Sons and Lovers
Suddenly she looked up at him.
“Why does it seem cruel?” she asked.
“What?”
“There seems a feeling of cruelty about it,” she said.
“It’s jolly good, whether or not,” he replied, folding up his work with
a lover’s hands.
She rose slowly, pondering.
“And what will you do with it?” she asked.
“Send it to Liberty’s. I did it for my mother, but I think she’d rather
have the money.”
“Yes,” said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and
Miriam sympathised. Money would have been nothing to _her_.
He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to
Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design.
“I did that for you,” he said.
She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He
became embarrassed.
“By Jove, the bread!” he cried.
He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He
put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted
his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and
dropped it in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted
cloth. He stood rubbing the bits of dough from his hands.
“You do like it?” he asked.
She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed
uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for
him the most intense pleasure in talking about his work to Miriam. All
his passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her,
when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his
imaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands
when she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and
for him.
While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and
pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the
room. She was a friend at the Morel’s.
“Take your things off,” said Paul.
“No, I’m not stopping.”
She sat down in the armchair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on the
sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a
scent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth.
“I shouldn’t have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers,”
said Beatrice wickedly.
“Why not?” murmured Miriam huskily.
“Why, let’s look at your shoes.”
Miriam remained uncomfortably still.
“If tha doesna tha durs’na,” laughed Beatrice.
Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer,
irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed how
self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with
mud.
“Glory! You’re a positive muck-heap,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Who cleans
your boots?”
“I clean them myself.”
“Then you wanted a job,” said Beatrice. “It would ha’ taken a lot of
men to ha’ brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge,
doesn’t it, ’Postle my duck?”
“_Inter alia_,” he said.
“Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean,
Miriam?”
There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not see
it.
“‘Among other things,’ I believe,” she said humbly.
Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly.
“‘Among other things,’ ’Postle?” she repeated. “Do you mean love laughs
at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends,
and lady friends, and even at the b’loved himself?”
She affected a great innocence.
“In fact, it’s one big smile,” he replied.
“Up its sleeve, ’Postle Morel—you believe me,” she said; and she went
off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter.
Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul’s friends
delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the
lurch—seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then.
“Are you still at school?” asked Miriam of Beatrice.
“Yes.”
“You’ve not had your notice, then?”
“I expect it at Easter.”
“Isn’t it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you didn’t
pass the exam?”
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice coldly.
“Agatha says you’re as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me
ridiculous. I wonder why you didn’t pass.”
“Short of brains, eh, ’Postle?” said Beatrice briefly.
“Only brains to bite with,” replied Paul, laughing.
“Nuisance!” she cried; and, springing from her seat, she rushed and
boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while
she wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and seized two handfuls
of his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook.
“Beat!” he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. “I
hate you!”
She laughed with glee.
“Mind!” she said. “I want to sit next to you.”
“I’d as lief be neighbours with a vixen,” he said, nevertheless making
place for her between him and Miriam.
“Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!” she cried; and, with her
hair-comb, she combed him straight. “And his nice little moustache!”
she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache.
“It’s a wicked moustache, ’Postle,” she said. “It’s a red for danger.
Have you got any of those cigarettes?”
He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside
it.
“And fancy me having Connie’s last cig.,” said Beatrice, putting the
thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed
daintily.
“Thanks so much, darling,” she said mockingly.
It gave her a wicked delight.
“Don’t you think he does it nicely, Miriam?” she asked.
“Oh, very!” said Miriam.
He took a cigarette for himself.
“Light, old boy?” said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him.
He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winking
at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, and
his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she
could not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him; she
might as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his
full red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on his
forehead.
“Sweet boy!” said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a little
kiss on the cheek.
“I s’ll kiss thee back, Beat,” he said.
“Tha wunna!” she giggled, jumping up and going away. “Isn’t he
shameless, Miriam?”
“Quite,” said Miriam. “By the way, aren’t you forgetting the bread?”
“By Jove!” he cried, flinging open the oven door.
Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.
“Oh, golly!” cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouched before the
oven, she peered over his shoulder. “This is what comes of the oblivion
of love, my boy.”
Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hot
side; another was hard as a brick.
“Poor mater!” said Paul.
“You want to grate it,” said Beatrice. “Fetch me the nutmeg-grater.”
She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and she
grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open
to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing
her cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf.
“My word, Miriam! you’re in for it this time,” said Beatrice.
“I!” exclaimed Miriam in amazement.
“You’d better be gone when his mother comes in. _I_ know why King
Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it! ’Postle would fix up a tale
about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that
old woman had come in a bit sooner, she’d have boxed the brazen thing’s
ears who made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred’s.”
She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in spite of
herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully.
The garden gate was heard to bang.
“Quick!” cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. “Wrap it up in a
damp towel.”
Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapings
into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was
an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light.
“Smell of burning!” she exclaimed.
“It’s the cigarettes,” replied Beatrice demurely.
“Where’s Paul?”
Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes,
very sad.
“I suppose he’s left you to settle it between you,” he said. He nodded
sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice.
“No,” said Beatrice, “he’s gone off with number nine.”
“I just met number five inquiring for him,” said Leonard.
“Yes—we’re going to share him up like Solomon’s baby,” said Beatrice.
Annie laughed.
“Oh, ay,” said Leonard. “And which bit should you have?”
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “I’ll let all the others pick first.”
“An’ you’d have the leavings, like?” said Leonard, twisting up a comic
face.
Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.
“This bread’s a fine sight, our Paul,” said Annie.
“Then you should stop an’ look after it,” said Paul.
“You mean _you_ should do what you’re reckoning to do,” replied Annie.
“He should, shouldn’t he!” cried Beatrice.
“I s’d think he’d got plenty on hand,” said Leonard.
“You had a nasty walk, didn’t you, Miriam?” said Annie.
“Yes—but I’d been in all week—”
“And you wanted a bit of a change, like,” insinuated Leonard kindly.
“Well, you can’t be stuck in the house for ever,” Annie agreed. She was
quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard
and Annie. She would meet her own boy.
“Don’t forget that bread, our Paul,” cried Annie. “Good-night, Miriam.
I don’t think it will rain.”
When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it,
and surveyed it sadly.
“It’s a mess!” he said.
“But,” answered Miriam impatiently, “what is it, after all—twopence,
ha’penny.”
“Yes, but—it’s the mater’s precious baking, and she’ll take it to
heart. However, it’s no good bothering.”
He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance
between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments
considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty
inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served
Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was
thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his
forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks
of Beatrice’s comb? Why might she not press his body with her two
hands. It looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other
girls, why not her?
Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror as
he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her.
“Half-past eight!” he said. “We’d better buck up. Where’s your French?”
Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every week
she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French.
He had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions. And
her diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as
if her soul’s history were going to be desecrated by him in his present
mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm,
rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring
her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He
read in silence, motionless. She quivered.
“‘_Ce matin les oiseaux m’ont éveillé_,’” he read. “‘_Il faisait encore
un crépuscule. Mais la petite fenêtre de ma chambre était blême, et
puis, jaûne, et tous les oiseaux du bois éclatèrent dans un chanson vif
et résonnant. Toute l’aûbe tressaillit. J’avais rêvé de vous. Est-ce
que vous voyez aussi l’aûbe? Les oiseaux m’éveillent presque tous les
matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des
grives. Il est si clair_—’”
Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying to