
 
CHAPTER XII

PASSION III 
Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She movedaside her mouth to ask, dogged and low:
"What time is it?"
"It doesn't matter," he pleaded thickly.
"Yes it does--yes! I must go!"
"It's early yet," he said.
"What time is it?" she insisted.
All round lay the black night, speckled and spangled with lights.
"I don't know."
She put her hand on his chest, feeling for his watch. He felt the joints fuse into fire. She groped in his waistcoat pocket,while he stood panting. In the darkness she could see the round,pale face of the watch, but not the figures. She stooped over it. He was panting till he could take her in his arms again.
"I can't see," she said.
"Then don't bother."
"Yes; I'm going!" she said, turning away.
"Wait! I'll look!" But he could not see. "I'll strikea match."
He secretly hoped it was too late to catch the train. She saw the glowing lantern of his hands as he cradled the light: then his face lit up, his eyes fixed on the watch. Instantly all wasdark again. All was black before her eyes; only a glowing match wasred near her feet. Where was he?
"What is it?" she asked, afraid.
"You can't do it," his voice answered out of the darkness.
There was a pause. She felt in his power. She had heardthe ring in his voice. It frightened her.
"What time is it?" she asked, quiet, definite, hopeless.
"Two minutes to nine," he replied, telling the truth witha struggle.
"And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?"
"No. At any rate---"
She could distinguish his dark form again a yard or so away. She wanted to escape.
"But can't I do it?" she pleaded.
"If you hurry," he said brusquely. "But you could easilywalk it, Clara; it's only seven miles to the tram. I'll comewith you."
"No; I want to catch the train."
"But why?"
"I do--I want to catch the train."
Suddenly his voice altered.
"Very well," he said, dry and hard. "Come along, then."
And he plunged ahead into the darkness. She ran after him,wanting to cry. Now he was hard and cruel to her. She ran overthe rough, dark fields behind him, out of breath, ready to drop. But the double row of lights at the station drew nearer. Suddenly:
"There she is!" he cried, breaking into a run.
There was a faint rattling noise. Away to the right the train,like a luminous caterpillar, was threading across the night. The rattling ceased.
"She's over the viaduct. You'll just do it."
Clara ran, quite out of breath, and fell at last into the train. The whistle blew. He was gone. Gone!--and she was in a carriagefull of people. She felt the cruelty of it.
He turned round and plunged home. Before he knew wherehe was he was in the kitchen at home. He was very pale. His eyes were dark and dangerous-looking, as if he were drunk. His mother looked at him.
"Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state!" she said.
He looked at his feet. Then he took off his overcoat. His mother wondered if he were drunk.
"She caught the train then?" she said.
"Yes."
"I hope HER feet weren't so filthy. Where on earth you draggedher I don't know!"
He was silent and motionless for some time.
"Did you like her?" he asked grudgingly at last.
"Yes, I liked her. But you'll tire of her, my son; you knowyou will."
He did not answer. She noticed how he laboured in his breathing.
"Have you been running?" she asked.
"We had to run for the train."
"You'll go and knock yourself up. You'd better drink hot milk."
It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refusedand went to bed. There he lay face down on the counterpane,and shed tears of rage and pain. There was a physical painthat made him bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos insidehim left him unable to think, almost to feel.
"This is how she serves me, is it?" he said in his heart,over and over, pressing his face in the quilt. And he hated her. Again he went over the scene, and again he hated her.
The next day there was a new aloofness about him. Clara wasvery gentle, almost loving. But he treated her distantly,with a touch of contempt. She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round.
One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royalin Nottingham, giving "La Dame aux Camelias". Paul wanted to seethis old and famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told his mother to leave the key in the window for him.
"Shall I book seats?" he asked of Clara.
"Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seenyou in it."
"But, good Lord, Clara! Think of ME in evening suitat the theatre!" he remonstrated.
"Would you rather not?" she asked.
"I will if you WANT me to; but I s'll feel a fool."
She laughed at him.
"Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?"
The request made his blood flush up.
"I suppose I s'll have to."
"What are you taking a suitcase for?" his mother asked.
He blushed furiously.
"Clara asked me," he said.
"And what seats are you going in?"
"Circle--three-and-six each!"
"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed his mother sarcastically.
"It's only once in the bluest of blue moons," he said.
He dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and metClara in a cafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old long coat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrapover her head, which he hated. The three went to the theatre together.
Clara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered shewas in a sort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neckand part of her breast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thing of green crape, suited her. She lookedquite grand, he thought. He could see her figure inside the frock,as if that were wrapped closely round her. The firmness and thesoftness of her upright body could almost be felt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists.
And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm,watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching thebreasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight dress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this tortureof nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head and staredstraight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if sheyielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could not help herself; she was in the grip of somethingbigger than herself. A kind of eternal look about her, as if shewere a wistful sphinx, made it necessary for him to kiss her. He dropped his programme, and crouched down on the floor to get it,so that he could kiss her hand and wrist. Her beauty was a tortureto him. She sat immobile. Only, when the lights went down,she sank a little against him, and he caressed her hand and armwith his fingers. He could smell her faint perfume. All the timehis blood kept sweeping up in great white-hot waves that killed hisconsciousness momentarily.
The drama continued. He saw it all in the distance, going onsomewhere; he did not know where, but it seemed far away inside him. He was Clara's white heavy arms, her throat, her moving bosom. That seemed to be himself. Then away somewhere the play went on,and he was identified with that also. There was no himself. The grey and black eyes of Clara, her bosom comingdown on him, her arm that he held gripped between his hands,were all that existed. Then he felt himself small and helpless,her towering in her force above him.
Only the intervals, when the lights came up, hurt him expressibly. He wanted to run anywhere, so long as it would be dark again. In a maze, he wandered out for a drink. Then the lights were out,and the strange, insane reality of Clara and the drama took hold ofhim again.
The play went on. But he was obsessed by the desire tokiss the tiny blue vein that nestled in the bend of her arm. He could feel it. His whole face seemed suspended till he hadput his lips there. It must be done. And the other people! At last he bent quickly forward and touched it with his lips. His moustache brushed the sensitive flesh. Clara shivered, drew awayher arm.
When all was over, the lights up, the people clapping,he came to himself and looked at his watch. His train was gone.
"I s'll have to walk home!" he said.
Clara looked at him.
"It is too late?" she asked.
He nodded. Then he helped her on with her coat.
"I love you! You look beautiful in that dress," he murmuredover her shoulder, among the throng of bustling people.
She remained quiet. Together they went out of the theatre. He saw the cabs waiting, the people passing. It seemed he meta pair of brown eyes which hated him. But he did not know. He and Clara turned away, mechanically taking the direction tothe station.
The train had gone. He would have to walk the ten miles home.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I shall enjoy it."
"Won't you," she said, flushing, "come home for the night? I can sleep with mother."
He looked at her. Their eyes met.
"What will your mother say?" he asked.
"She won't mind."
"You're sure?"
"Quite! "
"SHALL I come?"
"If you will."
"Very well."
And they turned away. At the first stopping-place they tookthe car. The wind blew fresh in their faces. The town was dark;the tram tipped in its haste. He sat with her hand fast in his.
"Will your mother be gone to bed?" he asked.
"She may be. I hope not."
They hurried along the silent, dark little street, the onlypeople out of doors. Clara quickly entered the house. He hesitated.
He leaped up the step and was in the room. Her mother appearedin the inner doorway, large and hostile.
"Who have you got there?" she asked.
"It's Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we mightput him up for the night, and save him a ten-mile walk."
"H'm," exclaimed Mrs. Radford. "That's your lookout! If you've invited him, he's very welcome as far as I'm concerned. YOU keep the house!"
"If you don't like me, I'll go away again," he said.
"Nay, nay, you needn't! Come along in! I dunno what you'llthink of the supper I'd got her."
It was a little dish of chip potatoes and a piece of bacon. The table was roughly laid for one.
"You can have some more bacon," continued Mrs. Radford. "More chips you can't have."
"It's a shame to bother you," he said.
"Oh, don't you be apologetic! It doesn't DO wi' me! You treated herto the theatre, didn't you?" There was a sarcasm in the last question.
"Well?" laughed Paul uncomfortably.
"Well, and what's an inch of bacon! Take your coat off."
The big, straight-standing woman was trying to estimatethe situation. She moved about the cupboard. Clara took his coat. The room was very warm and cosy in the lamplight.
"My sirs!" exclaimed Mrs. Radford; "but you two's a pairof bright beauties, I must say! What's all that get-up for?"
"I believe we don't know," he said, feeling a victim.
"There isn't room in THIS house for two such bobby-dazzlers, ifyou fly your kites THAT high!" she rallied them. It was a nasty thrust.
He in his dinner jacket, and Clara in her green dressand bare arms, were confused. They felt they must sheltereach other in that little kitchen.
"And look at THAT blossom! " continued Mrs. Radford,pointing to Clara. "What does she reckon she did it for?"
Paul looked at Clara. She was rosy; her neck was warmwith blushes. There was a moment of silence.
"You like to see it, don't you?" he asked.
The mother had them in her power. All the time his heartwas beating hard, and he was tight with anxiety. But he wouldfight her.
"Me like to see it!" exclaimed the old woman. "What should Ilike to see her make a fool of herself for?"
"I've seen people look bigger fools," he said. Clara wasunder his protection now.
"Oh, ay! and when was that?" came the sarcastic rejoinder.
"When they made frights of themselves," he answered.
Mrs. Radford, large and threatening, stood suspendedon the hearthrug, holding her fork.
"They're fools either road," she answered at length,turning to the Dutch oven.
"No," he said, fighting stoutly. "Folk ought to look as wellas they can."
"And do you call THAT looking nice!" cried the mother,pointing a scornful fork at Clara. "That--that looks as if itwasn't properly dressed!"
"I believe you're jealous that you can't swank as well,"he said laughing.
"Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I'dwanted to!" came the scornful answer.
"And why didn't you want to?" he asked pertinently. "Or DIDyou wear it?"
There was a long pause. Mrs. Radford readjusted the baconin the Dutch oven. His heart beat fast, for fear he had offended her.
"Me!" she exclaimed at last. "No, I didn't! And when I wasin service, I knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bareshoulders what sort SHE was, going to her sixpenny hop!"
"Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?" he said.
Clara sat with bowed head. His eyes were dark and glittering. Mrs. Radford took the Dutch oven from the fire, and stood near him,putting bits of bacon on his plate.
"THERE'S a nice crozzly bit!" she said.
"Don't give me the best!" he said.
"SHE'S got what SHE wants," was the answer.
There was a sort of scornful forbearance in the woman's tonethat made Paul know she was mollified.
"But DO have some!" he said to Clara.
She looked up at him with her grey eyes, humiliated and lonely.
"No thanks!" she said.
"Why won't you?" he answered carelessly.
The blood was beating up like fire in his veins. Mrs. Radfordsat down again, large and impressive and aloof. He left Claraaltogether to attend to the mother.
"They say Sarah Bernhardt's fifty," he said.
"Fifty! She's turned sixty!" came the scornful answer.
"Well," he said, "you'd never think it! She made me wantto howl even now."
"I should like to see myself howling at THAT bad old baggage!"said Mrs. Radford. "It's time she began to think herself a grandmother,not a shrieking catamaran---"
He laughed.
"A catamaran is a boat the Malays use," he said.
"And it's a word as I use," she retorted.
"My mother does sometimes, and it's no good my telling her,"he said.
"I s'd think she boxes your ears," said Mrs. Radford,good-humouredly.
"She'd like to, and she says she will, so I give her a littlestool to stand on."
"That's the worst of my mother," said Clara. "She never wantsa stool for anything."
"But she often can't touch THAT lady with a long prop,"retorted Mrs. Radford to Paul.
"I s'd think she doesn't want touching with a prop," he laughed. "I shouldn't."
"It might do the pair of you good to give you a crackon the head with one," said the mother, laughing suddenly.
"Why are you so vindictive towards me?" he said. "I've notstolen anything from you."
"No; I'll watch that," laughed the older woman.
Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in herchair. Paul lit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit, which she spread on the fender to air.
"Why, I'd forgot all about THEM!" said Mrs. Radford. "Where have they sprung from?"
"Out of my drawer."
"H'm! You bought 'em for Baxter, an' he wouldn't wear 'em,would he?"--laughing. "Said he reckoned to do wi'out trousers i'bed." She turned confidentially to Paul, saying: "He couldn'tBEAR 'em, them pyjama things."
The young man sat making rings of smoke.
"Well, it's everyone to his taste," he laughed.
Then followed a little discussion of the merits of pyjamas.
"My mother loves me in them," he said. "She says I'm a pierrot."
"I can imagine they'd suit you," said Mrs. Radford.
After a while he glanced at the little clock that was tickingon the mantelpiece. It was half-past twelve.
"It is funny," he said, "but it takes hours to settle downto sleep after the theatre."
"It's about time you did," said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table.
"Are YOU tired?" he asked of Clara.
"Not the least bit," she answered, avoiding his eyes.
"Shall we have a game at cribbage?" he said.
"I've forgotten it."
"Well, I'll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?"he asked.
"You'll please yourselves," she said; "but it's pretty late."
"A game or so will make us sleepy," he answered.
Clara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-ring whilsthe shuffled them. Mrs. Radford was washing up in the scullery. As it grew later Paul felt the situation getting more and more tense.
"Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two's eight---!"
The clock struck one. Still the game continued. Mrs. Radfordhad done all the little jobs preparatory to going to bed,had locked the door and filled the kettle. Still Paul went ondealing and counting. He was obsessed by Clara's arms and throat. He believed he could see where the division was just beginningfor her breasts. He could not leave her. She watched his hands,and felt her joints melt as they moved quickly. She was so near;it was almost as if he touched her, and yet not quite. His mettle was roused. He hated Mrs. Radford. She sat on, nearly dropping asleep, but determined and obstinate in her chair. Paul glanced at her, then at Clara. She met his eyes, that were angry, mocking, and hard as steel. Her own answered him in shame. He knew SHE, at any rate, was of his mind. He played on.
At last Mrs. Radford roused herself stiffly, and said:
"Isn't it nigh on time you two was thinking o' bed?"
Paul played on without answering. He hated her sufficientlyto murder her.
"Half a minute," he said.
The elder woman rose and sailed stubbornly into the scullery,returning with his candle, which she put on the mantelpiece. Then she sat down again. The hatred of her went so hot down his veins, he dropped his cards.
"We'll stop, then," he said, but his voice was still a challenge.
Clara saw his mouth shut hard. Again he glanced at her. It seemed like an agreement. She bent over the cards, coughing,to clear her throat.
"Well, I'm glad you've finished," said Mrs. Radford. "Here, take your things"--she thrust the warm suit in his hand--"andthis is your candle. Your room's over this; there's only two,so you can't go far wrong. Well, good-night. I hope you'll rest well."
"I'm sure I shall; I always do," he said.
"Yes; and so you ought at your age," she replied.
He bade good-night to Clara, and went. The twisting stairsof white, scrubbed wood creaked and clanged at every step. He went doggedly. The two doors faced each other. He went in his room,pushed the door to, without fastening the latch.
It was a small room with a large bed. Some of Clara'shair-pins were on the dressing-table--her hair-brush. Her clothesand some skirts hung under a cloth in a corner. There was actuallya pair of stockings over a chair. He explored the room. Two books of his own were there on the shelf. He undressed,folded his suit, and sat on the bed, listening. Then he blewout the candle, lay down, and in two minutes was almost asleep. Then click!--he was wide awake and writhing in torment. It was as if,when he had nearly got to sleep, something had bitten him suddenlyand sent him mad. He sat up and looked at the room in the darkness,his feet doubled under him, perfectly motionless, listening. He heard a cat somewhere away outside; then the heavy, poised tread of the mother; then Clara's distinct voice:
"Will you unfasten my dress?"
There was silence for some time. At last the mother said:
"Now then! aren't you coming up?"
"No, not yet," replied the daughter calmly.
"Oh, very well then! If it's not late enough, stop a bit longer. Only you needn't come waking me up when I've got to sleep."
"I shan't be long," said Clara.
Immediately afterwards Paul heard the mother slowly mountingthe stairs. The candlelight flashed through the cracks in his door. Her dress brushed the door, and his heart jumped. Then it was dark,and he heard the clatter of her latch. She was very leisurely indeedin her preparations for sleep. After a long time it was quite still. He sat strung up on the bed, shivering slightly. His door wasan inch open. As Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He waited. All was dead silence. The clock struck two. Then heheard a slight scrape of the fender downstairs. Now he could nothelp himself. His shivering was uncontrollable. He felt he must goor die.
He stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then he went straight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first stair cracked like a shot. He listened. The old womanstirred in her bed. The staircase was dark. There was a slitof light under the stair-foot door, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. Then he went on, mechanically. Every step creaked,and his back was creeping, lest the old woman's door should openbehind him up above. He fumbled with the door at the bottom. The latch opened with a loud clack. He went through into the kitchen,and shut the door noisily behind him. The old woman daren'tcome now.
Then he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of whiteunderclothing on the hearthrug, her back towards him, warming herself. She did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, and herrounded beautiful back was towards him, and her face was hidden. She was warming her body at the fire for consolation. The glowwas rosy on one side, the shadow was dark and warm on the other. Her arms hung slack.
He shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hardto keep control. Then he went forward to her. He put one handon her shoulder, the fingers of the other hand under her chin toraise her face. A convulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice,at his touch. She kept her head bent.
"Sorry!" he murmured, realising that his hands were very cold.
Then she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that isafraid of death.
"My hands are so cold," he murmured.
"I like it," she whispered, closing her eyes.
The breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms claspedhis knees. The cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and madeher shiver. As the warmth went into him, his shuddering became less.
At length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and sheburied her head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowlywith an infinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him,trying to hide herself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at last she looked at him, mute, imploring, looking to see if shemust be ashamed.
His eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if herbeauty and his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked ather with a little pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before her. She kissed him fervently on the eyes, first one, then the other,and she folded herself to him. She gave herself. He held her fast. It was a moment intense almost to agony.
She stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It healed her hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It madeher feel erect and proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside her. She had been cheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride again. It was her restoration and her recognition.
Then he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed toeach other, and he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off,the minutes passed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together,mouth to mouth, like a statue in one block.
But again his fingers went seeking over her, restless,wandering, dissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her head on his shoulder.
"Come you to my room," he murmured.
She looked at him and shook her head, her mouth poutingdisconsolately, her eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly.
"Yes!" he said.
Again she shook her head.
"Why not?" he asked.
She looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again sheshook her head. His eyes hardened, and he gave way.
When, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she hadrefused to come to him openly, so that her mother would know. At any rate, then things would have been definite. And she couldhave stayed with him the night, without having to go, as she was,to her mother's bed. It was strange, and he could not understand it. And then almost immediately he fell asleep.
He awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes, he saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking downon him. She held a cup of tea in her hand.
"Do you think you're going to sleep till Doomsday?" she said.
He laughed at once.
"It ought only to be about five o'clock," he said.
"Well," she answered, "it's half-past seven, whether or not. Here, I've brought you a cup of tea."
He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead,and roused himself.
"What's it so late for!" he grumbled.
He resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neckin the flannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl's. Herubbed his hair crossly.
"It's no good your scratching your head," she said. "It won't make it no earlier. Here, an' how long d'you think I'mgoing to stand waiting wi' this here cup?"
"Oh, dash the cup!" he said.
"You should go to bed earlier," said the woman.
He looked up at her, laughing with impudence.
"I went to bed before YOU did," he said.
"Yes, my Guyney, you did!" she exclaimed.
"Fancy," he said, stirring his tea, "having tea brought to bedto me! My mother'll think I'm ruined for life."
"Don't she never do it?" asked Mrs. Radford.
"She'd as leave think of flying."
"Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That's why they've turned outsuch bad uns," said the elderly woman.
"You'd only Clara," he said. "And Mr. Radford's in heaven. So I suppose there's only you left to be the bad un."
"I'm not bad; I'm only soft," she said, as she went outof the bedroom. "I'm only a fool, I am!"
Clara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of airof proprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radfordwas evidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting.
"What's the good," exclaimed the mother, "of your whittlingand worrying and twistin' and too-in' at that painting of yours? What GOOD does it do you, I should like to know? You'd betterbe enjoyin' yourself."
"Oh, but," exclaimed Paul, "I made over thirty guineas last year."
"Did you! Well, that's a consideration, but it's nothingto the time you put in."
"And I've got four pounds owing. A man said he'd give me fivepounds if I'd paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went and put the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy,so I had to knock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn't likethe dog. I made a picture of it. What shall I do when he pays methe four pounds?"
"Nay! you know your own uses for your money," said Mrs. Radford.
"But I'm going to bust this four pounds. Should we goto the seaside for a day or two?"
"Who?"
"You and Clara and me."
"What, on your money!" she exclaimed, half-wrathful.
"Why not?"
"YOU wouldn't be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!"she said.
"So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?"
"Nay; you may settle that atween you."
"And you're willing?" he asked, amazed and rejoicing.
"You'll do as you like," said Mrs. Radford, "whether I'mwilling or not."



LASTIndexNEXT

? D. H. LAWRENCE

 
  