"Now have some supper," she said very gently.
Afterwards he said wistfully:
"She never thought she'd have me, mother, not from the first,and so she's not disappointed."
"I'm afraid," said his mother, "she doesn't give up hopesof you yet."
"No," he said, "perhaps not."
"You'll find it's better to have done," she said.
"I don't know," he said desperately.
"Well, leave her alone," replied his mother. So he left her,and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and she for veryfew people. She remained alone with herself, waiting.
CHAPTER XII
PASSION （I）
HE was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood byhis art. Liberty's had taken several of his painted designson various stuffs, and he could sell designs for embroideries,for altar-cloths, and similar things, in one or two places. It was not very much he made at present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends with the designer for a pottery firm,and was gaining some knowledge of his new acquaintance's art. The applied arts interested him very much. At the same timehe laboured slowly at his pictures. He loved to paint large figures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and cast shadows, like the impressionists; rather definite figures that had a certain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo's people. And these he fitted into a landscape, in what he thought true proportion. He worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew. He believed firmly in his work, that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits of depression, shrinking, everything, he believedin his work.
He was twenty-four when he said his first confident thingto his mother.
"Mother," he said, "I s'll make a painter that they'll attend to."
She sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleasedshrug of the shoulders.
"Very well, my boy, we'll see," she said.
"You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you're not swankyone of these days!"
"I'm quite content, my boy," she smiled.
"But you'll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie!"
Minnie was the small servant, a girl of fourteen.
"And what about Minnie?" asked Mrs. Morel, with dignity.
"I heard her this morning: 'Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was goingto do that,' when you went out in the rain for some coal," he said. "That looks a lot like your being able to manage servants!"
"Well, it was only the child's niceness," said Mrs. Morel.
"And you apologising to her: 'You can't do two things at once,can you?'"
"She WAS busy washing up," replied Mrs. Morel.
"And what did she say? 'It could easy have waited a bit. Now look how your feet paddle!'"
"Yes--brazen young baggage!" said Mrs. Morel, smiling.
He looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm androsy again with love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshinewere on her for a moment. He continued his work gladly. She seemed so well when she was happy that he forgot her grey hair.
And that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight fora holiday. It was too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morel was full of joy and wonder. But he would have herwalk with him more than she was able. She had a bad fainting bout. So grey her face was, so blue her mouth! It was agony to him. He felt as if someone were pushing a knife in his chest. Then shewas better again, and he forgot. But the anxiety remained inside him,like a wound that did not close.
After leaving Miriam he went almost straight to Clara. On the Monday following the day of the rupture he went down tothe work-room. She looked up at him and smiled. They had grownvery intimate unawares. She saw a new brightness about him.
"Well, Queen of Sheba!" he said, laughing.
"But why?" she asked.
"I think it suits you. You've got a new frock on."
She flushed, asking:
"And what of it?"
"Suits you--awfully! I could design you a dress."
"How would it be?"
He stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded. He kept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of her. She half-started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse tighter,smoothed it over her breast.
"More SO!" he explained.
But they were both of them flaming with blushes, and immediatelyhe ran away. He had touched her. His whole body was quiveringwith the sensation.
There was already a sort of secret understanding between them. The next evening he went to the cinematograph with her for a fewminutes before train-time. As they sat, he saw her hand lyingnear him. For some moments he dared not touch it. The picturesdanced and dithered. Then he took her hand in his. It was largeand firm; it filled his grasp. He held it fast. She neithermoved nor made any sign. When they came out his train was due. He hesitated.
"Good-night," she said. He darted away across the road.
The next day he came again, talking to her. She was rathersuperior with him.
"Shall we go a walk on Monday?" he asked.
She turned her face aside.
"Shall you tell Miriam?" she replied sarcastically.
"I have broken off with her," he said.
"When?"
"Last Sunday."
"You quarrelled?"
"No! I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely Ishould consider myself free."
Clara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She wasso quiet and so superb!
On the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink coffeewith him in a restaurant, meeting him after work was over. She came,looking very reserved and very distant. He had three-quartersof an hour to train-time.
"We will walk a little while," he said.
She agreed, and they went past the Castle into the Park. He was afraid of her. She walked moodily at his side, with a kindof resentful, reluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to take her hand.
"Which way shall we go?" he asked as they walked in darkness.
"I don't mind."
"Then we'll go up the steps."
He suddenly turned round. They had passed the Park steps. She stood still in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her. She stood aloof. He caught her suddenly inhis arms, held her strained for a moment, kissed her. Then he lether go.
"Come along," he said, penitent.
She followed him. He took her hand and kissed herfinger-tips. They went in silence. When they came to the light,he let go her hand. Neither spoke till they reached the station. Then they looked each other in the eyes.
"Good-night," she said.
And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically. People talked to him. He heard faint echoes answering them. He was in a delirium. He felt that he would go mad if Monday didnot come at once. On Monday he would see her again. All himselfwas pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened. He could not bear it. He could not see her till Monday. And Sunday intervened--hourafter hour of tension. He wanted to beat his head against thedoor of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whiskyon the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must notbe upset, that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There he sat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out ofthe window at the far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought nor slept,but sat perfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold thathe came to himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two. It was after three o'clock. He was exhausted, but still there wasthe torment of knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bedand slept. Then he cycled all day long, till he was fagged out. And he scarcely knew where he had been. But the day after was Monday. He slept till four o'clock. Then he lay and thought. He was comingnearer to himself--he could see himself, real, somewhere in front. She would go a walk with him in the afternoon. Afternoon! It seemedyears ahead.
Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard himpottering about. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavyboots scraping the yard. Cocks were still crowing. A cartwent down the road. His mother got up. She knocked the fire. Presently she called him softly. He answered as if he were asleep. This shell of himself did well.
He was walking to the station--another mile! The trainwas near Nottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels? But it did not matter; it would get there before dinner-time. Hewas at Jordan's. She would come in half an hour. At any rate,she would be near. He had done the letters. She would be there. Perhaps she had not come. He ran downstairs. Ah! he saw herthrough the glass door. Her shoulders stooping a little to herwork made him feel he could not go forward; he could not stand. He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quite cold. Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real selfwith this shell.
"And this afternoon," he struggled to say. "You will come?"
"I think so," she replied, murmuring.
He stood before her, unable to say a word. She hid herface from him. Again came over him the feeling that he wouldlose consciousness. He set his teeth and went upstairs. He haddone everything correctly yet, and he would do so. All the morningthings seemed a long way off, as they do to a man under chloroform. He himself seemed under a tight band of constraint. Then there was hisother self, in the distance, doing things, entering stuff in a ledger,and he watched that far-off him carefully to see he made no mistake.
But the ache and strain of it could not go on much longer. He worked incessantly. Still it was only twelve o'clock. As if hehad nailed his clothing against the desk, he stood there and worked,forcing every stroke out of himself. It was a quarter to one;he could clear away. Then he ran downstairs.
"You will meet me at the Fountain at two o'clock," he said.
"I can't be there till half-past."
"Yes!" he said.
She saw his dark, mad eyes.
"I will try at a quarter past."
And he had to be content. He went and got some dinner. All the time he was still under chloroform, and every minutewas stretched out indefinitely. He walked miles of streets. Then he thought he would be late at the meeting-place. He was atthe Fountain at five past two. The torture of the next quarterof an hour was refined beyond expression. It was the anguishof combining the living self with the shell. Then he saw her. She came! And he was there.
"You are late," he said.
"Only five minutes," she answered.
"I'd never have done it to you," he laughed.
She was in a dark blue costume. He looked at her beautiful figure.
"You want some flowers," he said, going to the nearest florist's.
She followed him in silence. He bought her a bunch of scarlet,brick-red carnations. She put them in her coat, flushing.
"That's a fine colour!" he said.
"I'd rather have had something softer," she said.
He laughed.
"Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street?"he said.
She hung her head, afraid of the people they met. He looked sideways at her as they walked. There was a wonderfulclose down on her face near the ear that he wanted to touch. And a certain heaviness, the heaviness of a very full ear ofcorn that dips slightly in the wind, that there was about her,made his brain spin. He seemed to be spinning down the street,everything going round.
As they sat in the tramcar, she leaned her heavy shoulderagainst him, and he took her hand. He felt himself coming roundfrom the anaesthetic, beginning to breathe. Her ear, half-hidden amongher blonde hair, was near to him. The temptation to kiss it wasalmost too great. But there were other people on top of the car. It still remained to him to kiss it. After all, he was not himself,he was some attribute of hers, like the sunshine that fell on her.
He looked quickly away. It had been raining. The big bluffof the Castle rock was streaked with rain, as it reared abovethe flat of the town. They crossed the wide, black space of theMidland Railway, and passed the cattle enclosure that stood out white. Then they ran down sordid Wilford Road.
She rocked slightly to the tram's motion, and as she leanedagainst him, rocked upon him. He was a vigorous, slender man,with exhaustless energy. His face was rough, with rough-hewn features,like the common people's; but his eyes under the deep brows wereso full of life that they fascinated her. They seemed to dance,and yet they were still trembling on the finest balance of laughter. His mouth the same was just going to spring into a laugh of triumph,yet did not. There was a sharp suspense about him. She bit herlip moodily. His hand was hard clenched over hers.
They paid their two halfpennies at the turnstile and crossedthe bridge. The Trent was very full. It swept silent and insidiousunder the bridge, travelling in a soft body. There had been a greatdeal of rain. On the river levels were flat gleams of flood water. The sky was grey, with glisten of silver here and there. In Wilfordchurchyard the dahlias were sodden with rain--wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path that went along the green river meadow,along the elm-tree colonnade.
There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark waterand the green meadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangledwith gold. The river slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift,intertwining among itself like some subtle, complex creature. Clara walked moodily beside him.
"Why," she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, "did youleave Miriam?"
He frowned.
"Because I WANTED to leave her," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I didn't want to go on with her. And I didn't wantto marry."
She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path. Drops of water fell from the elm-trees.
"You didn't want to marry Miriam, or you didn't want to marryat all?" she asked.
"Both," he answered--"both!"
They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the poolsof water.
"And what did she say?" Clara asked.
"Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I alwaysHAD battled her off."
