“But tha writes i’ such a fashion, I canna ma’e it out,” said Morel.
“Well, I’ll write plain.”
It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do more than write his own name.
The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard were waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself.
“It may be a tumour; we must wait and see,” said Dr. Jameson.
“And if it is,” said Annie, “can you sweal it away?”
“Probably,” said the doctor.
Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down.
“Thank you!” he said. “I’m sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see what we can do.”
“There can’t be an operation?” said Paul.
The doctor shook his head.
“No,” he said; “and even if there could, her heart wouldn’t stand it.”
“Is her heart risky?” asked Paul.
“Yes; you must be careful with her.”
“Very risky?”
“No—er—no, no! Just take care.”
And the doctor was gone.
Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply, like a child. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms round his neck, clinging.
“I’m so frightened of these beastly stairs,” she said.
And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do it another time. He felt he could not carry her.
“He thinks it’s only a tumour!” cried Annie to her mother. “And he can sweal it away.”
“I knew he could,” protested Mrs. Morel scornfully.
She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ash off his coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother’s grey hairs. It was so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The long grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness of the chimney.
The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early in the morning, and they were alone.
“You won’t fret, my boy!” she said.
“No, mother.”
“No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself.”
“Yes,” he answered. Then, after a while: “And I shall come next Saturday, and shall bring my father?”
“I suppose he wants to come,” she replied. “At any rate, if he does you’ll have to let him.”
He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gently, tenderly, as if she were a lover.
“Shan’t you be late?” she murmured.
“I’m going,” he said, very low.
Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hair from her temples.
“And you won’t be any worse, mother?”
“No, my son.”
“You promise me?”
“Yes; I won’t be any worse.”
He kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. In the early sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way; he did not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and staring as she thought of him.
In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They sat in the little wood where bluebells were standing. He took her hand.
“You’ll see,” he said to Clara, “she’ll never be better.”
“Oh, you don’t know!” replied the other.
“I do,” he said.
She caught him impulsively to her breast.
“Try and forget it, dear,” she said; “try and forget it.”
“I will,” he answered.
Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. It was comforting, and he held his arms round her. But he did not forget. He only talked to Clara of something else. And it was always so. When she felt it coming, the agony, she cried to him:
“Don’t think of it, Paul! Don’t think of it, my darling!”
And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed him like a child. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take it up again immediately he was alone. All the time, as he went about, he cried mechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried, he did not know why. It was his blood weeping. He was just as much alone whether he was with Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and this pressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read sometimes. He had to keep his mind occupied. And Clara was a way of occupying his mind.
On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was a forlorn figure, looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs.
“My father’s come,” he said, kissing his mother.
“Has he?” she answered weariedly.
The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom.
“How dun I find thee, lass?” he said, going forward and kissing her in a hasty, timid fashion.
“Well, I’m middlin’,” she replied.
“I see tha art,” he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as if nobody owned him, he looked.
“Have you gone on all right?” asked the wife, rather wearily, as if it were an effort to talk to him.
“Yise,” he answered. “‘Er’s a bit behint-hand now and again, as yer might expect.”
“Does she have your dinner ready?” asked Mrs. Morel.
“Well, I’ve ‘ad to shout at ’er once or twice,” he said.
“And you must shout at her if she’s not ready. She will leave things to the last minute.”
She gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her as if she were almost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkward and humble, and also as if he had lost his presence of mind, and wanted to run. This feeling that he wanted to run away, that he was on thorns to be gone from so trying a situation, and yet must linger because it looked better, made his presence so trying. He put up his eyebrows for misery, and clenched his fists on his knees, feeling so awkward in presence of big trouble.
Mrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed in Sheffield for two months. If anything, at the end she was rather worse. But she wanted to go home. Annie had her children. Mrs. Morel wanted to go home. So they got a motor-car from Nottingham—for she was too ill to go by train—and she was driven through the sunshine. It was just August; everything was bright and warm. Under the blue sky they could all see she was dying. Yet she was jollier than she had been for weeks. They all laughed and talked.
“Annie,” she exclaimed, “I saw a lizard dart on that rock!”
Her eyes were so quick; she was still so full of life.
Morel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. Everybody was on tiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heard the sound of the great motor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove home down the street.
“And just look at them all come out to see me!” she said. “But there, I suppose I should have done the same. How do you do, Mrs. Mathews? How are you, Mrs. Harrison?”
They none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. And they all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great event in the street.
Morel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur took her as if she were a child. They had set her a big, deep chair by the hearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she was unwrapped and seated, and had drunk a little brandy, she looked round the room.
“Don’t think I don’t like your house, Annie,” she said; “but it’s nice to be in my own home again.”
And Morel answered huskily:
“It is, lass, it is.”
And Minnie, the little quaint maid, said:
“An’ we glad t”ave yer.”
There was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. She looked out of the window.
“There are my sunflowers!” she said.
14
The Release
“BY THE way,” said Dr. Ansell one evening when Morel was in Sheffield, “we’ve got a man in the fever hospital here who comes from Nottingham—Dawes. He doesn’t seem to have many belongings in this world.”
“Baxter Dawes!” Paul exclaimed.
“That’s the man—has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think. Been in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?”
“He used to work at the place where I am.”
“Did he? Do you know anything about him? He’s just sulking, or he’d be a lot better than he is by now.”
“I don’t know anything of his home circumstances, except that he’s separated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell him about me, will you? Tell him I’ll come and see him.”
The next time Morel saw the doctor he said:
“And what about Dawes?”
“I said to him,” answered the other, “‘Do you know a man from Nottingham named Morel?’ and he looked at me as if he’d jump at my throat. So I said: ‘I see you know the name; it’s Paul Morel.’ Then I told him about your saying you would go and see him. ‘What does he want?’ he said, as if you were a policeman.”
“And did he say he would see me?” asked Paul.
“He wouldn’t say anything—good, bad or indifferent,” replied the doctor.
“Why not?”
“That’s what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in, day out. Can’t get a word of information out of him.”
“Do you think I might go?” asked Paul.
“You might.”
There was a feeling of connection between the rival men, more than ever since they had fought. In a way Morel felt guilty towards the other, and more or less responsible. And being in such a state of soul himself, he felt an almost painful nearness to Dawes, who was suffering and despairing, too. Besides, they had met in a naked extremity of hate, and it was a bond. At any rate, the elemental man in each had met.
He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. Ansell’s card. This sister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him down the ward.
“A visitor to see you, Jim Crow,” she said.
Dawes turned over suddenly with a startled grunt.
“Eh?”
“Caw!” she mocked. “He can only say ‘Caw!’ I have brought you a gentleman to see you. Now say ‘Thank you,’ and show some manners.
Dawes looked swiftly with his dark, startled eyes beyond the sister at Paul. His look was full of fear, mistrust, hate, and misery. Morel met the swift, dark eyes, and hesitated. The two men were afraid of the naked selves they had been.
“Dr. Ansell told me you were here,” said Morel, holding out his hand.
Dawes mechanically shook hands.
“So I thought I’d come in,” continued Paul.
There was no answer. Dawes lay staring at the opposite wall.
“Say ‘Caw!’” mocked the nurse. “Say ‘Caw!’ Jim Crow.”1
“He is getting on all right?” said Paul to her.
“Oh yes! He lies and imagines he’s going to die,” said the nurse, “and it frightens every word out of his mouth.”
“And you must have somebody to talk to,” laughed Morel.
“That’s it!” laughed the nurse. “Only two old men and a boy who always cries. It is hard lines! Here am I dying to hear Jim Crow’s voice, and nothing but an odd ‘Caw!’ will he give!”
“So rough on you!” said Morel.
“Isn’t it?” said the nurse.
“I suppose I am a godsend,” he laughed.
“Oh, dropped straight from heaven!” laughed the nurse.
Presently she left the two men alone. Dawes was thinner, and handsome again, but life seemed low in him. As the doctor said, he was lying sulking, and would not move forward towards convalescence. He seemed to grudge every beat of his heart.
“Have you had a bad time?” asked Paul.
Suddenly again Dawes looked at him.
“What are you doing in Sheffield?” he asked.
“My mother was taken ill at my sister’s in Thurston Street. What are you doing here?”
There was no answer.
“How long have you been in?” Morel asked.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” Dawes answered grudgingly.
He lay staring across at the wall opposite, as if trying to believe Morel was not there. Paul felt his heart go hard and angry.
“Dr. Ansell told me you were here,” he said coldly.
The other man did not answer.
“Typhoid’s pretty bad, I know,” Morel persisted.
Suddenly Dawes said:
“What did you come for?”
“Because Dr. Ansell said you didn’t know anybody here. Do you?”
“I know nobody nowhere,” said Dawes.
“Well,” said Paul, “it’s because you don’t choose to, then.”
There was another silence.
“We s’ll be taking my mother home as soon as we can,” said Paul.
“What’s a-matter with her?” asked Dawes, with a sick man’s interest in illness.
“She’s got a cancer.”
There was another silence.
“But we want to get her home,” said Paul. “We s’ll have to get a motor-car.”
Dawes lay thinking.
“Why don’t you ask Thomas Jordan to lend you his?” said Dawes.
“It’s not big enough,” Morel answered.
Dawes blinked his dark eyes as he lay thinking.
“Then ask Jack Pilkington; he’d lend it you. You know him.”
“I think I s’ll hire one,” said Paul.
“You’re a fool if you do,” said Dawes.
The sick man was gaunt and handsome again. Paul was sorry for him because his eyes looked so tired.
“Did you get a job here?” he asked.
“I was only here a day or two before I was taken bad,” Dawes replied.
“You want to get in a convalescent home,” said Paul.
The other’s face clouded again.
“I’m goin’ in no convalescent home,” he said.
“My father’s been in the one at Seathorpe, an’ he liked it. Dr. Ansell would get you a recommend.”
Dawes lay thinking. It was evident he dared not face the world again.
“The seaside would be all right just now,” Morel said. “Sun on those sandhills, and the waves not far out.”
The other did not answer.
“By Gad!” Paul concluded, too miserable to bother much; “it’s all right when you know you’re going to walk again, and swim!”
Dawes glanced at him quickly. The man’s dark eyes were afraid to meet any other eyes in the world. But the real misery and helplessness in Paul’s tone gave him a feeling of relief.
“Is she far gone?” he asked.
“She’s going like wax,” Paul answered; “but cheerful—lively!”
He bit his lip. After a minute he rose.
“Well, I’ll be going,” he said. “I’ll leave you this half-crown.”
“I don’t want it,” Dawes muttered.
Morel did not answer, but left the coin on the table.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll try and run in when I’m back in Sheffield. Happen you might like to see my brother-in-law? He works in Pyecrofts.”
“I don’t know him,” said Dawes.
“He’s all right. Should I tell him to come? He might bring you some papers to look at.”
The other man did not answer. Paul went. The strong emotion that Dawes aroused in him, repressed, made him shiver.
He did not tell his mother, but next day he spoke to Clara about this interview. It was in the dinner-hour. The two did not often go out together now, but this day he asked her to go with him to the Castle grounds. There they sat while the scarlet geraniums and the yellow calceolarias blazed in the sunlight. She was now always rather protectiv
e, and rather resentful towards him.
“Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?” he asked.
She looked at him with startled grey eyes, and her face went pale.
“No,” she said, frightened.
“He’s getting better. I went to see him yesterday—the doctor told me.
Clara seemed stricken by the news.
“Is he very bad?” she asked guiltily.
“He has been. He’s mending now.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking.”
There was a distance between the two of them. He gave her more information.
She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk together, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance from him. He was wanting her comfort badly.
“Won’t you be nice with me?” he asked.
She did not answer.
“What’s the matter?” he said, putting his arm across her shoulder.
“Don’t!” she said, disengaging herself.
He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding.
“Is it Baxter that upsets you?” he asked at length.
“I have been vile to him!” she said.
“I’ve said many a time you haven’t treated him well,” he replied.
And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of thought.
“I’ve treated him—no, I’ve treated him badly,” she said. “And now you treat me badly. It serves me right.”
“How do I treat you badly?” he said.
“It serves me right,” she repeated. “I never considered him worth having, and now you don’t consider me. But it serves me right. He loved me a thousand times better than you ever did.”
“He didn’t!” protested Paul.
“He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that’s what you don’t do.”
“It looked as if he respected you!” he said.
“He did! And I made him horrid—I know I did! You’ve taught me that. And he loved me a thousand times better than ever you do.”
“All right,” said Paul.
He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was almost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He was not sorry when he left her.
She went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. The meeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money. She wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As she looked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only she wanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now to be self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel really love her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So she kneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distance between them was still very great—too great. It frightened the man. It almost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him across an insuperable distance. She was proud now.
Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 48
