Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

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      “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.”

      Clara flushed. She looked very handsome.

      “I should like some radishes,” she answered.

      And the old lady pottered off gleefully.

      “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 going away, the old lady came timidly with three tiny dahlias in full 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 Clara, accepting the flowers.

      “Shall she have them all?” asked Paul reproachfully of the old woman.

      “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, smiling. And she bobbed a little curtsey of delight.

      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!'”

      “If 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 like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe,” he said. “I believe 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 himself 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 forgot. 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 Clara.”

      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!”

      “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—”

      “Well, I can't help it. Their jaw isn't so almighty important, after 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 already 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'll 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 like to know what she's like.”

      “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 underhand 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.

      “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. If you think a horrid thing about her, I shan't forgive you.”

      His mother laughed.

      “As if it would make any difference!” she said. He knew he had won.

      “Oh, but it feels so fine, when she's there! She's СКАЧАТЬ