 
 In the morning he had considerable peace, and was happy in 
 himself. It seemed almost as if he had known the baptism of fire 
 in passion, and it left him at rest. But it was not Clara. It was some- 
 thing that happened because of her, but it was not her. They were 
 scarcely any nearer each other. It was as if they had been blind 
 agents of a great force. 
 
 When she saw him that day at the factory her heart melted like 
 a drop of fire. It was his body, his brows. The drop of fire grew 
 more intense in her breast; she must hold him. But he, very quiet, 
 very subdued this morning, went on giving his instruction. She 
 followed him into the dark, ugly basement, and Ufted her arms 
 to him. He kissed her, and the intensity of passion began to bum 
 him again. Somebody was at the door. He ran upstairs; she returned 
 to her room, moving as if in a irance. 
 
 After that the fire slowly went down. He felt more and more 
 that his experience had been impersonal, and not Clara, He loved 
 her. There was a big tenderness, as after a strong emotion they 
 
BAXTER DAWES 369 
 
 had known together; but it was not she who could keep his soul 
 steady. He had wanted her to be something she could not be. 
 
 And she was mad with desire of him. She could not see him 
 without touching him. In the factory, as he talked to her about 
 Spiral hose, she ran her hand secretly along his side. She followed 
 him out into the basement for a quick kiss; her eyes, always mute 
 and yearning, fuU of imrestrained passion, she kept fixed on his. 
 He was afraid of her, lest she should too flagrantly give herself 
 away before the other girls. She invariably waited for him at 
 dinner-time for him to embrace her before she went. He felt as if 
 she were helpless, almost a burden to him, and it irritated him. 
 
 "But what do you always want to be kissmg and embracing for?" 
 he said. "Surely there's a time for everything." 
 
 She looked up at him, and the hate came into her eyes. 
 
 "Do I always want to be kissing you?" she said. 
 
 "Always, even if I come to ask you about the work. I don't want 
 anything to do with love when I'm at work. Work's work — " 
 
 "And what is love?" she asked. "Has it to have special hours?" 
 
 "Yes; out of work hours." 
 
 "And you'U regulate it accordmg to Mr. Jordan's closing tune?" 
 
 "Yes; and according to the freedom from business of any sort." 
 
 "It is only to exist in spare time?" 
 
 "That's all, and not always then— not the kissing sort of love." 
 
 "And that's all you think of it?" 
 
 "It's quite enough." 
 
 "I'm glad you think so," 
 
 And she was cold to him for some time— she hated him; 
 and while she was cold and contemptuous, he was uneasy till she 
 had forgiven him again. But when they started afresh they were not 
 any nearer. He kept her because he never satisfied her. 
 
 In the spring they went together to the seaside. They had rooms 
 at a little cottage near Theddlethorpe, and lived as man and wife. 
 Mrs. Radford sometimes went with them. 
 
 It was known in Nottingham that Paul Morel and Mrs. Dawes 
 were going together, but as nothing was very obvious, and Clara 
 always a solitary person, and he seemed so simple and innocent, 
 it did not make much difference. 
 
 He loved the Lincolnshire coast, and she loved the sea. In the 
 early morning they often went out together to bathe. The grey 
 
370 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 of the dawn, the far, desolate reaches of the fenland smitten with 
 winter, the sea-meadows rank with herbage, were stark enough 
 to rejoice his soul. As they stepped on to the highroad from their 
 plank bridge, and looked round at the endless monotony of levels, 
 the land a Uttle darker than the sky, the sea sounding small be- 
 yond the sandhills, his heart filled strong with the sweeping re- 
 lentlessness of life. She loved him then. He was solitary and 
 strong, and his eyes had a beautiful light. 
 
 They shuddered with cold; then he raced her down the road 
 to the green turf bridge. She could run well. Her colour soon came, 
 her throat was bare, her eyes shone. He loved her for being so 
 luxiuiously heavy, and yet so quick. Himself was Ught; she went 
 with a beautiful rush. They grew warm, and walked hand in hand. 
 
 A flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way down the 
 west, sank into insignificance. On the shadowy land things began 
 to take life, plants with great leaves became distmct. They came 
 through a pass in the big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long 
 waste of foreshore lay moaning under the dawn and the sea; the 
 ocean was a flat dark strip with a white edge. Over the gloomy sea 
 the sky grew red. Quickly the fire spread among the clouds and 
 scattered them. Crimson burned to orange, orange to duU gold, 
 and in a golden gUtter the sun came up, dribbling fierily over the 
 waves in little splashes, as if someone had gone along and the 
 light had spilled from her pail as she walked. 
 
 The breakers ran down the shore in long, hoarse strokes. Tiny 
 seagulls, Uke specks of spray, wheeled above the line of surf. Their 
 crying seemed larger than they. Far away the coast reached out, 
 and melted into the morning, the tussocky sandhills seemed to 
 sink to a level with the beach. Mablethorpe was tiny on their 
 right. They had alone the space of all this level shore, the sea, and 
 the upcoming sun, the faint noise of the waters, the sharp crying 
 of the gulls. 
 
 They had a warm hollow in the sandhills where the wind did 
 not come. He stood looking out to sea. 
 
 "It's very fine," he said. 
 
 "Now don't get sentimental," she said. 
 
 It irritated her to see him standing gazing at the sea, like a soli- 
 tary and poetic person. He laughed. She quickly undressed. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 371 
 
 "There are some fine waves this morning," she said trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 She was a better swimmer than he; he stood idly watching her. 
 
 "Aren't you coming?" she said. 
 
 "In a minute," he answered. 
 
 She was white and velvet skinned, with heavy shoulders. A 
 little wind, coming from the sea, blew across her body and ruffled 
 her hair. 
 
 The morning was of a lovely limpid gold colour. Veils of shadow 
 seemed to be drifting away on the north and the south. Clara stood 
 shrinking slightly from the touch of the wind, twistiag her hair. 
 The sea-grass rose behind the white stripped woman. She glanced 
 at the sea, then looked at him. He was watching her with dark 
 eyes which she loved and could not understand. She hugged her 
 breasts between her arms, cringing, laughing: 
 
 "Oo, it will be so cold!" she said. 
 
 He bent forward and kissed her, held her suddenly close, and 
 kissed her again. She stood waiting. He looked into her eyes, then 
 away at the pale sands. 
 
 "Go, then!" he said quietly. 
 
 She flung her arms round his neck, drew him agaiost her, kissed 
 Mm passionately, and went, saying: 
 
 "But you'll come in?" 
 
 "In a minute." 
 
 She went plodding heavily over the sand that was soft as velvet. 
 He, on the sandhills, watched the great pale coast envelop her. She 
 grew smaller, lost proportion, seemed only like a large white bird 
 toiling forward. 
 
 "Not much more than a big white pebble on the beach, not 
 much more than a clot of foam being blown and rolled over the 
 sand," he said to himself. 
 
 She seemed to move very slowly across the vast sounding shore. 
 As he watched, he lost her. She was dazzled out of sight by the 
 sunshine. Again he saw her, the merest white speck moving against 
 the white, muttering sea-edge, 
 
 "Look how little she is!" he said to himself. "She's lost like a 
 grain of sand in the beach— just a concentrated speck blown along, 
 a tiny white foam-bubble, ahnost nothing among the morning. 
 Why does she absorb me?" 
 
372 SONS AhfD LOVERS 
 
 The morning was altogether uninterrupted: she was gone in 
 the water. Far and wide the beach, the sandhills with their blue 
 marram, the shining water, glowed together in immense, unbroken 
 soUtude. 
 
 "What is she, after all?" he said to himself. "Here's the seacoast 
 morning, big and permanent and beautiful; there is she, fretting, 
 always imsatisfied, and temporary as a bubble of foam. What 
 does she mean to me, after all? She represents something, like a 
 bubble of foam represents the sea. But what is she? It's not her 
 I care for." 
 
 Then, startled by his own unconscious thoughts, that seemed 
 to speak so distinctly that all the morning coxild hear, he undressed 
 and ran quickly down the sands. She was watching for him. Her 
 arm flashed up to him, she heaved on a wave, subsided, her 
 shoulders in a pool of Uquid silver. He jumped through the break- 
 ers, and in a moment her hand was on his shoulder. 
 
 He was a poor swimmer, and could not stay long in the water. 
 She played round him in triumph, sporting with her superiority, 
 which he begrudged her. The sunshine stood deep and fine on the 
 water. They laughed in the sea for a minute or two, then raced 
 each other back to the sandhills. 
 
 When they were drying themselves, panting heavily, he watched 
 her laughing, breathless face, her bright shoulders, her breasts 
 that swayed and made him frightened as she rubbed them, and 
 he thought again: 
 
 "But she is magnificent, and even bigger than the morning and 
 the sea. Is she — ? Is she — " 
 
 She, seeing his dark eyes fixed on her, broke off from her dry- 
 ing with a laugh. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" she said. 
 
 "You," he answered, laughing. 
 
 Her eyes met his, and in a moment he was kissing her white 
 "goose-fleshed" shoulder, and thinking: 
 
 "What is she? What is she?" 
 
 She loved him in the morning. There was something detached, 
 hard, and elemental about his kisses then, as if he were only con- 
 scious of his own will, not in the least of her and her wanting him. 
 
 Later in the day he went out sketching. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 373 
 
 "You," he said to her, "go with yomr mother to Sutton. I am so 
 duU." 
 
 She stood and looked at him. He knew she wanted to come with 
 him, but he preferred to be alone. She made him feel imprisoned 
 when she was there, as if he could not get a free deep breath, as 
 if there were something on top of him. She felt his desire to be 
 free of her. 
 
 In the evening he came back to her. They walked down the 
 shore in the darkness, then sat for a while in the shelter of the 
 sandhills. 
 
 "It seems," she said, as they stared over the darkness of the sea, 
 where no light was to be seen— "it seemed as if you only loved me 
 at night— as if you didn't love me in the daytime." 
 
 He ran the cold sand through his fingers, feeling guilty under 
 the accusation. 
 
 "The night is free to you," he replied. "In the daytime I want 
 to be by myself." 
 
 "But why?" she said. "Why, even now, when we are on this 
 short holiday?" 
 
 "I don't know. Love-making stifles me in the daytune." 
 
 "But it needn't be always love-makmg," she said. 
 
 "It always is," he answered, "when you and I are together." 
 
 She sat feeling very bitter. 
 
 "Do you ever want to marry me?" he asked curiously. 
 
 "Do you me?" she repUed. 
 
 "Yes, yes; I should like us to have children," he answered 
 slowly. 
 
 She sat with her head bent, fingering the sand. 
 
 "But you don't really want a divorce from Baxter, do you?" he 
 said. 
 
 It was some minutes before she rephed. 
 
 "No," she said, very deliberately; "I don't think I do." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Do you feel as if you belonged to him?" 
 
 "No; I don't think so." 
 
 "What, then?" 
 
 "I think he belongs to me," she replied. 
 
374 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 He was silent for some minutes, listening to the wind blowing 
 over the hoarse, dark sea. 
 
 "And you never really intended to belong to me?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, I do belong to you," she answered. 
 
 "No," he said; "because you don't want to be divorced." 
 
 It was a knot they could not untie, so they left it, took what they 
 could get, and what they could not attain they ignored. 
 
 "I consider you treated Baxter rottenly," he said another time. 
 
 He half-expected Clara to answer him, as his mother would: 
 "You consider your own affairs, and don't know so much about 
 other people's." But she took him seriously, almost to his own 
 surprise. 
 
 "Why?" she said. 
 
 "I suppose you thought he was a Uly of the valley, and so you 
 put him in an appropriate pot, and tended him according. You 
 made up your mind he was a lily of the valley and it was no good 
 his being a cow-parsnip. You wouldn't have it." 
 
 "I certainly never imagined him a lily of the valley." 
 
 "You imagined him something he wasn't. That's just what a 
 woman is. She thinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's 
 going to see he gets it; and no matter if he's starving, he may sit 
 and whistle for what he needs, while she's got him, and is giving 
 him what's good for him ." 
 
 "And what are you doing?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm thinking what tune I shall whisde," he laughed. 
 
 And instead of boxing his ears, she considered him in earnest. 
 
 "You think I want to give you what's good for you?" she asked. 
 
 "I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom, not of 
 prison. Miriam made me feel tied up like a donkey to a stake. I 
 must feed on her patch, and nowhere else. It's sickening!" 
 
 "And would you let a woman do as she likes?" 
 
 "Yes; I'll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn't— well, I 
 don't hold her." 
 
 "If you were as wonderful as you say — ," replied Clara. 
 
 "I should be the marvel I am," he laughed. 
 
 There was a silence in which they hated each other, though 
 they laughed. 
 
 "Love's a dog in a manger," he said. 
 
 "And which of us is the dog?" she asked. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 375 
 
 "Oh well, you, of course." 
 
 So there went on a battle between them. She knew she never 
 fully had him. Some part, big and vital in him, she had no 
 hold over; nor did she ever try to get it, or even to realise what it 
 was. And he knew in some way that she held herself still as Mrs. 
 Dawes. She did not love Dawes, never had loved him; but she be- 
 lieved he loved her, at least depended on her. She felt a certain 
 surety about him that she never felt with Paul Morel. Her passion 
 for the yoimg man had filled her soul, given her a certain satisfac- 
 tion, eased her of her self-mistrust, her doubt. Whatever else she 
 was, she was inwardly assured. It was almost as if she had gained 
 herself, and stood now distinct and complete. She had received 
 her confirmation; but she never believed that her hfe belonged 
 to Paul Morel, nor his to her. They would separate in the end, and 
 the rest of her life would be an ache after him. But at any rate, she 
 knew now, she was sure of herself. And the same could almost be 
 said of him. Together they had received the baptism of life, each 
 through the other; but now their missions were separate. Where 
 he wanted to go she could not come with him. They would have 
 to part sooner or later. Even if they married, and were faithful to 
 each other, still he would have to leave her, go on alone, and she 
 would only have to attend to him when he came home. But it was 
 not possible. Each wanted a mate to go side by side with. 
 
 Clara had gone to Uve with her mother upon Mapperley Plains. 
 One evening, as Paul and she were walking along Woodborough 
 Road, they met Dawes. Morel knew something about the bearing 
 of the man approaching, but he was absorbed in his thinking at 
 the moment, so that only his artist's eye watched the form of the 
 stranger. Then he suddenly turned to Clara with a laugh, and put 
 his hand on her shoulder, saying, laughing: 
 
 "But we walk side by side, and yet I'm in London arguing with 
 an imaginary Orpen; and where are you?" 
 
 At that instant Dawes passed, almost touching Morel. The 
 young man glanced, saw the dark brown eyes burning, full of hate 
 and yet tired. 
 
 "Who was that?" he asked of Clara. 
 
 "It was Baxter," she replied. 
 
 Paul took his hand from her shoulder and glanced round; then 
 he saw again distinctly the man's form as it approached him. Dawes 
 
376 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Still walked erect, with his fine shoulders flung back, and his face 
 lifted; but there was a furtive look in his eyes that gave one the 
 impression he was trying to get unnoticed past every person he 
 met, glancing suspiciously to see what they thought of him. And 
 his hands seemed to be wanting to hide. He wore old clothes, 
 the trousers were torn at the knee, and the handkerchief tied round 
 his throat was dirty; but his cap was still defiantly over one eye. 
 As she saw him, Clara felt guilty. There was a tiredness and des- 
 pair on his face that made her hate him, because it hurt her. 
 
 "He looks shady," said Paul. 
 
 But the note of pity ui his voice reproached her, and made her 
 feel hard. 
 
 "His true commonness comes out," she answered. 
 
 "Do you hate him?" he asked. 
 
 "You talk," she said, "about the cruelty of women; I wish you 
 knew the cruelty of men in their brute force. They sunply don't 
 know that the woman exists." 
 
 "Don't I?" he said. 
 
 "No," she answered. 
 
 "Don't I know you exist?" 
 
 "About me you know nothing," she said bitterly— "about me!" 
 
 "No more than Baxter knew?" he asked. 
 
 "Perhaps not as much." 
 
 He felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry. There she walked un- 
 known to him, though they had been through such experience 
 together. 
 
 "But you know me pretty well," he said. 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?" he asked. 
 
 "He wouldn't let me," she said. 
 
 "And I have let you know me?" 
 
 "It's what men won't let you do. They won't let you get really 
 near to them," she said. 
 
 "And haven't I let you?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered slowly; "but you've never come near to 
 me. You can't come out of yourself, you can't. Baxter could do 
 that better than you." 
 
 He walked on pondering. He was angry with her for prefering 
 Baxter to him. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 377 
 
 "You begin to value Baxter now you've not got him," he said. 
 
 "No; I can only see where he was different from you." 
 
 But he felt she had a grudge against hun. 
 
 One evening, as they were coming home over the fields, she 
 startled him by asking: 
 
 "Do you think it's worth it— the—the sex part?" 
 
 "The act of loving, itself?" 
 
 "Yes; is it worth anything to you?" 
 
 "But how can you separate it?" he said. "It's the culmination of 
 everything. AH our intimacy cuhninates then." 
 
 "Not for me," she said. 
 
 He was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all, she 
 was dissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought they ful- 
 filled each other. But he believed her too implicitly. 
 
 "I feel," she continued slowly, "as if I hadn't got you, as if all 
 of you weren't there, and as if it weren't me you were taking — " 
 
 "Who, then?" 
 
 "Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that I daren't 
 think of it. But is it me you want, or is it It?" 
 
 He again felt guilty. Did he leave Clara out of count, and take 
 simply women? But he thought that was splitting a hair. 
 
 "When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I did feel as if I 
 had all of him," she said. 
 
 "And it was better?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don't say you haven't given me 
 more than he ever gave me." 
 
 "Or could give you." 
 
 "Yes, perhaps; but you've never given me yourself." 
 
 He knitted his brows angrily. 
 
 "If I start to make love to you," he said, "I just go like a leaf 
 down the wind." 
 
 "And leave me out of count," she said. 
 
 "And then is it nothing to you?" he asked, almost rigid with 
 chagrin. 
 
 "It's something; and sometimes you have carried me away- 
 right away— I know— and— I reverence you for it— but — " 
 
 "Don't 'but' me," he said, kissing her quickly, as a fire ran 
 through him. 
 
 She submitted, and was silent. 
 
378 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 It was trae as he said. As a rule, when he started love-making, 
 the emotion was strong enough to carry with it everything— reason, 
 soul, blood— in a great sweep, like the Trent carries bodily its back- 
 swirls and intertwinings, noiselessly. Gradually the httle criticisms, 
 the little sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything borne 
 along in one flood. He became, not a man with a mind, but a great 
 instinct. His hands were like creatures, Uving; his limbs, his body, 
 were all life and consciousness, subject to no will of his, but living 
 in themselves. Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous, wintry 
 stars were strong also with Ufe. He and they struck with the same 
 pulse of fire, and the same joy of strength which held the bracken- 
 frond stiff near his eyes held his own body firm. It was as if he, and 
 the stars, and the dark herbage, and Clara were licked up in an im- 
 mense tongue of flame, which tore onwards and upwards. Every- 
 thing rushed along in living beside him; everything was still, 
 perfect in itself, along with him. This wonderful stillness in each 
 thing in itself, while it was being borne along in a very ecstasy of 
 living, seemed the highest point of bliss. 
 
 And Clara knew this held him to her, so she trusted altogether 
 to the passion. It, however, failed her very often. They did not 
 often reach again the height of that once when the peewits had 
 called. Gradually, some mechanical effort spoilt their loving, or, 
 when they had splendid moments, they had them separately, and 
 not so satisfactorily. So often he seemed merely to be miming on 
 alone; often they realised it had been a failure, not what they had 
 wanted. He left her, knowing that evening had only made a Uttle 
 split between them. Their loving grew more mechanical, without 
 the marvellous glamour. Gradually they began to introduce novel- 
 ties, to get back some of the feeling of satisfaction. They would 
 be very near, almost dangerously near to the river, so that the 
 black water ran not far from his face, and it gave a litfle thrill; or 
 they loved sometimes in a little hollow below the fence of the path 
 where people were passing occasionally, on the edge of the town, 
 and they heard footsteps coming, almost felt the vibration of the 
 tread, and they heard what the passers-by said— strange Utfle things 
 that were never intended to be heard. And afterwards each of them 
 was rather ashamed, and these things caused a distance between 
 the two of them. He began to despise her a littie, as if she had mer- 
 ited it! 
 
BAXTER DAWES 379 
 
 One night he left her to go to Daybrook Station over the fields. 
 It was very dark, with an attempt at snow, although the spring was 
 so far advanced. Morel had not much time; he plunged forward. 
 The town ceases almost abruptly on the edge of a steep hoUow; 
 there the houses with their yellow lights stand up against the dark- 
 ness. He went over the stile, and dropped quickly into the hollow 
 of the fields. Under the orchard one warm window shone in 
 Swineshead Farm. Paul glanced round. Behind, the houses stood 
 on the brim of the dip, black against the sky, like wild beasts glar- 
 ing curiously with yellow eyes down into the darkness. It was the 
 town that seemed savage and uncouth, glaring on the clouds at 
 the back of him. Some creature stirred under the willows of the 
 farm pond. It was too dark to distinguish anything. 
 
 He was close up to the next stUe before he saw a dark shape 
 leaning against it. The man moved aside. 
 
 "Good-evening!" he said. 
 
 "Good-evening!" Morel answered, not noticing. 
 
 "Paul Morel?" said the man. 
 
 Then he knew it was Dawes. The man stopped his way. 
 
 "I've got yer, have I?" he said awkwardly. 
 
 "I shall miss my train," said Paul. 
 
 He could see nothing of Dawes's face. The man's teeth seemed 
 to chatter as he talked. 
 
 "You're going to get it from me now," said Dawes. 
 
 Morel attempted to move forward; the other man stepped in 
 front of him. 
 
 "Are yer goin' to take that top-coat off," he said, "or are you 
 goin' to lie down to it?" 
 
 Paul was afraid the man was mad. 
 
 "But," he said, "I don't know how to fight." 
 
 "All right, then," answered Dawes, and before the younger man 
 knew where he was, he was staggering backwards from a blow 
 across the face. 
 
 The whole night went black. He tore off his overcoat and coat, 
 dodging a blow, and flung the garments over Dawes. The latter 
 swore savagely. Morel, in his shirt-sleeves, was now alert and furi- 
 ous. He felt his whole body unsheath itseff like a claw. He could 
 not fight, so he would use his wits. The other man became more 
 distinct to him; he could see particularly the shirt-breast. Dawes 
 
380 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Stumbled over Paul's coats, then came rushing forward. The young 
 man's mouth was bleeding. It was the other man's mouth he was 
 dying to get at, and the desire was anguish in its strength. He 
 stepped quickly through the stile, and as Dawes was coming 
 through aiter him, Uke a flash he got a blow in over the other's 
 mouth. He shivered with pleasure. Dawes advanced slowly, spit- 
 ting. Paul was afraid; he moved round to get to the stile again. Sud- 
 denly, from out of nowhere, came a great blow against his ear, 
 that sent him falling helpless backwards. He heard Dawes's heavy 
 panting, like a wild beast's, then came a kick on the knee, giving 
 him such agony that he got up and, quite blind, leapt clean under 
 his enemy's guard. He felt blows and kicks, but they did not hurt. 
 He hung on to the bigger man like a wild cat, till at last Dawes fell 
 with a crash, losing his presence of mind. Paul went down with 
 him. Pure instinct brought his hands to the man's neck, and before 
 Dawes, in frenzy and agony, could wrench him free, he had got 
 his fists twisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug m the throat of 
 the other man. He was a pure instinct, without reason or feeling. 
 His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against the strug- 
 gUng body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He was 
 quite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to kiU this 
 other man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He lay 
 pressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itself to its 
 one pure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactly at 
 the right moment, with exactly the right amount of strength, the 
 struggles of the other, silent, intent, unchangmg, gradually pressing 
 its knuckles deeper, feeling the struggles of the other body become 
 wilder and more frenzied. Tighter and tighter grew his body, like 
 a screw that is gradually increasing in pressure, till something 
 breaks. 
 
 Then suddenly he relaxed, full of wonder and misgiving. Dawes 
 had been yielding. Morel felt his body flame with pain, as he re- 
 alised what he was doing; he was all bewildered. Dawes's struggles 
 suddenly renewed themselves in a furious spasm. Paul's hands 
 were wrenched, torn out of the scarf in which they were knotted, 
 and he was flung away, helpless. He heard the horrid sound of the 
 other's gasping, but he lay stunned; then, still dazed, he felt the 
 blows of the other's feet, and lost consciousness. 
 
 Dawes, grunting with pain like a beast, was kicking the prostrate 
 
BAXTER DAWES 381 
 
 body of his rival. Suddenly the whistle of the train shrieked two 
 fields away. He turned round and glared suspiciously. What was 
 coming? He saw the lights of the train draw across his vision. It 
 seemed to him people were approaching. He made off across the 
 field into Nottingham, and dimly in his consciousness as he went, 
 he felt on his foot the place where his boot had knocked against 
 one of the lad's bones. The knock seemed to re-echo inside him; 
 he hurried to get away from it. 
 
 Morel gradually came to himself. He knew where he was and 
 what had happened, but he did not want to move. He lay still, with 
 tiny bits of snow tickling his face. It was pleasant to lie quite, quite 
 still. The time passed. It was the bits of snow that kept rousing 
 him when he did not want to be roused. At last his wiU clicked mto 
 action. 
 
 "I mustn't lie here," he said; "it's silly." 
 
 But still he did not move. 
 
 "I said I was going to get up," he repeated. "Why don't I?" 
 
 And still it was some time before he had sufficiently pulled him- 
 self together to stir; then gradually he got up. Pain made him sick 
 and dazed, but his brain was clear. Reeling, he groped for his coats 
 and got them on, buttoning his overcoat up to his ears. It was some 
 tune before he found his cap. He did not know whether his face 
 was still bleeding. Walking blindly, every step making him sick 
 with pain, he went back to the pond and washed his face and hands. 
 The icy water hurt, but helped to bring him back to himself. He 
 crawled back up the hiU to the tram. He wanted to get to his 
 mother— he must get to his mother— that was his blind intention. 
 He covered his face as much as he could, and struggled sickly 
 along. Continually the ground seemed to fall away from him as 
 he walked, and he felt himself dropping wiUi a sickening feeling 
 into space; so, like a nightmare, he got through with the journey 
 home. 
 
 Everybody was in bed. He looked at himself. His face was dis- 
 coloured and smeared with blood, almost like a dead man's face. 
 He washed it, and went to bed. The night went by in delirium. In 
 the morning he found his mother looking at him. Her blue eyes— 
 they were all he wanted to see. She was there; he was in hejr hands. 
 
 "It's not much, mother," he said. "It was Baxter Dawes." 
 
 "Tell me where it hurts you," she said quietly. 
 
382 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I don't know— my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, 
 mother." 
 
 He could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant, 
 came upstairs with some tea. 
 
 "Your mother's nearly frightened me out of my wits— fainted 
 away," she said. 
 
 He felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he told her 
 about it. 
 
 "And now I should have done with them all," she said quietly. 
 
 "I will, mother." 
 
 She covered him up. 
 
 "And don't think about it," she said— "only try to go to sleep. 
 The doctor won't be here till eleven." 
 
 He had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bron- 
 chitis set in. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She 
 would sit and look at him, then away into space. There was some- 
 thing between them that neither dared mention. Qara came to see 
 him. Afterwards he said to his mother: 
 
 "She makes me tired, mother." 
 
 "Yes; I wish she wouldn't come," Mrs. Morel replied. 
 
 Another day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a 
 stranger to him. 
 
 "You know, I don't care about them, mother," he said. 
 
 "I'm afraid you don't, my son," she replied sadly. 
 
 It was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon 
 he was able to go to work again, but now there was a constant sick- 
 ness and gnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, 
 as it were, nobody there. He could not work. He and his mother 
 seemed almost to avoid each other. There was some secret be- 
 tween them which they could not bear. He was not aware of it. 
 He only knew that his life seemed unbalanced, as if it were going 
 to smash into pieces, 
 
 Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised 
 that he seemed unaware of her. Even when he came to her he 
 seemed unaware of her; always he was somewhere else. She felt 
 she was clutching for him, and he was somewhere else. It tortured 
 her, and so she tortured him. For a month at a time she kept him 
 at arm's length. He almost hated her, and was driven to her in 
 spite of himself. He went mostly into the company of men, was 
 
BAXTER DAWES 383 
 
 always at the George or the White Horse. His mother was ill, 
 distant, quiet, shadowy. He was terrified of something; he dared 
 not look at her. Her eyes seemed to grow darker, her face more 
 waxen; still she dragged about at her work. 
 
 At Whitsuntide he said he would go to Blackpool for four days 
 with his friend Newton. The latter was a big, jolly fellow, with a 
 touch of the bounder about him. Paul said his mother must go to 
 Sheffield to stay a week with Aimie, who lived there. Perhaps the 
 change would do her good. Mrs. Morel was attending a woman's 
 doctor in Nottingham. He said her heart and her digestion were 
 wrong. She consented to go to Sheffield, though she did not want 
 to; but now she would do everything her son wished of her. Paul 
 said he would come for her on the fifth day, and stay also in Shef- 
 field till the holiday was up. It was agreed. 
 
 The two young men set off gaily for Blackpool. Mrs. Morel was 
 quite lively as Paul kissed her and left her. Once at the station, he 
 forgot everything. Four days were clear— not an anxiety, not a 
 thought. The two young men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was 
 like another man. None of himself remained— no Clara, no Mir- 
 iam, no mother that fretted him. He wrote to them all, and long 
 letters to his mother; but they were jolly letters that made her 
 laugh. He was having a good time, as yoxmg fellows will in a place 
 like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadow for her. 
 
 Paul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with his 
 mother in Sheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their 
 train was late. Joking, laughing, with their pipes between their 
 teeth, the young men swung their bags on to the tram-car. Paul 
 had bought his mother a Uttle coUar of real lace that he wanted 
 to see her wear, so that he could tease her about it. 
 
 Annie lived ia a nice house, and had a Uttle maid. Paul ran gaily 
 up the steps. He expected his mother laughing m the hall, but it 
 was Annie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He 
 stood a second in dismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek. 
 
 "Is my mother ill?" he said. 
 
 "Yes; she's not very well. Don't upset her." 
 
 "Is she in bed?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine 
 had gone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag 
 
384 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 and ran upstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat 
 up in bed, wearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked 
 at him almost as if she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, 
 humble. He saw the ashy look about her. 
 
 "Mother!" he said. 
 
 "I thought you were never coming," she answered gaily. 
 
 But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face 
 in the bedclothes, crying in agony, and saying: 
 
 "Mother— mother— mother!" 
 
 She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand. 
 
 "Don't cry," she said. "Don't cry-it's nothing." 
 
 But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried 
 in terror and pain. 
 
 "Don't— don't cry," his mother faltered. 
 
 Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, 
 and the tears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, 
 but he dared not Uft his face out of the bedclothes. 
 
 "You are late. Where have you been?" his mother asked. 
 
 "The train was late," he repUed, mufEled in the sheet. 
 
 "Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting." 
 
 With a wrench he looked up at her. 
 
 "What is it, mother?" he asked brutally. 
 
 She averted her eyes as she answered: 
 
 "Only a bit of a tumoiu:, my boy. You needn't trouble. It's been 
 there— the lump has— a long time." 
 
 Up came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard, but his 
 body was crying. 
 
 "Where?" he said. 
 
 She put her hand on her side. 
 
 "Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away." 
 
 He stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thought 
 perhaps it was as she said. Yes; he reassured himself it was so. 
 But all the while his blood and his body knew definitely what it 
 was. He sat down on the bed, and took her hand. She had never 
 had but the one ring— her wedding-ring. 
 
 "When were you poorly?" he asked. 
 
 "It was yesterday it began," she answered submissively. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 385 
 
 "Pains?" 
 
 "Yes; but not more than I've often had at home. I believe Dr. 
 Ansell is an alarmist." 
 
 "You ought not to have travelled alone," he said, to himself 
 more than to her. 
 
 "As if that had anything to do with it!" she answered quickly. 
 
 They were silent for a while. 
 
 "Now go and have your dinner," she said. "You must be 
 hungry." 
 
 "Have you had yours?" 
 
 "Yes; a beautiful sole I had. Annie is good to me." 
 
 They talked a Uttle whUe, then he went downstairs. He was 
 very white and strained. Newton sat in miserable sympathy. 
 
 After dinner he went into the scullery to help Annie to wash 
 up. The Uttle maid had gone on an errand. 
 
 "Is it really a tumour?" he asked. 
 
 Annie began to cry again. 
 
 "The pain she had yesterday— I never saw anybody sufiEer like 
 it!" she cried. "Leonard ran hke a madman for Dr. AnseU, and 
 when she'd got to bed she said to me: 'Annie, look at this lump 
 on my side. I wonder what it is?' And there I looked, and I 
 thought I should have dropped. Paul, as true as I'm here, it's a 
 lump as big as my double fist. I said: 'Good gracious, mother, 
 whenever did that come?' 'Why, child,' she said, 'it's been there a 
 long time.' I thought I should have died, our Paul, I did. She's been 
 having these pains for months at home, and nobody looking after 
 her." 
 
 The tears came to his eyes, then dried suddenly. 
 
 "But she's been attending the doctor in Nottingham— and she 
 never told me," he said. 
 
 "If I'd have been at home," said Annie, "I should have seen for 
 myself." 
 
 He felt like a man walking in unreaUties. In the afternoon he 
 went to see the doctor. The latter was a shrewd, lovable man. 
 
 "But what is it?" he said. 
 
 The doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers. 
 
 "It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane," 
 he said slowly, "and which we may be able to make go away." 
 
 "Can't you operate?" asked Paul. 
 
386 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Not there," replied the doctor. 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Quite!" 
 
 Paul meditated a while. 
 
 "Are you sure it's a tumour?" he asked. "Why did Dr. Jameson 
 in Nottingham never find out anything about it? She's been going 
 to him for weeks, and he's treated her for heart and indigestion." 
 
 "Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 "And do you know it's a tumour?" 
 
 "No, I am not sure." 
 
 "What else might it be? You asked my sister if there was cancer 
 in the family. Might it be cancer?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "And what shall you do?" 
 
 "I should Uke an examination, with Dr. Jameson." 
 
 "Then have one." 
 
 "You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn't be less than 
 ten guineas to come here from Nottmgham." 
 
 "When would you like him to come?" 
 
 "I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over." 
 
 Paul went away, biting his lip. 
 
 His mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her 
 son went upstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressmg- 
 gown that Leonard had given Annie, and, with a Uttle colour in 
 her face, was quite young again, 
 
 "But you look quite pretty in that," he said. 
 
 "Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself," she 
 answered. 
 
 But when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped 
 her, half-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He 
 lifted her up and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the 
 couch. She was light and fraU. Her face looked as if she were dead, 
 with blue lips shut tight. Her eyes opened— her blue, unfailing eyes 
 —and she looked at him pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive 
 her. He held brandy to her Ups, but her mouth would not open. 
 All the time she watched him lovingly. She was only sorry for him. 
 The tears ran down his face without ceasing, but not a muscle 
 moved. He was intent on gettmg a little brandy between her lips. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 387 
 
 Soon she was able to swallow a teaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. 
 The tears continued to run down his face. 
 
 "But," she panted, "it'U go off. Don't cryl" 
 
 "I'm not doing," he said. 
 
 After a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the 
 couch. They looked into each other's eyes. 
 
 "I don't want you to make a trouble of it," she said. 
 
 "No, mother. You'll have to be quite still, and then you'U get 
 better soon." 
 
 But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at 
 each other understood. Her eyes were so blue— such a wonderful 
 forget-me-not blue! He felt if only they had been of a different col- 
 our he could have borne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping 
 slowly in his breast. He kneeled there, holding her hand, and nei- 
 ther said anything. Then Aimie came in. 
 
 "Are you all right?" she murmured timidly to her mother. 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. Morel. 
 
 Paul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious. 
 
 A day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham, 
 to arrange for a consultation. Paul had practically no money in the 
 world. But he could borrow. 
 
 His mother had been used to go to the public consultation on 
 Saturday morning, when she could see the doctor for only a nom- 
 inal sum. Her son went on the same day. The waiting-room was 
 fuU of poor women, who sat patiently on a bench around the wall. 
 Paul thought of his mother, in her Uttle black costume, sitting 
 waiting likewise. The doctor was late. The women all looked rather 
 frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendance if he could see the 
 doctor immediately he came. It was arranged so. The women sit- 
 ting patiently roimd the waUs of the room eyed the young man 
 curiously. 
 
 At last the doctor came. He was about forty, good-looking, 
 brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he, who had loved her, had 
 speciaUsed on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his 
 mother's. The doctor did not remember. 
 
 "Number forty-six M.," said the nurse; and the doctor looked 
 up the case in his book. 
 
 "There is a big lump that may be a tumour," said Paul. "But 
 Dr. Ansell was going to write you a letter." 
 
388 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Ah, yes!" replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. 
 He was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Shef- 
 field the next day. 
 
 "What is your father?" he asked. 
 
 "He is a coal-miner," replied Paul. 
 
 "Not very well off, I suppose?" 
 
 "This— I see after this," said Paul. 
 
 "And you?" smiled the doctor. 
 
 "I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory." 
 
 The doctor smiled at him. 
 
 "Er— to go to ShefiBeld!" he said, putting the tips of his fingers 
 together, and s milin g with his eyes. "Eight guineas?" 
 
 "Thank you!" said Paul, flushiag and rising. "And you'll come 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 "To-morrow— Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time 
 there is a train in the afternoon?" 
 
 "There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen." 
 
 "And wUl there be any way of gettmg up to the house? Shall 
 I have to walk?" The doctor smiled. 
 
 "There is the tram," said Paul; "the Western Park tram." 
 
 The doctor made a note of it. 
 
 "Thank you!" he said, and shook hands. 
 
 Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the 
 charge of Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul 
 found him digging in the garden. He had written him a letter. He 
 shook hands with his father. 
 
 "Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?" said the father. 
 
 "Yes," replied the son. "But I'm going back to-night." 
 
 "Are ter, beguy!" exclaimed the collier. "An' has ter eaten owt?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That's just like thee," said Morel. "Come thy ways in." 
 
 The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The two went 
 indoors. Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands, and 
 sleeves rolled up, sat in the arm-chair opposite and looked at him. 
 
 "Well, an' how is she?" asked the miner at length, in a Uttle 
 voice. 
 
 "She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea," said Paul. 
 
 "That's a blessin'!" exclaimed Morel. "I hope we s'll soon be 
 havin' her whoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?" 
 
BAXTER DAWES 389 
 
 "He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her." 
 
 "Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'i" 
 
 "Eight guineas." 
 
 "Eight guineas!" the miner spoke breathlessly. "Well, we mun 
 find it from somewhere." 
 
 "I can pay that," said Paul. 
 
 There was silence between them for some time. 
 
 "She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie," 
 Paul said. 
 
 "Yes, I'm aU right, an' I wish as she was," answered Morel. 
 "But Minnie's a good htde wench, bless 'er heart!" He sat look- 
 ing dismal. 
 
 "I s'U have to be gomg at half-past three," said Paul. 
 
 "It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dost think 
 she'll be able to get as far as this?" 
 
 "We must see what the doctors say to-morrow," Paul said. 
 
 Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and 
 Paul thought his father looked lost, forlorn, and old. 
 
 "You'll have to go and see her next week, father," he said. 
 
 "I hope she'U be a-whoam by that time," said Morel. 
 
 "If she's not," said Paul, "then you must come." 
 
 "I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money," said Morel. 
 
 "And I'll write to you what the doctor says," said Paul. 
 
 "But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out," said 
 Morel. 
 
 "Well, I'll write plain." 
 
 It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely 
 do more than write his own name. 
 
 The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a 
 cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and 
 Leonard were waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came 
 down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except 
 when he had deceived himself. 
 
 "It may be a tumour; we must wait and see," said Dr. Jameson. 
 
 "And if it is," said Annie, "can you sweal it away?" 
 
 "Probably," said the doctor. 
 
 Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The 
 doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that 
 down. 
 
390 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Thank you!" he said. "I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we 
 must see what we can do." 
 
 "There can't be an operation?" said Paul. 
 
 The doctor shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said; "and even if there could, her heart wouldn't stand 
 it." 
 
 "Is her heart risky?" asked Paul. 
 
 "Yes; you must be careful with her." 
 
 "Very risky?" 
 
 "No— er— no, no! Just take care." 
 
 And the doctor was gone. 
 
 Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply, like a 
 child. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms round his 
 neck, clinging. 
 
 "I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs," she said. 
 
 And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do it another 
 time. He felt he could not carry her. 
 
 "He thinks it's only a tumour!" cried Annie to her mother. "And 
 he can sweal it away." 
 
 "I knew he could," protested Mrs. Morel scornfully. 
 
 She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. 
 He sat in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey 
 ash oflE his coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey 
 hairs. It was so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. 
 He let go. The long grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness 
 of the chimney. 
 
 The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was 
 very early in the morning, and they were alone. 
 
 "You won't fret, my boy!" she said. 
 
 "No, mother." 
 
 "No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself." 
 
 "Yes," he answered. Then, after a while: "And I shall come 
 next Saturday, and shall bring my father?" 
 
 "I suppose he wants to come," she replied. "At any rate, if he 
 does you'll have to let him." 
 
 He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gen- 
 tly, tenderly, as if she were a lover. 
 
 "Shan't you be late?" she murmured, 
 
 "I'm gomg," he said, very low. 
 
BAXTER DAWES 391 
 
 Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hair from 
 her temples. 
 
 "And you won't be any worse, mother?" 
 
 "No, my son." 
 
 "You promise me?" 
 
 "Yes; I won't be any worse." 
 
 He kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. 
 In the early sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way, 
 he did not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and star- 
 ing as she thought of him. 
 
 In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They sat in the Uttle 
 wood where bluebells were standmg. He took her hand. 
 
 "You'll see," he said to Clara, "she'll never be better." 
 
 "Oh, you don't know!" replied the other. 
 
 "I do," he said. 
 
 She caught him impulsively to her breast. 
 
 "Try and forget it, dear," she said; "try and forget it." 
 
 "I will," he answered. 
 
 Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. 
 It was comforting, and he held his arms round her. But he did not 
 forget. He only talked to Clara of something else. And it was al- 
 ways so. When she felt it coming, the agony, she cried to him: 
 
 "Don't think of it, Paul! Don't thmk of it, my darling!" 
 
 And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed him 
 like a child. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take it up 
 again immediately he was alone. AH the time, as he went about, 
 he cried mechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried, 
 he did not know why. It was his blood weeping. He was just as 
 much alone whether he was with Clara or with the men in the 
 White Horse. Just himself and this pressure inside him, that was 
 all that existed. He read sometimes. He had to keep his mind oc- 
 cupied. And Clara was a way of occupying his mind. 
 
 On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was a for- 
 lorn figure, looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran 
 upstairs. 
 
 "My father's come," he said, kissmg his mother. 
 
 "Has he?" she answered wearily. 
 
 The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom. 
 
392 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "How dun I find thee, lass?" he said, going forward and kissing 
 her in a hasty, timid fashion. 
 
 "WeU, I'm middUn'," she repUed. 
 
 "I see tha art," he said. He stood looking down on her. Then 
 he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as if no- 
 body owned him, he looked. 
 
 "Have you gone on all right?" asked the wife, rather wearily, 
 as if it were an effort to talk to him. 
 
 "Yis," he answered. "'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, 
 as yer might expect." 
 
 "Does she have your dinner ready?" asked Mrs. Morel. 
 
 "WeU, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice," he said. 
 
 "And you must shout at her if she's not ready. She will leave 
 things to the last minute." 
 
 She gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her as if she 
 were almost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkward and 
 humble, and also as if he had lost his presence of mind, and wanted 
 to run. This feeling that he wanted to run away, that he was on 
 thorns to be gone from so trymg a situation, and yet must linger 
 because it looked better, made his presence so trying. He put up 
 his eyebrows for misery, and clenched his fists on his knees, feel- 
 ing so awkward in presence of big trouble. 
 
 Mrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed m Shefi&eld for 
 two months. If anything, at the end she was rather worse. But 
 she wanted to go home. Annie had her children. Mrs. Morel 
 wanted to go home. So they got a motor-car from Nottingham— 
 for she was too ill to go by train— and she was driven through the 
 sunshine. It was just August; everything was bright and warm. 
 Under the blue sky they could all see she was dying. Yet she was 
 joUier than she had been for weeks. They all laughed and talked. 
 
 "Annie," she exclaimed, "I saw a Uzaxd dart on that rock!" 
 
 Her eyes were so quick; she was stUl so full of life. 
 
 Morel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. 
 Everybody was on tiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heard 
 the sound of the great motor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove 
 home down the street. 
 
 "And just look at them all come out to see me!" she said. "But 
 there, I suppose I should have done the same. How do you do, 
 Mrs. Mathews? How are you, Mrs. Harrison?" 
 
THE RELEASE 393 
 
 They none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. 
 And they all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great event 
 in the street. 
 
 Morel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur 
 took her as if she were a child. They had set her a big, deep chair 
 by the hearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she 
 was unwrapped and seated, and had drunk a little brandy, she 
 looked round the room. 
 
 "Don't think I don't like your house, Annie," she said; "but 
 it's nice to be in my own home again." 
 
 And Morel answered huskily: 
 
 "It is, lass, it is." 
 
 And Minnie, the little quaint maid, said: 
 
 "An' we glad t' 'ave yer." 
 
 There was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. 
 She looked out of the window. 
 
 "There are my sunflowers!" she said. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The Release 
 
 "By the way," said Dr. Ansell one evenmg 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 belong- 
 ings 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 beUeve. 
 But tell him about me, will you? Tell hun 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 
 
394 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 poUceman." 
 
 "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 Ues 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 Mmself, 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 ele- 
 mental man in each had met. 
 
 He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. AnseU'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. AnseU 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." 
 
THE RELEASE 395 
 
 "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 conva- 
 lescence. 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 doiag 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 in- 
 terest in iUness. 
 
 "She's got a cancer." 
 
 There was another sUence. 
 
 "But we want to get her home," said Paul. "We s'll have to get 
 a motor-car." 
 
396 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 
 repHed. 
 
 "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 tlunking. It was evident he dared not face the 
 world again. 
 
 "The seaside would be aU 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 help- 
 lessness 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 gomg," 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 m when I'm back m Sheffield, 
 Happen you might like to see my brother-in-law? He works in 
 Pyecrofts." 
 
 "I don't know him," said Dawes. 
 
THE RELEASE 397 
 
 "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 amotion 
 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 
 rephed. 
 
 And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own 
 train of thought. 
 
398 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "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 dahUas. 
 
THE RELEASE 399 
 
 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 iato her room in his 
 pyjamas. 
 
 "Did you sleep, my dear?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "Not very well?" 
 
 "WeU, 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 nothmg 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 upstaks 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." 
 
400 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 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 Ughtly 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 snuled. He worked away again mechanically, 
 producing good stuff without knowing what he was doing. 
 
 Sometimes he came in, very pale and still, with watchful, sud- 
 den 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 hght 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 rigjd, 
 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. Some- 
 times, when it was Ughter, 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 uncon- 
 scious. 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 mor- 
 phia, 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 
 
THE RELEASE 401 
 
 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 Uke ash. But they 
 were bright again, nevertheless. Often, especially if Annie or Ar- 
 thur were at home, he neglected her. He did not see much of 
 Qara. Usually he was with men. He was quick and active and 
 lively; but when his friends saw him go white to the giUs, his eyes 
 dark and gUttering, 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 uimatural. 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; some- 
 body sinister, that filled her with horror. She began to have a kind 
 of horror of him. It was almost as if he were a crimmal. 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 httle 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. Be- 
 tween 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. 
 
402 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 In the begiimiDg of November Qara reminded Paul that it was 
 her birthday. 
 
 "I'd nearly forgotten," he said. 
 
 "I'd thought quite," she rephed. 
 
 "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 mo- 
 notonous?" 
 
 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 sandhiUs, 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 Qara. 
 
 "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 Uving 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 thmk of it!" cried Clara. 
 
 "And she was religious— she is religious now— but it is no good. 
 
THE RELEASE 403 
 
 She simply won't give in. And do you know, I said to her on 
 Thursday: 'Mother, if I had to die, I'd die. I'd will to die.' And 
 she said to me, sharp: 'Do you think I haven't? Do you think you 
 can die when you like?' " 
 
 His voice ceased. He did not cry, only went on speaking mo- 
 notonously, Clara wanted to run. She looked round. There was 
 the black, re-echoing shore, the dark sky down on her. She got up 
 terrified. She wanted to be where there was light, where there 
 were other people. She wanted to be away from him. He sat with 
 his head dropped, not moving a muscle. 
 
 "And I don't want her to eat," he said, "and she knows it. When 
 I ask her: 'Shall you have anything* she's almost afraid to say 'Yes.' 
 'I'U have a cup of Benger's,' she says. 'It'U 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 disUked liim. 
 
 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, cUnging 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 tune on me," he said, "if you've owt 
 better to do," 
 
 "I wanted to come," said Paul. "Here! I brought you some 
 sweets." 
 
 The invahd 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." 
 
404 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I was at Skegness," said Paul. "I wanted a change." 
 
 The other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be wait- 
 ing, 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 Qara had been definitely mentioned be- 
 tween 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 dimno where," said the other. 
 
 "Things have to happen," Morel said. "It's no good doing any- 
 thing—at least— no, I don't know. Give me some toflfee." 
 
 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. 
 
THE RELEASE 405 
 
 "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 somethmg to do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bul- 
 weU; the black clouds were like a low ceUing. As he went along the 
 ten miles of highroad, he felt as if he were walking out of Ufe, be- 
 tween 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 wiU go out." 
 
 He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mother's 
 door was wide open, because she slept alone still. The red fireUght 
 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 wiU 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' 
 breathmg in the other rooms. 
 
406 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Now go to bed," she murmured, lying quite still under his 
 fmgers 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 Qara now. But he wandered resdessly from one person to an- 
 other 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 be- 
 wildered. Her pity came up, hurtmg 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 wiU. She'll be here at Christmas." 
 
 Miriam shuddered. She drew him to her; she pressed him to 
 her bosom; she kissed him and kissed him. He submitted, but 
 it was torture. She could not kiss his agony. That remained alone 
 and apart. She kissed his face, and roused his blood, while his soul 
 was apart writhing with the agony of death. And she kissed him 
 and fingered his body, till at last, feeling he would go mad, he got 
 away from her. It was not what he wanted just then— not that. 
 And she thought she had soothed him and done him good. 
 
 December came, and some snow. He stayed at home all the 
 while now. They could not afford a nurse. Annie came to look af- 
 ter her mother; the parish nurse, whom they loved, came in morn- 
 ing and evening. Paul shared the nursing with Annie. Often, in the 
 evenings, when friends were in the kitchen with them, they all 
 laughed together and shook with laughter. It was reaction. Paul 
 was so comical, Annie was so quaint. The whole party laughed 
 till they cried, trymg to subdue the sound. And Mrs. Morel, lying 
 alone in the darkness heard them, and among her bitterness was 
 a feeling of reUef . 
 
 Then Paul would go upstairs gmgerly, guiltily, to see if she had 
 heard. 
 
 "Shall I give you some milk?" he asked, 
 
 "A little," she replied plaintively. 
 
 And he would put some water with it, so that it should not nour- 
 ish her. Yet he loved her more than his own life. 
 
THE RELEASE 407 
 
 She had morphia every night, and her heart got fitful. Annie 
 slept beside her. Paul would go in in the early morning, when his 
 sister got up. His mother was wasted and ahnost ashen in the 
 morning with the morphia. Darker and darker grew her eyes, all 
 pupU, with the torture. In the mornings the weariness and ache 
 were too much to bear. Yet she could not— would not— weep, or 
 even complain much. 
 
 "You slept a bit later this morning, little one," he would say to 
 her. 
 
 "Did I?" she answered, with fretful weariness. 
 
 "Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock." 
 
 He stood looking out of the window. The whole country was 
 bleak and pallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse. There 
 was a strong stroke and a weak one, like a sound and its echo. That 
 was supposed to betoken the end. She let htm feel her wrist, know- 
 ing what he wanted. 
 
 Sometimes they looked in each other's eyes. Then they almost 
 seemed to make an agreement. It was almost as if he were agree- 
 ing to die also. But she did not consent to die; she would not. Her 
 body was wasted to a fragment of ash. Her eyes were dark and 
 fuU of torture. 
 
 "Can't you give her something to put an end to it?" he asked 
 the doctor at last. 
 
 But the doctor shook his head. 
 
 "She can't last many days now, Mr. Morel," he said. 
 
 Paul went indoors. 
 
 "I can't bear it much longer; we shall aU go mad," said Annie. 
 
 The two sat down to breakfast. 
 
 "Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie," said 
 Annie. But the girl was frightened. 
 
 Paul went through the country, through the woods, over the 
 snow. He saw the marks of rabbits and birds in the white snow. 
 He wandered miles and miles. A smoky red sunset came on slowly, 
 painfully, liugering. He thought she would die that day. There 
 was a donkey that came up to him over the snow by the wood's 
 edge, and put its head agamst him, and walked with him along- 
 side. He put his arms round the donkey's neck, and stroked his 
 cheeks against his ears. 
 
408 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 His mother, silent, was still alive, with her hard mouth gripped 
 grimly, her eyes of dark torture only living. 
 
 It was nearing Christmas; there was more snow. Annie and he 
 felt as if they could go on no more. Still her dark eyes were alive. 
 Morel, silent and frightened, obUterated himself. Sometimes he 
 would go into the sick-room and look at her. Then he backed out, 
 bewildered. 
 
 She kept her hold on hfe stiU. The miners had been out on 
 strike, and returned a fortnight or so before Christmas. Minnie 
 went upstairs with the feeding-cup. It was two days after the men 
 had been in. 
 
 "Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?" she 
 asked, in the faint, querulous voice that would not give in. Minnie 
 stood surprised. 
 
 "Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel," she answered, 
 
 "But I'll bet they are sore," said the dymg woman, as she moved 
 her head with a sigh of weariness. "But, at any rate, there'll be 
 something to buy in with this week." 
 
 Not a thing did she let sUp. 
 
 "Your father's pit things will want well airing, Annie," she said, 
 when the men were going back to work. 
 
 "Don't you bother about that, my dear," said Annie. 
 
 One night Annie and Paul were alone. Nurse was upstairs. 
 
 "She'll live over Christmas," said Annie. They were both fuU 
 of horror. 
 
 "She won't," he replied grimly. "I s'll give her morphia." 
 
 "Which?" said Annie. 
 
 "All that came from Sheffield," said Paul. 
 
 "Ay— do!" said Annie. 
 
 The next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to 
 be asleep. He stepped softly backwards and forwards at his paint- 
 ing. Suddenly her small voice wailed: 
 
 "Don't walk about, Paul." 
 
 He looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles m her face, were 
 looking at him. 
 
 "No, my dear," he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap 
 in his heart. 
 
 That evenmg he got all the morphia pills there were, and took 
 them downstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder. 
 
THE RELEASE 409 
 
 "What are you doing?" said Annie. 
 
 "I s'll put 'em in her night milk." 
 
 Then they both laughed together like two conspiring children. 
 On top of all their horror flicked this Uttle sanity. 
 
 Nurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul 
 went up with the hot mUk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock. 
 
 She was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between 
 her lips that he would have died to save from any hurt. She took 
 a sip, then put the spout of the cup away and looked at him with 
 her dark, wondering eyes. He looked at her. 
 
 "Oh, it is bitter, Paul!" she said, making a little grimace, 
 
 "It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you," he 
 said. "He thought it wouldn't leave you in such a state in the 
 morning." 
 
 "And I hope it won't," she said, like a child. 
 
 She drank some more of the milk. 
 
 "But it is horrid!" she said. 
 
 He saw her fraU fingers over the cup, her lips making a little 
 move. 
 
 "I know— I tasted it," he said. "But I'll give you some clean 
 milk afterwards." 
 
 "I think so," she said, and she went on with the draught. She 
 was obedient to him Uke a chUd. He wondered if she knew. He 
 saw her poor wasted throat moving as she drank with difiSculty. 
 Then he ran downstairs for more milk. There were no grains in 
 the bottom of the cup. 
 
 "Has she had it?" whispered Annie. 
 
 "Yes— and she said it was bitter." 
 
 "Oh!" laughed Annie, putting her under lip between her teeth. 
 
 "And I told her it was a new draught. Where's that milk?" 
 
 They both went upstairs. 
 
 "I wonder why nurse didn't come to settle me down?" com- 
 plained the mother, like a chUd, wistfully. 
 
 "She said she was going to a concert, my love," rephed Annie. 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 They were silent a minute. Mrs. Morel gulped the little clean 
 milk. 
 
 "Annie, that draught was horrid!" she said plaintively. 
 
 "Was it, my love? Well, never mind." 
 
410 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 The mother sighed again with weariness. Her pulse was very 
 irregular. 
 
 "Let us settle you down," said Annie. "Perhaps nurse wiU be 
 so late." 
 
 "Ay," said the mother-"try." 
 
 They turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl 
 curled up in her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half 
 of the bed, moved her, made the other, straightened her night- 
 gown over her small feet, and covered her up. 
 
 "There," said Paul, stroking her soffly. "There!— now you'll 
 sleep." 
 
 "Yes," she said. "I didn't think you could do the bed so nicely," 
 she added, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her 
 hand, her head snugged between her shoulders. Paul put the long 
 thin plait of grey hair over her shoulder and kissed her. 
 
 "You'll sleep, my love," he said. 
 
 "Yes," she answered trustfully. "Good-nigjit." 
 
 They put out the light, and it was still. 
 
 Morel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came 
 to look at her at about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual 
 after her draught. Her mouth had come a bit open. 
 
 "Shall we sit up?" said Paul. 
 
 "I s'll lie with her as I always do," said Annie. "She might wake 
 up." 
 
 "All right. And call me if you see any difference." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They Ungered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big 
 and black and snowy outside, their two selves alone m the world. 
 At last he went into the next room and went to bed. 
 
 He slept almost unmediately, but kept waking every now and 
 again. Then he went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie's 
 whispered, "Paul, Paul!" He saw his sister m her white night- 
 dress, with her long plait of hair down her back, standing in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Yes?" he whispered, sitting up. 
 
 "Come and look at her." 
 
 He sUpped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick 
 chamber. His mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up 
 as she had gone to sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she 
 
THE RELEASE 411 
 
 breathed with great, hoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were 
 long intervals between. 
 
 "She's gomg!" he whispered. 
 
 "Yes," said Annie. 
 
 "How long has she been like it?" 
 
 "I only just woke up." 
 
 Annie huddled into the dressing-gown, Paul wrapped himself 
 in a brown blanket. It was three o'clock. He mended the fire. Then 
 the two sat waiting. The great, snoring breath was taken— held 
 awhile— then given back. There was a space— a long space. Then 
 they started. The great, snoring breath was taken again. He bent 
 close down and looked at her. 
 
 "Isn't it awful!" whispered Annie. 
 
 He nodded. They sat down again helplessly. Again came the 
 great, snoring breath. Again they hung suspended. Again it was 
 given back, long and harsh. The sound, so irregular, at such wide 
 intervals, sounded through the house. Morel, in his room, slept 
 on. Paul and Annie sat crouched, huddled, motionless. The great 
 snoring sound began again— there was a painful pause while the 
 breath was held— back came the rasping breath. Minute after min- 
 ute passed. Paul looked at her again, bending low over her. 
 
 "She may last like this," he said. 
 
 They were both silent. He looked out of the window, and could 
 faintly discern the snow on the garden. 
 
 "You go to my bed," he said to Annie. "I'll sit up." 
 
 "No," she said, "I'll stop with you," 
 
 "I'd rather you didn't," he said. 
 
 At last Annie crept out of the room, and he was alone. He 
 hugged himself m his brown blanket, crouched in front of his 
 mother, watching. She looked dreadful, with the bottom jaw fallen 
 back. He watched. Sometimes he thought the great breath would 
 never begin again. He could not bear it— the waiting. Then sud- 
 denly, startling him, came the great harsh sound. He mended 
 the fire again, noiselessly. She must not be disturbed. The minutes 
 went by. The night was going, breath by breath. Each time the 
 sound came he felt it wring him, tiU at last he could not feel so 
 much. 
 
 His father got up. Paul heard the miner drawing his stockings 
 on, yawning. Then Morel, in shirt and stockings, entered. 
 
412 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Hush!" said Paid. 
 
 Morel stood watching. Then he looked at his son, helplessly, 
 and in horror. 
 
 "Had I better stop a-whoam?" he whispered. 
 
 "No. Go to work. She'll last through to-morrow." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "Yes. Go to work." 
 
 The miner looked at her agdn, in fear, and went obediently 
 out of the room. Paul saw the tape of his garters swingmg against 
 his legs. 
 
 After another half-hour Paul went downstairs and drank a cup 
 of tea, then returned. Morel, dressed for the pit, came upstairs 
 again. 
 
 "Am I to go?" he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And in a few mmutes Paul heard his father's heavy steps go 
 thudding over the deadening snow. Miners called in the streets 
 as they tramped in gangs to work. The terrible, long-drawn 
 breaths contiaued— heave— heave— heave; then a long pause— then 
 — ah-h-h-h-h! as it came back. Far away over the snow sounded the 
 hooters of the ironworks. One after another they crowed and 
 boomed, some small and far away, some near, the blowers of the 
 collieries and the other works. Then there was silence. He mended 
 the fire. The great breaths broke the silence— she looked just the 
 same. He put back the blind and peered out. Still it was dark. Per- 
 haps there was a lighter tinge. Perhaps the snow was bluer. He drew 
 up the blind and got dressed. Then, shuddering, he drank brandy 
 from the bottle on the wash-stand. The snow was growing blue. 
 He heard a cart clanking down the street. Yes, it was seven o'clock, 
 and it was coming a little bit light. He heard some people calling. 
 The world was waking. A grey, deathly dawn crept over the snow. 
 Yes, he could see the houses. He put out the gas. It seemed very 
 dark. The breathing came still, but he was almost used to it. He 
 could see her. She was just the same. He wondered if he piled 
 heavy clothes on top of her it would stop. He looked at her. That 
 was not her— not her a bit. If he piled the blanket and heavy coats 
 on her — 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and Annie entered. She looked at 
 him questioningly. 
 
THE RELEASE 413 
 
 "Just the same," he said calmly. 
 
 They whispered together a minute, then he went downstairs to 
 get breakfast. It was twenty to eight. Soon Annie came down. 
 
 "Isn't it awful! Doesn't she look awful!" she whispered, dazed 
 with horror. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "If she looks like that!" said Annie. 
 
 "Drink some tea," he said. 
 
 They went upstairs again. Soon the neighbours came with their 
 frightened question: 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 It went on just the same. She lay with her cheek in her hand, 
 her mouth fallen open, and the great, ghastly snores came and 
 went. 
 
 At ten o'clock niurse came. She looked strange and woebegone. 
 
 "Nurse," cried Paul, "she'll last Uke this for days?" 
 
 "She can't, Mr. Morel," said nurse. "She can't." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "Isn't it dreadful!" wailed the nurse. "Who would have thought 
 she could stand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down." 
 
 At last, at about eleven o'clock, he went downstairs and sat in 
 the neighbour's house. Annie was downstairs also. Nurse and 
 Arthur were upstairs. Paul sat with his head in his hand. Suddenly 
 Aimie came flying across the yard crying, half mad: 
 
 "Paul— Paul— she's gone!" 
 
 In a second he was back in his own house and upstairs. She lay 
 curled up and stiU, with her face on her hand, and nurse was wip- 
 ing her mouth. They all stood back. He kneeled down, and put 
 his face to hers and his arms round her: 
 
 "My love— my love— oh, my love!" he whispered again and 
 again. "My love— oh, my love!" 
 
 Then he heard the nurse behind him, crying, saying: 
 
 "She's better, Mr. Morel, she's better." 
 
 When he took his face up from his warm, dead mother he went 
 straight downstairs and began blacking his boots. 
 
 There was a good deal to do, letters to write, and so on. The 
 doctor came and glanced at her, and sighed. 
 
 "Ay— poor thing!" he said, then turned away. "Well, call at the 
 surgery about six for the certificate." 
 
414 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 The father came home from work at about four o'clock. He 
 dragged silently into the house and sat down. Minnie bustled 
 to give him his dinner. Tired, he laid his black arms on the table. 
 There were swede turnips for his dinner, which he liked. Paul 
 wondered if he knew. It was some time, and nobody had spoken. 
 At last the son said: 
 
 "You noticed the blinds were down?" 
 
 Morel looked up. 
 
 "No," he said. "Why-has she gone?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When wor that?" 
 
 "About twelve this mommg." 
 
 "H'm!" 
 
 The miner sat still for a moment, then began his dinner. It was 
 as if nothing had happened. He ate his turnips in sUence. After- 
 wards he washed and went upstaurs to dress. The door of her room 
 was shut. 
 
 "Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him when he came down. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 In a little while he went out. Annie went away, and Paul called 
 on the undertaker, the clergyman, the doctor, the registrar. It was 
 a long busmess. He got back at nearly eight o'clock. The under- 
 taker was coming soon to measure for the coflBn. The house was 
 empty except for her. He took a candle and went upstairs. 
 
 The room was cold, that had been warm for so long. Flowers, 
 bottles, plates, all sick-room Utter was taken away; everything 
 was harsh and austere. She lay raised on the bed, the sweep of 
 the sheet from the raised feet was like a clean curve of snow, so 
 silent. She lay like a maiden asleep. With his candle in his hand, 
 he bent over her. She lay like a girl asleep and dreaming of her 
 love. The mouth was a little open as if wondering from the suffer- 
 ing, but her face was young, her brow clear and white as if life had 
 never touched it. He looked again at the eyebrows, at the smaU, 
 winsome nose a bit on one side. She was young again. Only the 
 hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples was mixed with 
 silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulders were 
 filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift 
 her eyelids. She was with him stUl. He bent and kissed her pas- 
 sionately. But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his 
 
THE RELEASE 415 
 
 lips with horror. Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let 
 her go. No! He stroked the hair from her temples. That, too, was 
 cold. He saw the mouth so dumb and wondering at the hurt. Then 
 he crouched on the floor, whispering to her: 
 
 "Mother, mother!" 
 
 He was still with her when the undertakers came, yoimg men 
 who had been to school with him. They touched her reverently, 
 and in a quiet, businesslike fashion. They did not look at her. 
 He watched jealously. He and Annie guarded her fiercely. They 
 would not let anybody come to see her, and the neighbors were 
 offended. 
 
 After a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at 
 a friend's. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from 
 the couch as he entered, saying in a plamtive way: 
 
 "I thought tha wor niver comin', lad." 
 
 "I didn't think you'd sit up," said Paul. 
 
 His father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without 
 fear— simply nothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start 
 that he had been afraid to go to bed, alone iu the house with his 
 dead. He was sorry. 
 
 "I forgot you'd be alone, father," he said. 
 
 "Dost want owt to eat?" asked Morel. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Sithee— I made thee a drop o' hot milk. Get it down thee; it's 
 cold enough for owt." 
 
 Paul drank it. 
 
 After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed 
 door, and left his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. 
 He went in to kiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. 
 He wished they had kept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her 
 young dream. But she would be cold. 
 
 "My dear!" he whispered. "My dear!" 
 
 And he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange 
 to him. It eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her 
 door softly, not to wake her, and went to bed. 
 
 In the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie 
 downstaks and Paul coughing in the room across the landing. He 
 opened her door, and went into the darkened room. He saw the 
 white uplifted form in the twihght, but her he dared not see. Be- 
 
416 SONS A^^D lovers 
 
 wildered, too frightened to possess any of his faculties, he got out 
 of the room again and left her. He never looked at her again. He 
 had not seen her for months, because he had not dared to look. 
 And she looked like his young wife again. 
 
 "Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him sharply after break- 
 fast. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "And don't you think she looks nice?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He went out of the house soon after. And all the time he 
 seemed to be creeping aside to avoid it. 
 
 Paul went about from place to place, doing the business of the 
 death. He met Clara in Nottingham, and they had tea together in 
 a cafe, when they were quite jolly again. She was infinitely reUeved 
 to find he did not take it tragically. 
 
 Later, when the relatives began to come for the funeral, the 
 affair became pubUc, and the children became social beings. They 
 put themselves aside. They buried her in a furious storm of rain 
 and wind. The wet clay gUstened, all the white flowers were soaked. 
 Annie gripped his arm and leaned forward. Down below she saw 
 a dark comer of William's cofiBn. The oak box sank steadily. She 
 was gone. The ram poured in the grave. The procession of black, 
 with its umbrellas glistening, turned away. The cemetery was de- 
 serted under the drenching cold rain. 
 
 Paul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with 
 drinks. His father sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Morel's relatives, 
 "superior" people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, 
 and how he'd tried to do everything he could for her— everything. 
 He had striven all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd 
 nothing to reproach himself with. She was gone, but he'd done his 
 best for her. He wiped his eyes with his white handkerchief. 
 He'd nothing to reproach himself for, he repeated. All his life 
 he'd done his best for her. 
 
 And that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought 
 of her personally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated 
 his father for sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would 
 do it in the public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel 
 in spite of himself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his after- 
 noon sleep, white and cowering. 
 
THE RELEASE 417 
 
 "I have been dreaming of thy mother," he said in a small voice. 
 
 "Have you, father? W^en I dream of her it's always just as she 
 was when she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite 
 nice and natural, as if nothing had altered." 
 
 But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror. 
 
 The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of any- 
 thing, perhaps a Uttle rehef, mostly a nuit blanche. Paul went rest- 
 less from place to place. For some months, since his mother had 
 been worse, he had not made love to Clara. She was, as it were, 
 dumb to him, rather distant. Dawes saw her very occasionally, 
 but the two could not get an inch across the great distance between 
 them. The three of them were drifting forward. 
 
 Dawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home 
 at Skegness at Christmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the sea- 
 side for a few days. His father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes 
 came to Paul's lodgings. His time in the home was up. The two 
 men, between whom was such a big reserve, seemed faithful to 
 each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. He knew Paul and 
 Clara had practically separated. 
 
 Two days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. 
 The evening before he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire. 
 
 "You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?" he 
 said. 
 
 The other man glanced at him. 
 
 "Yes, you told me," he replied. 
 
 Paul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky. 
 
 "I told the landlady your wife was coming," he said. 
 
 "Did you?" said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself 
 in the other's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for 
 Morel's glass. 
 
 "Let me fill you up," he said. 
 
 Paul jumped up. 
 
 "You sit still," he said. 
 
 But Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink. 
 
 "Say when," he said. 
 
 "Thanks!" replied the other. "But you've no business to get up." 
 
 "It does me good, lad," replied Dawes. "1 begin to think I'm 
 right again, then." 
 
 "You are about right, you know." 
 
418 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I am, certamly I am," said Dawes, nodding to him. 
 
 "And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield." 
 
 Dawes glanced at him agam, with dark eyes that agreed with 
 everything the other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by 
 him. 
 
 "It's funny," said Paul, "starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess 
 than you." 
 
 "In what way, lad?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort 
 of hole, rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere." 
 
 "I know— I understand it," Dawes said, nodding. "But you'll 
 find it'll come all right." 
 
 He spoke caressingly. 
 
 "I suppose so," said Paul. 
 
 Dawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion. 
 
 "You've not done for yourself Uke I have," he said. 
 
 Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man grip- 
 ping the stem of the pipe and knocking out the ash, as if he had 
 given up. 
 
 "How old are you?" Paul asked. 
 
 "Thirty-nine," replied Dawes, glancing at him. 
 
 Those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost 
 pleading for reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in 
 himself, to warm him, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul. 
 
 "You'll just be in your prime," said Morel. "You don't look 
 as if much life had gone out of you." 
 
 The brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly. 
 
 "It hasn't," he said. "The go is there." 
 
 Paul looked up and laughed. 
 
 "We've both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly," he 
 said. 
 
 The eyes of the two men met. They exchanged one look. Having 
 recognised the stress of passion each in the other, they both drank 
 their whisky. 
 
 "Yes, begod!" said Dawes, breathless. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "And I don't see," said Paul, "why you shouldn't go on where 
 you left ofi." 
 
 "What — " said Dawes, suggestively. 
 
THE RELEASE 419 
 
 "Yes— fit your old home together again." 
 
 Dawes hid his face and shook his head. 
 
 "Couldn't be done," he said, and looked up with an ironic smile. 
 
 "Why? Because you don't want?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 They smoked in silence. Dawes showed his teeth as he bit his 
 pipe stem. 
 
 "You mean you don't want her?" asked Paul. 
 
 Dawes stared up at the picture with a caustic expression on 
 his face. 
 
 "I hardly know," he said. 
 
 The smoke floated softly up. 
 
 "I believe she wants you," said Paul. 
 
 "Do you?" replied the other, soft, satirical, abstract. 
 
 "Yes. She never really hitched on to me— you were always there 
 in the background. That's why she wouldn't get a divorce." 
 
 Dawes continued to stare in a satirical fashion at the picture 
 over the mantelpiece. 
 
 "That's how women are with me," said Paul. "They want me 
 like mad, but they don't want to belong to me. And she belonged 
 to you aU the time. I knew." 
 
 The triumphant male came up in Dawes. He showed his teeth 
 more distinctly. 
 
 "Perhaps I was a fool," he said. 
 
 "You were a big fool," said Morel. 
 
 "But perhaps even then you were a bigger fool," said Dawes. 
 
 There was a touch of triumph and maUce in it. 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Paul. 
 
 They were silent for some time. 
 
 "At any rate, I'm clearing out to-morrow," said Morel. 
 
 "I see," answered Dawes. 
 
 Then they did not talk any more. The instinct to murder each 
 other had returned. They ahnost avoided each other. 
 
 They shared the same bedroom. When they retired Dawes 
 seemed abstract, thinking of something. He sat on the side of the 
 bed in his shirt, looking at his legs. 
 
 "Aren't you getting cold?" asked Morel. 
 
 "I was lookin' at these legs," repUed the other. 
 
420 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "What's up with 'em? They look all right," replied Paul, from 
 his bed. 
 
 "They look aU right. But there's some water in 'em yet." 
 
 "And what about it?" 
 
 "Come and look." 
 
 Paul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather 
 handsome legs of the other man that were covered with gUsten- 
 ing, dark gold hair. 
 
 "Look here," said Dawes, pointmg to his shin. "Look at the 
 water imder here." 
 
 "Where?" said Paul. 
 
 The man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that 
 filled up slowly. 
 
 "It's nothmg," said Paul. 
 
 "You feel," said Dawes. 
 
 Paul tried with his fingers. It made Uttle dents. 
 
 "H'm!" he said. 
 
 "Rotten, isn't it?" said Dawes. 
 
 "Why? It's nothing much." 
 
 "You're not much of a man with water in your legs." 
 
 "I can't see as it makes any difference," said Morel. "I've got a 
 weak chest." 
 
 He returned to his own bed. 
 
 "I suppose the rest of me's all right," said Dawes, and he put 
 out the light. 
 
 In the mormng it was raining. Morel packed his bag. The sea 
 was grey and shaggy and dismal. He seemed to be cutting himself 
 off from life more and more. It gave him a wicked pleasure to do it. 
 
 The two men were at the station. Clara stepped out of the train, 
 and came along the platform, very erect and coldly composed. She 
 wore a long coat and a tweed hat. Both men hated her for her 
 composure. Paul shook hands with her at the barrier. Dawes was 
 leaning against the bookstall, watching. His black overcoat was 
 buttoned up to the chin because of the raia. He was pale, with 
 almost a touch of nobihty in his quietness. He came forward, limp- 
 ing slightly. 
 
 "You ought to look better than this," she said. 
 
 "Oh, I'm aU right now." 
 
THE RELEASE 421 
 
 The three stood at a loss. She kept the two men hesitating near 
 her. 
 
 "Shall we go to the lodging straight off," said Paul, "or some- 
 where else?" 
 
 "We may as well go home," said Dawes. 
 
 Paul walked on the outside of the pavement, then Dawes, then 
 Clara. They made poUte conversation. The sitting-room faced the 
 sea, whose tide, grey and shaggy, hissed not far off. 
 
 Morel swimg up the big arm-chair. 
 
 "Sit down. Jack," he said. 
 
 "I don't want that chair," said Dawes. 
 
 "Sit down!" Morel repeated. 
 
 Clara took off her things and laid them on the couch. She had 
 a slight air of resentment. Lifting her hair with her fingers, she 
 sat down, rather aloof and composed. Paul ran downstairs to speak 
 to the landlady. 
 
 "I should think you're cold," said Dawes to his wife. "Come 
 nearer to the fire." 
 
 "Thank you, I'm quite warm," she answered. 
 
 She looked out of the window at the rain and at the sea. 
 
 "When are you going back?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, the rooms are taken until to-morrow, so he wants me 
 to stop. He's going back to-night." 
 
 "And then you're thinking of gomg to Sheffield?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Are you fit to start work?" 
 
 "I'm going to start." 
 
 "You've really got a place?" 
 
 "Yes— begin on Monday." 
 
 "You don't look fit." 
 
 "Why don't I?" 
 
 She looked again out of the window instead of answering, 
 
 "And have you got lodgings in Sheffield?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Again she looked away out of the window. The panes were 
 blurred with streaming rain. 
 
 "And can you manage all right?" she asked. 
 
 "I s'd think so. I s'U have to!" 
 
 They were silent when Morel returned. 
 
422 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I shall go by the four-twenty," he said as he entered. 
 
 Nobody answered. 
 
 "I wish you'd take your boots off," he said to Clara. 
 
 "There's a pair of slippers of mine." 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "They aren't wet." 
 
 He put the sUppers near her feet. She left them there. 
 
 Morel sat down. Both the men seemed helpless, and each of 
 them had a rather hxmted look. But Dawes now carried himself 
 quietly, seemed to yield himself, while Paul seemed to screw 
 himself up. Clara thought she had never seen him look so small 
 and mean. He was as if trying to get himself into the smallest pos- 
 sible compass. And as he went about arranging, and as he sat talk- 
 ing, there seemed something false about him and out of tune. 
 Watching him unknown, she said to herself there was no stability 
 about him. He was fine in his way, passionate, and able to give 
 her drinks of pure life when he was in one mood. And now he 
 looked paltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about 
 him. Her husband had more manly dignity. At any rate he did 
 not waft about with any wind. There was something evanescent 
 about Morel, she thought, something shifting and false. He would 
 never make sure ground for any woman to stand on. She despised 
 him rather for his shrinking together, getting smaller. Her husband 
 at least was manly, and when he was beaten gave in. But this 
 other would never own to being beaten. He would shift round 
 and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet she 
 watched him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three 
 fates lay in his hands. She hated him for it. 
 
 She seemed to understand better now about men, and what 
 they could or would do. She was less afraid of them, more sure 
 of herself. That they were not the small egoists she had imagined 
 them made her more comfortable. She had learned a good deal- 
 almost as much as she wanted to learn. Her cup had been full. It 
 was still as full as she could carry. On the whole, she would not 
 be sorry when he was gone. 
 
 They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. 
 Not a serious word had been spoken. Yet Qara realised that 
 Morel was withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to 
 stay with her husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, 
 after all, to take what he wanted and then give her back. She did 
 
THE RELEASE 423 
 
 not remember that she herself had had what she wanted, and really, 
 at the bottom of her heart, wished to be given back. 
 
 Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really sup- 
 ported his life. He had loved her; they two had, m fact, faced the 
 world together. Now she was gone, and for ever behind him was 
 the gap in life, the tear in the veil, through which his life seemed 
 to drift slowly, as if he were drawn towards death. He wanted 
 someone of their own free initiative to help him. The lesser things 
 he began to let go from him, for fear of this big thing, the lapse 
 towards death, following in the wake of his beloved. Clara could 
 not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him, but not to under- 
 stand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not the real him 
 that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; he 
 dared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him 
 ashamed. So, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, 
 because his own hold on life was so unsure, because nobody held 
 him, feeling unsubstantial, shadowy, as if he did not count for 
 much in this concrete world, he drew himself together smaller 
 and smaller. He did not want to die; he would not give in. But he 
 was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, he would go on 
 alone. 
 
 Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was 
 afraid. He could go to the brink of death, he could he on the edge 
 and look in. Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and Hke a 
 beggar take what offered. There was a certain nobility in it. As 
 Qara saw, he owned himself beaten, and he wanted to be taken 
 back whether or not. That she could do for him. 
 
 It was three o'clock. 
 
 "I am going by the four-twenty," said Paul again to Clara. "Are 
 you coming then or later?" 
 
 "I don't know," she said. 
 
 "I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen," he 
 said. 
 
 "Then," she answered, "I'll come later." 
 
 Dawes jerked suddenly, as if he had been held on a stram. He 
 looked out over the sea, but he saw nothmg. 
 
 "There are one or two books in the corner," said Morel. "I've 
 done with 'em." 
 
 At about four o'clock he went. 
 
424 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "I shall see you both later," he said, as he shook hands. 
 
 "I suppose so," said Dawes. "An' perhaps— one day— I s'U be 
 able to pay you back the money as — " 
 
 "I shall come for it, you'll see," laughed Paul. "I s'll be on the 
 rocks before I'm very much older." 
 
 "Ay— well — " said Dawes. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said to Clara. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, giving him her hand. Then she glanced 
 at him for the last time, dumb and hiunble. 
 
 He was gone. Dawes and his wife sat down again. 
 
 "It's a nasty day for travelling," said the man. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 They talked in a desultory fashion until it grew dark. The land- 
 lady brought in the tea. Dawes drew up his chair to the table with- 
 out being mvited, Uke a husband. Then he sat humbly waiting for 
 his cup. She served him as she would, like a wife, not consulting 
 his wish. 
 
 After tea, as it drew near to six o'clock, he went to the window. 
 All was dark outside. The sea was roaring. 
 
 "It's raining yet," he said. 
 
 "Is it?" she answered. 
 
 "You won't go to-night, shall you?" he said, hesitating. 
 
 She did not answer. He waited. 
 
 "I shouldn't go in this rain," he said. 
 
 "Do you want me to stay?" she asked. 
 
 His hand as he held the dark ciutain trembled. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 He remained with his back to her. She rose and went slowly 
 to him. He let go the curtain, turned, hesitating, towards her. She 
 stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him in a 
 heavy, inscrutable fashion. 
 
 "Do you want me, Baxter?" she asked. 
 
 His voice was hoarse as he answered: 
 
 "Do you want to come back to me?" 
 
 She made a moaning noise, lifted her arms, and put them roxmd 
 his neck, drawing him to her. He hid his face on her shoulder, 
 holding her clasped. 
 
 "Take me back!" she whispered, ecstatic. "Take me back, take 
 
DERELICT 425 
 
 me back!" And she put her JSngers through his fine, thin dark 
 hair, as if she were only semi-conscious. He tightened his grasp 
 on her. 
 
 "Do you want me again?" he murmured, broken. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 Derelict 
 
 Clara went with her husband to Shefifield, and Paul scarcely saw 
 her again. Walter Morel seemed to have let all the trouble go over 
 him, and there he was, crawling about on the mud of it, just the 
 same. There was scarcely any bond between father and son, save 
 that each felt he must not let the other go in any actual want. As 
 there was no one to keep on the home, and as they could neither 
 of them bear the emptiness of the house, Paul took lodgings in 
 Nottingham, and Morel went to hve with a friendly family in Best- 
 wood. 
 
 Everything seemed to have gone smash for the young man. He 
 could not paint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's 
 death— one that satisfied him— was the last thing he did. At work 
 there was no Clara. When he came home he could not take up his 
 brushes again. There was nothing left. 
 
 So he was always in the town at one place or another, drink- 
 ing, knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. 
 He talked to barmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that 
 dark, strained look in his eyes, as if he were hunting something. 
 
 Everything seemed so diflEerent, so unreal. There seemed no 
 reason why people should go along the street, and houses pile 
 up in the dayhght. There seemed no reason why these things 
 should occupy the space, instead of leaving it empty. His friends 
 talked to Wm: he heard the sounds, and he answered. But 
 why there should be the noise of speech he could not understand. 
 
 He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and 
 mechanically at the factory. In the latter case there was pure for- 
 getfulness, when he lapsed from consciousness. But it had to come 
 to an end. It hurt him so, that things had lost their reality. The 
 first snowdrops came. He saw the tiny drop-pearls among the 
 
426 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 grey. They would have given him the liveliest emotion at one 
 time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean any- 
 thing. In a few moments they would cease to occupy that place, 
 and just the space would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant 
 tram-cars ran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder 
 they should trouble to rustle backwards and forwards. "Why trou- 
 ble to go tilting down to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams. 
 It seemed they just as well might not be as be. 
 
 The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed 
 to him whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave 
 himself to it. Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and 
 blew along down the pavement. He stood still, rigid, with 
 clenched fists, a flame of agony going over him. And he saw again 
 the sick-room, his mother, her eyes. Unconsciously he had been 
 with her, in her company. The swift hop of the paper reminded 
 him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wanted every- 
 thing to stand still, so that he could be with her again. 
 
 The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have 
 fused, gone into a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one day 
 from another, one week from another, hardly one place from 
 another. Nothing was distmct or distinguishable. Often he lost 
 himself for an hour at a time, could not remember what he had 
 done. 
 
 One evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire was 
 burning low; everybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal, 
 glanced at the table, and decided he wanted no supper. Then he 
 sat down in the arm-chak. It was perfectly still. He did not know 
 anything, yet he saw the dim smoke wavering up the chimney. 
 Presently two mice came out, cautiously, nibbling the fallen 
 crumbs. He watched them as it were from a long way off. The 
 church clock struck two. Far away he could hear the sharp clinking 
 of the trucks on the railway. No, it was not they that were far away. 
 They were there in their places. But where was he himself? 
 
 The time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scampered 
 cheekily over his slippers. He had not moved a muscle. He did 
 not want to move. He was not thinking of anything. It was easier 
 so. There was no wrench of knowing anything. Then, from time 
 to time, some other consciousness, workmg mechanically, flashed 
 mto sharp phrases. 
 
DERELICT 427 
 
 "What am I doing?" 
 
 And out of the semi-mtoxicated trance came the answer: 
 
 "Destroying myself." 
 
 Then a dull, Uve feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was 
 wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question: 
 
 "Why wrong?" 
 
 Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness 
 inside his chest resisted his own annihilation. 
 
 There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. 
 Suddenly the electric light went out; there was a bruising thud 
 in the penny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazing in 
 front of him. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red 
 in the dark room. 
 
 Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation 
 began again inside him. 
 
 "She's dead. What was it all for-her struggle?" 
 
 That was his despair wanting to go after her. 
 
 "You're aHve." 
 
 "She's not." 
 
 "She is-m you." 
 
 Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it. 
 
 "You've got to keep ahve for her sake," said his will in him. 
 
 Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse. 
 
 "You've got to carry forward her Uving, and what she had done, 
 go on with it." 
 
 But he did not want to. He wanted to give up. 
 
 "But you can go on with your painting," said the will in him. 
 "Or else you can beget children. They both carry on her effort." 
 
 "Painting is not living." 
 
 "Then live." 
 
 "Marry whom?" came the sulky question. 
 
 "As best you can." 
 
 "Miriam?" 
 
 But he did not trust that. 
 
 He rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got inside 
 his bedroom and closed the door, he stood with clenched fist. 
 
 "Mater, my dear — " he began, with the whole force of his 
 soul. Then he stopped. He would not say it. He would not admit 
 that he wanted to die, to have done. He would not own that life 
 
428 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 had beaten him, or that death had beaten him. Going straight to 
 bed, he slept at once, abandoning liimself to the sleep. 
 
 So the weeks went on. Always alone, his soul oscillated, first 
 on the side of death, then on the side of life, doggedly. The real 
 agony was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to 
 say, and was nothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets 
 as if he were mad: sometimes he was mad; things weren't there, 
 thmgs were there. It made him pant. Sometimes he stood before 
 the bar of the public-house where he called for a drink. Every- 
 thing suddenly stood back away from him. He saw the face of the 
 barmaid, the gabbling drinkers, his own glass on the slopped, 
 mahogany board, in the distance. There was something between 
 him and them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them; 
 he did not want his drink. Turning abruptly, he went out. On 
 the threshold he stood and looked at the lighted street. But he was 
 not of it or in it. Something separated him. Everything went on 
 there below those lamps, shut away from him. He could not get 
 at them. He felt he couldn't touch the lamp-posts, not if he reached. 
 Where could he go? There was nowhere to go, neither back into 
 the inn, or forward anywhere. He felt stifled. There was nowhere 
 for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt he should smash, 
 
 "I mustn't," he said; and, turning blindly, he went in and drank. 
 Sometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. 
 He ran down the road. For ever restless, he went here, there, every- 
 where. He determined to work. But when he had made six strokes, 
 he loathed the pencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried 
 oflE to a club where he could play cards or billiards, to a place where 
 he coxild flirt with a barmaid who was no more to him than the 
 brass pump-handle she drew. 
 
 He was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his 
 own eyes in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted 
 to get away from himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. 
 In despair he thought of Miriam. Perhaps— perhaps — 7 
 
 Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday 
 evening, when they stood up to sing the second hymn he saw 
 her before him. The ligjit glistened on her lower lip as she sang. 
 She looked as if she had got something, at any rate: some hope 
 in heaven, if not in earth. Her comfort and her life seemed ia the 
 after-world. A warm, strong feeling for her came up. She seemed 
 
DERELICT 429 
 
 to yearn, as she sang, for the mystery and comfort. He put his 
 hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over, to speak to her. 
 
 The throng carried her out just before him. He could nearly 
 touch her. She did not know he was there. He saw the brown, 
 humble nape of her neck under its black curls. He would leave 
 himself to her. She was better and bigger than he. He would depend 
 on her. 
 
 She went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngs 
 of people outside the chmrch. She always looked so lost and out 
 of place among people. He went forward and put his hand on her 
 arm. She started violently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear, 
 then went questioning at the sight of him. He shrank sHghtly from 
 her. 
 
 "I didn't know — " she faltered. 
 
 "Nor I," he said. 
 
 He looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again. 
 
 "What are you doing in town?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm staying at Cousin Anne's." 
 
 "Ha! For long?" 
 
 "No; only tiU to-morrow." 
 
 "Must you go straight home?" 
 
 She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim. 
 
 "No," she said— "no; it's not necessary." 
 
 He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through 
 the throng of church people. The organ was still sounding in St. 
 Mary's. Dark figures came through the lighted doors; people were 
 coming down the steps. The large coloured windows glowed up in 
 the night. The church was like a great lantern suspended. They 
 went down Hollow Stone, and he took the car for the Bridges. 
 
 "You will just have supper with me," he said: "then I'll bring 
 you back." 
 
 "Very well," she replied, low and husky. 
 
 They scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran 
 dark and fuU under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was 
 black night. He lived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of 
 the town, facing across the river meadows towards Sneinton 
 Hermitage and the steep scarp of Colwick Wood. The floods were 
 out. The silent water and the darkness spread away on their left. 
 Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses. 
 
430 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There 
 was a bowl of freesias and scarlet anemones on the table. She bent 
 to them. Still touching them with her finger-tips, she looked up at 
 him, saying: 
 
 "Aren't they beautiful?" 
 
 "Yes," he said. "What will you drink-coffee?" 
 
 "I should like it," she said. 
 
 "Then excuse me a moment." 
 
 He went out to the kitchen. 
 
 Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, 
 severe room. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She 
 looked on the drawing-board to see what he was doing. There 
 were only a few meaningless lines. She looked to see what books 
 he was reading. Evidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in 
 the rack she saw were from Annie, Arthur, and from some man 
 or other she did not know. Everything he had touched, everything 
 that was in the least personal to him, she examined with lingering 
 absorption. He had been gone from her for so long, she wanted 
 to rediscover him, his position, what he was now. But there was 
 not much in the room to help her. It only made her feel rather sad, 
 it was so hard and comfortless. 
 
 She was curiously examining a sketch-book when he returned 
 with the coffee. 
 
 "There's nothmg new in it," he said, "and nothing very inter- 
 esting." 
 
 He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She 
 turned the pages slowly, intent on examining everything. 
 
 "H'm!" he said, as she paused at a sketch. "I'd forgotten that. 
 It's not bad, is it?" 
 
 "No," she said. "I don't quite understand it." 
 
 He took the book from her and went through it. Again he made a 
 curious soimd of surprise and pleasure. 
 
 "There's some not bad stuff in there," he said. 
 
 "Not at all bad," she answered gravely. 
 
 He felt again her interest in his work. Or was it for himself? 
 Why was she always most interested in him as he appeared in his 
 work? 
 
 They sat down to supper. 
 
DERELICT 431 
 
 "By the way," he said, "didn't I hear something about your 
 earning your own living?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. 
 
 "And what of it?" 
 
 "I'm merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three 
 months, and I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there." 
 
 "I say— that soimds aU right for you! You always wanted to be 
 independent." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why didn't you teU me?" 
 
 "I only knew last week." 
 
 "But I heard a month ago," he said. 
 
 "Yes; but nothing was settled then." 
 
 "I should have thought," he said, "you'd have told me you were 
 trying." 
 
 She ate her food in the deliberate, constrained way, almost as if 
 she recoiled a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew 
 so well. 
 
 "I suppose you're glad," he said. 
 
 "Very glad." 
 
 "Yes— it will be something." 
 
 He was rather disappointed. 
 
 "I think it will be a great deal," she said, almost haughtily, re- 
 sentfully. 
 
 He laughed shortly. 
 
 "Why do you think it won't?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think it won't be a great deal. Only you'll find earn- 
 ing your own living isn't everything." 
 
 "No," she said, swallowing with difficulty; "I don't suppose it 
 is." 
 
 "I suppose work can be nearly everything to a man," he said, 
 "though it isn't to me. But a woman only works with a part of her- 
 self. The real and vital part is covered up." 
 
 "But a man can give all himself to work?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, practically." 
 
 "And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?" 
 
 "That's it," 
 
 She looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger. 
 
432 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Then," she said, "if it's true, it's a great shame." 
 
 "It is. But I don't know everything," he answered. 
 
 After supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair fac- 
 ing him, and they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret 
 coloiur, that suited her dark complejdon and her large features. 
 StiU, the ciurls were fine and free, but her face was much older, the 
 brown throat much thinner. She seemed old to him, older than 
 Clara. Her bloom of youth had "quickly gone. A sort of stifiEness, al- 
 most of woodenness, had come upon her. She meditated a little 
 whUe, then looked at him. 
 
 "And how are things with you?" she asked. 
 
 "About all right," he answered. 
 
 She looked at him, waitmg. 
 
 "Nay," she said, very low. 
 
 Her brown, nervous hands were clasped over her knee. They 
 had still the lack of confidence or repose, the almost hysterical 
 look. He winced as he saw them. Then he laughed mirthlessly. She 
 put her fingers between her lips. His slim, black, tortured body lay 
 quite still in the chair. She suddenly took her finger from her mouth 
 and looked at him. 
 
 "And you have broken oflE with Qara?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 His body lay like an abandoned thing, strewn in the chair. 
 
 "You know," she said, "I think we ought to be married." 
 
 He opened his eyes for the first time since many months, and at- 
 tended to her with respect. 
 
 "Why?" he said. 
 
 "See," she said, "how you waste yourself! You might be iU, you 
 might die, and I never know— be no more then than if I had never 
 known you." 
 
 "And if we married?" he asked. 
 
 "At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a 
 prey to other women— like— like Clara." 
 
 "A prey?" he repeated, smiling. 
 
 She bowed her head in silence. He lay feeling his despair come 
 up again. 
 
 "I'm not sure," he said slowly, "that marriage would be much 
 good." 
 
 "I only think of you," she replied. 
 
DERELICT 433 
 
 "I know you do. But— you love me so much, you want to put me 
 in your pocket. And I should die there smothered." 
 
 She bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while the 
 bitterness surged up in her heart. 
 
 "And what wiU you do otherwise?" she asked, 
 
 "I don't know— go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go 
 abroad." 
 
 The despairing doggedness m his tone made her go on her 
 knees on the rug before the fire, very near to him. There she 
 crouched as if she were crushed by something, and could not raise 
 her head. His hands lay quite inert on the arms of his chair. She 
 was aware of them. She felt that now he lay at her mercy. If she 
 could rise, take him, put her arms roxmd him, and say, "You are 
 mine," then he would leave himself to her. But dare she? She 
 could easily sacrifice herself. But dare she assert herself? She was 
 aware of his dark-clothed, slender body, that seemed one stroke of 
 life, sprawled in the chair close to her. But no; she dared not put 
 her arms roimd it, take it up, and say, "It is mine, this body. Leave 
 it to me." And she wanted to. It called to all her woman's instinct. 
 But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he would not let 
 her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body, aban- 
 doned. She knew she ought to take it up and claim it, and claim 
 every right to it. But— could she do it? Her impotence before him, 
 before the strong demand of some unknown thing in him, was her 
 extremity. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes, 
 shuddering, appealing, gone almost distracted, pleaded to him 
 suddenly. His heart caught with pity. He took her hands, drew 
 her to him, and comforted her. 
 
 "Will you have me, to marry me?" he said very low. 
 
 Oh, why did not he take her? Her very soul belonged to him. 
 Why would he not take what was his? She had borne so long the 
 cruelty of belongmg to him and not being claimed by him. Now he 
 was straining her again. It was too much for her. She drew back her 
 head, held his face between her hands, and looked hun in the eyes. 
 No, he was hard. He wanted something else. She pleaded to him 
 with aU her love not to make it her choice. She could not cope with 
 it, with him, she knew not with what. But it strained her till she felt 
 she would break, 
 
 "Do you want it?" she asked, very gravely. 
 
434 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 "Not much," he repKed, with pain. 
 
 She turned her face aside; then, raising herself with dignity, she 
 took his head to her bosom, and rocked him softly. She was not to 
 have him, then! So she could comfort him. She put her fingers 
 through his hair. For her, the anguished sweetness of self-sacrifice. 
 For him, the hate and misery of another failure. He could not bear 
 it— that breast which was warm and which cradled him without 
 taking the burden of him. So much he wanted to rest on her that 
 the feint of rest only tortured him. He drew away. 
 
 "And without marriage we can do nothing?" he asked. 
 
 His mouth was Ufted from his teeth with pain. She put her litfle 
 finger between her lips. 
 
 "No," she said, low and like the toll of a bell. "No, I thmk not." 
 
 It was the end then between them. She could not take him and 
 reUeve him of the responsibility of himself. She could only sacri- 
 fice herself to him— sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he 
 did not want. He wanted her to hold him and say, with joy 
 and authority: "Stop all this restlessness and beating against death. 
 You are mine for a mate." She had not the strength. Or was it a 
 mate she wanted? or did she want a Christ in him? 
 
 He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew 
 that, in staying, stifling the inner, desperate man, he was denying 
 his own life. And he did not hope to give Ufe to her by denying his 
 own. 
 
 She sat very quiet. He lit a cigarette. The smoke went up from 
 it, wavering. He was thinking of his mother, and had forgotten 
 Miriam. She suddenly looked at him. Her bitterness came surging 
 up. Her sacrifice, then, was useless. He lay there aloof, careless 
 about her. Suddenly she saw again his lack of religion, his rest- 
 less instability. He would destroy himself like a perverse child. 
 WeU, then, he would! 
 
 "I think I must go," she said softly. 
 
 By her tone he knew she was despising him. He rose quietly. 
 
 "I'll come along with you," he answered. 
 
 She stood before the mirror pinning on her hat. How bitter, 
 how unutterably bitter, it made her that he rejected her sacrifice! 
 Life ahead looked dead, as if the glow were gone out. She bowed 
 her face over the flowers— the freesias so sweet and spring-like, the 
 
DERELICT 435 
 
 scarlet anemones flaunting over the table. It was like him to have 
 those flowers. 
 
 He moved about the room with a certain sureness of touch, 
 swift and relentless and quiet. She knew she could not cope with 
 him. He would escape hke a weasel out of her hands. Yet without 
 him her life would trail on lifeless. Brooding, she touched the 
 flowers. 
 
 "Have them!" he said; and he took them out of the jar, dripping 
 as they were, and went quickly into the kitchen. She waited for 
 him, took the flowers, and they went out together, he talkmg, she 
 feeling dead. 
 
 She was gomg from him now. In her misery she leaned against 
 him as they sat on the car. He was imresponsive. Where would he 
 go? What would be the end of him? She could not bear it, the 
 vacant feeling where he should be. He was so foolish, so wasteful, 
 never at peace with himself. And now where would he go? And 
 what did he care that he wasted her? He had no religion; it was all 
 for the moment's attraction that he cared, nothing else, nothing 
 deeper. Well, she would wait and see how it turned out with him. 
 When he had had enough he would give in and come to her. 
 
 He shook hands and left her at the door of her cousin's house. 
 When he turned away he felt the last hold for him had gone. The 
 town, as he sat upon the car, stretched away over the bay of rail- 
 way, a level fume of lights. Beyond the town the country, Uttle 
 smouldering spots for more towns— the sea— the night— on and on! 
 And he had no place in it! Whatever spot he stood on, there he 
 stood alone. From his breast, from his mouth, sprang the endless 
 space, and it was there behind him, everywhere. The people hurry- 
 ing along the streets offered no obstruction to the void in which 
 he foimd himself. They were small shadows whose footsteps and 
 voices could be heard, but in each of them the same night, the 
 same silence. He got off the car. In the country all was dead stUl. 
 Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away m the flood- 
 waters, a firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and terror of 
 the immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while 
 by the day, but which returns, and will remaui at last eternal, hold- 
 ing everything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no 
 Time, only Space. Who could say his mother had lived and did not 
 live? She had been in one place, and was in another; that was all. 
 
436 SONS AND LOVERS 
 
 And Ms soul could not leave her, wherever she was. Now she was 
 gone abroad into the night, and he was with her stiU. They were 
 together. But yet there was his body, his chest, that leaned against 
 the stile, his hands on the wooden bar. They seemed something. 
 Where was he?— one tiny upright speck of flesh, less than an ear of 
 wheat lost in the field. He could not bear it. On every side the im- 
 mense dark silence seemed pressing him, so tiny a spark, into ex- 
 tinction, and yet, almost nothing, he could not be extinct. Night, 
 in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and 
 sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning round for 
 terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that 
 outpassed them aU, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and 
 himself, infinitesimal, at the core a nothingness, and yet not 
 nothing. 
 
 "Mother!" he whispered-"mother!" 
 
 She was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. 
 And she was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch 
 him, have him alongside with her. 
 
 But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked to- 
 wards the city's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his 
 mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to 
 follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing 
 town, quickly. 
 
 THE END