Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ possible compass. And as he went about arranging, and as he sat talking, there seemed something false about him and out of tune. Watching him unknown, she said to herself there was no stability about him. He was fine in his way, passionate, and able to give her drinks of pure life when he was in one mood. And now he looked paltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about him. Her husband had more manly dignity. At any rate HE did not waft about with any wind. There was something evanescent about Morel, she thought, something shifting and false. He would never make sure ground for any woman to stand on. She despised him rather for his shrinking together, getting smaller. Her husband at least was manly, and when he was beaten gave in. But this other would never own to being beaten. He would shift round and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet she watched him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three fates lay in his hands. She hated him for it.

      She seemed to understand better now about men, and what they could or would do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself. That they were not the small egoists she had imagined them made her more comfortable. She had learned a good deal—almost as much as she wanted to learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full as she could carry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he was gone.

      They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Not a serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel was withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay with her husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all, to take what he wanted and then give her back. She did not remember that she herself had had what she wanted, and really, at the bottom of her heart, wished to be given back.

      Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really supported his life. He had loved her; they two had, in fact, faced the world together. Now she was gone, and for ever behind him was the gap in life, the tear in the veil, through which his life seemed to drift slowly, as if he were drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiative to help him. The lesser things he began to let go from him, for fear of this big thing, the lapse towards death, following in the wake of his beloved. Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him, but not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not the real him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; he dared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed. So, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, because his own hold on life was so unsure, because nobody held him, feeling unsubstantial, shadowy, as if he did not count for much in this concrete world, he drew himself together smaller and smaller. He did not want to die; he would not give in. But he was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, he would go on alone.

      Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was afraid. He could go to the brink of death, he could lie on the edge and look in. Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and like a beggar take what offered. There was a certain nobility in it. As Clara saw, he owned himself beaten, and he wanted to be taken back whether or not. That she could do for him. It was three o'clock.

      “I am going by the four-twenty,” said Paul again to Clara. “Are you coming then or later?”

      “I don't know,” she said.

      “I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen,” he said.

      “Then,” she answered, “I'll come later.”

      Dawes jerked suddenly, as if he had been held on a strain. He looked out over the sea, but he saw nothing.

      “There are one or two books in the corner,” said Morel. “I've done with 'em.”

      At about four o'clock he went.

      “I shall see you both later,” he said, as he shook hands.

      “I suppose so,” said Dawes. “An' perhaps—one day—I s'll be able to pay you back the money as—”

      “I shall come for it, you'll see,” laughed Paul. “I s'll be on the rocks before I'm very much older.”

      “Ay—well—” said Dawes.

      “Good-bye,” he said to Clara.

      “Good-bye,” she said, giving him her hand. Then she glanced at him for the last time, dumb and humble.

      He was gone. Dawes and his wife sat down again.

      “It's a nasty day for travelling,” said the man.

      “Yes,” she answered.

      They talked in a desultory fashion until it grew dark. The landlady brought in the tea. Dawes drew up his chair to the table without being invited, like a husband. Then he sat humbly waiting for his cup. She served him as she would, like a wife, not consulting his wish.

      After tea, as it drew near to six o'clock, he went to the window. All was dark outside. The sea was roaring.

      “It's raining yet,” he said.

      “Is it?” she answered.

      “You won't go to-night, shall you?” he said, hesitating.

      She did not answer. He waited.

      “I shouldn't go in this rain,” he said.

      “Do you WANT me to stay?” she asked.

      His hand as he held the dark curtain trembled.

      “Yes,” he said.

      He remained with his back to her. She rose and went slowly to him. He let go the curtain, turned, hesitating, towards her. She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him in a heavy, inscrutable fashion.

      “Do you want me, Baxter?” she asked.

      His voice was hoarse as he answered:

      “Do you want to come back to me?”

      She made a moaning noise, lifted her arms, and put them round his neck, drawing him to her. He hid his face on her shoulder, holding her clasped.

      “Take me back!” she whispered, ecstatic. “Take me back, take me back!” And she put her fingers through his fine, thin dark hair, as if she were only semi-conscious. He tightened his grasp on her.

      “Do you want me again?” he murmured, broken.

      Chapter XV

       Derelict

       Table of Contents

      Clara went with her husband to Sheffield, and Paul scarcely saw her again. Walter Morel seemed to have let all the trouble go over him, and there he was, crawling about on the mud of it, just the same. There was scarcely any bond between father and son, save that each felt he must not let the other go in any actual want. As there was no one to keep on the home, and as they could neither of them bear the emptiness of the house, Paul took lodgings in Nottingham, and Morel went to live with a friendly family in Bestwood.

      Everything seemed to have gone smash for the young man. He could not paint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's death—one that satisfied him—was the last thing he did. At work there was no Clara. When he came home he could not take up his brushes again. There СКАЧАТЬ