The Complete Novels. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 will 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.

      “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 working 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 think 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 renunciation.

      “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 Clara, 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.”

      “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'll 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 building. 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 official manner, keeping her at bay. With what wits she had left she listened 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 bliss 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 something was troubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the time he whistled softly and persistently to himself. She listened, 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 swing bridge he sat down on the great pole, looking 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 Nottingham and go abroad—soon.”

      “Go abroad! What for?”

      “I dunno! 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. СКАЧАТЬ