The Greatest Works of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 like I have,” he said.

      Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man gripping 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 off.”

      “What—” said Dawes, suggestively.

      “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 all 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 malice 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 almost 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,” replied the other.

      “What's up with 'em? They look all right,” replied Paul, from his bed.

      “They look all 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 glistening, dark gold hair.

      “Look here,” said Dawes, pointing to his shin. “Look at the water under here.”

      “Where?” said Paul.

      The man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that filled up slowly.

      “It's nothing,” said Paul.

      “You feel,” said Dawes.

      Paul tried with his fingers. It made little 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 morning 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 rain. He was pale, with almost a touch of nobility in his quietness. He came forward, limping slightly.

      “You ought to look better than this,” СКАЧАТЬ