Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

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      Chapter 25

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      Siegmund passed the afternoon in a sort of stupor. At tea-time Beatrice, who had until then kept herself in restraint, gave way to an outburst of angry hysteria.

      ‘When does your engagement at the Comedy Theatre commence?’ she had asked him coldly.

      He knew she was wondering about money.

      ‘Tomorrow — if ever,’ he had answered.

      She was aware that he hated the work. For some reason or other her anger flashed out like sudden lightning at his ‘if ever’.

      ‘What do you think you can do?’ she cried. ‘For I think you have done enough. We can’t do as we like altogether — indeed, indeed we cannot. You have had your fling, haven’t you? You have had your fling, and you want to keep on. But there’s more than one person in the world. Remember that. But there are your children, let me remind you. Whose are they? You talk about shirking the engagement, but who is going to be responsible for your children, do you think?’

      ‘I said nothing about shirking the engagement,’ replied Siegmund, very coldly.

      ‘No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit there sulking all day. What do you think I do? I have to see to the children, I have to work and slave, I go on from day to day. I tell you I’ll stop, I tell you I’ll do as I like. I’ll go as well. No, I wouldn’t be such a coward, you know that. You know I wouldn’t leave little children — to the workhouse or anything. They’re my children; they mightn’t be yours.’

      ‘There is no need for this,’ said Siegmund contemptuously.

      The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomely sick.

      Beatrice’s dark eyes flashed with rage.

      ‘Isn’t there!’ she cried. ‘Oh, isn’t there? No, there is need for a great deal more. I don’t know what you think I am. How much farther do you’ think you can go? No, you don’t like reminding of us. You sit moping, sulking, because you have to come back to your own children. I wonder how much you think I shall stand? What do you think I am, to put up with it? What do you think I am? Am I a servant to eat out of your hand?’

      ‘Be quiet!’ shouted Siegmund. ‘Don’t I know what you are? Listen to yourself!’

      Beatrice was suddenly silenced. It was the stillness of white-hot wrath. Even Siegmund was glad to hear her voice again. She spoke low and trembling.

      ‘You coward — you miserable coward! It is I, is it, who am wrong? It is I who am to blame, is it? You miserable thing! I have no doubt you know what I am.’

      Siegmund looked up at her as her words died off. She looked back at him with dark eyes loathing his cowed, wretched animosity. His eyes were bloodshot and furtive, his mouth was drawn back in a half-grin of hate and misery. She was goading him, in his darkness whither he had withdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strength should prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by anger, which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. He trembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest. Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shuddering slightly, and her eyes were fixed.

      Vera entered with the two children. All three immediately, as if they found themselves confronted by something threatening, stood arrested. Vera tackled the situation.

      ‘Is the table ready to be cleared yet?’ she asked in an unpleasant tone.

      Her father’s cup was half emptied. He had come to tea late, after the others had left the table. Evidently he had not finished, but he made no reply, neither did Beatrice. Vera glanced disgustedly at her father. Gwen sidled up to her mother, and tried to break the tension.

      ‘Mam, there was a lady had a dog, and it ran into a shop, and it licked a sheep, Mam, what was hanging up.’

      Beatrice sat fixed, and paid not the slightest attention. The child looked up at her, waited, then continued softly.

      ‘Mam, there was a lady had a dog —’

      ‘Don’t bother!’ snapped Vera sharply.

      The child looked, wondering and resentful, at her sister. Vera was taking the things from the table, snatching them, and thrusting them on the tray. Gwen’s eyes rested a moment or two on the bent head of her father; then deliberately she turned again to her mother, and repeated in her softest and most persuasive tones:

      ‘Mam, I saw a dog, and it ran in a butcher’s shop and licked a piece of meat. Mam, Mam!’

      There was no answer. Gwen went forward and put her hand on her mother’s knee.

      ‘Mam!’ she pleaded timidly.

      No response.

      ‘Mam!’ she whispered.

      She was desperate. She stood on tiptoe, and pulled with little hands at her mother’s breast.

      ‘Mam!’ she whispered shrilly.

      Her mother, with an effort of self-denial, put off her investment of tragedy, and, laying her arm round the child’s shoulders, drew her close. Gwen was somewhat reassured, but not satisfied. With an earnest face upturned to the impassive countenance of her mother, she began to whisper, sibilant, coaxing, pleading.

      ‘Mam, there was a lady, she had a dog —’

      Vera turned sharply to stop this whispering, which was too much for her nerves, but the mother forestalled her. Taking the child in her arms, she averted her face, put her cheek against the baby cheek, and let the tears run freely. Gwen was too much distressed to cry. The tears gathered very slowly in her eyes, and fell without her having moved a muscle in her face. Vera remained in the scullery, weeping tears of rage, and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room was the occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Siegmund sat without the trace of a movement, almost without breathing. His head was ducked low; he dared never lift it, he dared give no sign of his presence.

      Presently СКАЧАТЬ