The Complete Novels. D. H. Lawrence

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      “No; I'll watch that,” laughed the older woman.

      Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her 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 little 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 down 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'll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?” he asked.

      “You'll please yourselves,” she said; “but it's pretty late.”

      “A game or so will 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 counting. He was obsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He believed 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 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 stiffly, and said:

      “Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?”

      Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficiently 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 said, 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 stairs 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 hair-pins were on the dressing-table—her hair-brush. Her clothes and some skirts hung under a cloth in a corner. 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, listening. 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 under him, perfectly motionless, listening. He heard a cat somewhere away outside; then the heavy, poised tread of the mother; then Clara's distinct 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,” replied 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 slightly. 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 slight 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 hearthrug, 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.

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