She seemed to understand better now about men, and what they couldor would do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself. That they were not the small egoists she had imagined them madeher more comfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as muchas she wanted to learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as fullas she could carry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when hewas gone.
They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Not a serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morelwas withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to staywith her husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all,to take what he wanted and then give her back. She didnot 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 reallysupported his life. He had loved her; they two had, in fact,faced the world together. Now she was gone, and for ever behindhim was the gap in life, the tear in the veil, through which hislife seemed to drift slowly, as if he were drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiative to help him. The lesserthings 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 troubleto her; he dared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed. So, secretly ashamed because he was in sucha mess, because his own hold on life was so unsure, because nobodyheld him, feeling unsubstantial, shadowy, as if he did not countfor much in this concrete world, he drew himself together smallerand 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 goon alone.
Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until hewas afraid. He could go to the brink of death, he could lie onthe edge and look in. Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back,and like a beggar take what offered. There was a certain nobilityin it. As Clara saw, he owned himself beaten, and he wantedto 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'llbe able to pay you back the money as---"
"I shall come for it, you'll see," laughed Paul. "I s'llbe 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 glancedat 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 thetable without being invited, like a husband. Then he sat humblywaiting 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 slowlyto 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 roundhis 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
CLARA went with her husband to Sheffield, and Paul scarcely sawher 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 eachfelt he must not let the other go in any actual want. As therewas no one to keep on the home, and as they could neither of thembear 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 hismother'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 uphis brushes again. There was nothing left.
So he was always in the town at one place or another,drinking, knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked to barmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark,strained look in his eyes, as if he were hunting something.
Everything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemedno reason why people should go along the street, and housespile up in the daylight. There seemed no reason why thesethings should occupy the space, instead of leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and he answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could not understand.
He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard andmechanically at the factory. In the latter case there was pureforgetfulness, when he lapsed from consciousness. But it had to cometo an end. It hurt him so, that things had lost their reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw the tiny drop-pearls among thegrey. They would have given him the liveliest emotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean anything. Ina few moments they would cease to occupy that place, and just thespace would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant tram-carsran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder theyshould trouble to rustle backwards and forwards. "Why troubleto go tilting down to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams. It seemed they just as well might NOT be as be.
The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemedto him whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himselfto it. Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blewalong down the pavement. He stood still, rigid, with clenched fists,a flame of agony going over him. And he saw again the sick-room,his mother, her eyes. Unconsciously he had been with her,in her company. The swift hop of the paper reminded him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wanted everything to stand still,so that he could be with her again.
The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused,gone into a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one dayfrom another, one week from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was distinct or distinguishable. Often he lost himselffor an hour at a time, could not remember what he had done.
One evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire wasburning low; everybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal,glanced at the table, and decided he wanted no supper. Then hesat down in the arm-chair. It was perfectly still. He did notknow anything, yet he saw the dim smoke wavering up the chimney. Presently two mice came out, cautiously, nibbling the fallen crumbs. He watched them as it were from a long way off. The church clockstruck two. Far away he could hear the sharp clinking of the truckson the railway. No, it was not they that were far away. They werethere in their places. But where was he himself?
The time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scampered cheekilyover his slippers. He had not moved a muscle. He did not wantto move. He was not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench of knowing anything. Then, from time to time,some other consciousness, working mechanically, flashed intosharp phrases.
"What am I doing?"
And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer:
"Destroying myself."
Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that itwas wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:
"Why wrong?"
Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornnessinside his chest resisted his own annihilation.
There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenly the electric light went out; there was a bruising thudin the penny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazingin front of him. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed redin the dark room.
Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversationbegan again inside him.
"She's dead. What was it all for--her struggle?"
That was his despair wanting to go after her.
"You're alive."
"She's not."
"She is--in you."
Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it.
"You've got to keep alive for her sake," said his will in him.
Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse.
"You've got to carry forward her living, and what she had done,go on with it."
But he did not want to. He wanted to give up.
"But you can go on with your painting," said the will in him. "Or else you can beget children. They both carry on her effort."
"Painting is not living."
"Then live."
"Marry whom?" came the sulky question.
"As best you can."
"Miriam?"
But he did not trust that.
He rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got insidehis bedroom and closed the door, he stood with clenched fist.
"Mater, my dear---" he began, with the whole force of his soul. Then he stopped. He would not say it. He would not admit that hewanted to die, to have done. He would not own that lifehad beaten him, or that death had beaten him. Going straight to bed,he slept at once, abandoning himself to the sleep.
So the weeks went on. Always alone, his soul oscillated,first on the side of death, then on the side of life, doggedly. The real agony was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do,nothing to say, and WAS nothing himself. Sometimes he ran downthe streets as if he were mad: sometimes he was mad; things weren'tthere, things were there. It made him pant. Sometimes he stoodbefore the bar of the public-house where he called for a drink. Everything suddenly stood back away from him. He saw the faceof the barmaid, the gobbling drinkers, his own glass on the slopped,mahogany board, in the distance. There was something between himand them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them;he did not want his drink. Turning abruptly, he went out. On the threshold he stood and looked at the lighted street. But he was not of it or in it. Something separated him. Everything went on there below those lamps, shut away from him. He could not get at them. He felt he couldn't touch the lamp-posts,not if he reached. Where could he go? There was nowhere to go,neither back into the inn, or forward anywhere. He felt stifled. There was nowhere for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt heshould smash.
"I mustn't," he said; and, turning blindly, he went in and drank. Sometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. He ran down the road. For ever restless, he went here, there,everywhere. He determined to work. But when he had made six strokes,he loathed the pencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried offto a club where he could play cards or billiards, to a place where hecould flirt with a barmaid who was no more to him than the brasspump-handle she drew.
He was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet hisown eyes in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wantedto get away from himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In despair he thought of Miriam. Perhaps--perhaps---?
Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening,when they stood up to sing the second hymn he saw her before him. The light glistened on her lower lip as she sang. She lookedas if she had got something, at any rate: some hope in heaven,if not in earth. Her comfort and her life seemed in the after-world.A warm, strong feeling for her came up. She seemedto yearn, as she sang, for the mystery and comfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over,to speak to her.
The throng carried her out just before him. He could nearlytouch her. She did not know he was there. He saw the brown,humble nape of her neck under its black curls. He would leavehimself to her. She was better and bigger than he. He would dependon her.
She went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngsof people outside the church. She always looked so lost and out ofplace among people. He went forward and put his hand on her arm. She started violently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear,then went questioning at the sight of him. He shrank slightlyfrom her.
"I didn't know---" she faltered.
"Nor I," he said.
He looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again.
"What are you doing in town?" he asked.
"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's."
"Ha! For long?"
"No; only till to-morrow."
"Must you go straight home?"
She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim.
"No," she said--"no; it's not necessary."
He turned away, and she went with him. They threadedthrough the throng of church people. The organ was still soundingin St. Mary's. Dark figures came through the lighted doors;people were coming down the steps. The large coloured windows glowedup in the night. The church was like a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took the car for the Bridges.
