Sons and Lovers
another land. By the path grew tansy and little trees. In front of the
window was a plot of sunny grass, with old lilacs round it. And away
went the garden, with heaps of dishevelled chrysanthemums in the
sunshine, down to the sycamore-tree, and the field, and beyond one
looked over a few red-roofed cottages to the hills with all the glow of
the autumn afternoon.
Mrs. Morel sat in her rocking-chair, wearing her black silk blouse. Her
grey-brown hair was taken smooth back from her brow and her high
temples; her face was rather pale. Clara, suffering, followed Paul into
the kitchen. Mrs. Morel rose. Clara thought her a lady, even rather
stiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look,
almost resigned.
“Mother—Clara,” said Paul.
Mrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled.
“He has told me a good deal about you,” she said.
The blood flamed in Clara’s cheek.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming,” she faltered.
“I was pleased when he said he would bring you,” replied Mrs. Morel.
Paul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His mother looked so
small, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara.
“It’s such a pretty day, mother!” he said. “And we saw a jay.”
His mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thought what a man
he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale and
detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart
glowed; then she was sorry for Clara.
“Perhaps you’ll leave your things in the parlour,” said Mrs. Morel
nicely to the young woman.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied.
“Come on,” said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room,
with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble
mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and
drawing-boards. “I leave my things lying about,” he said. “It’s so much
easier.”
She loved his artist’s paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of
people. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William’s
young lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this
was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being
taken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they
talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel
put aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with
narrow black-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top
of her head. She looked rather stately and reserved.
“You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard?” said Mrs. Morel. “When
I was a girl—girl, I say!—when I was a young woman _we_ lived in
Minerva Terrace.”
“Oh, did you!” said Clara. “I have a friend in number 6.”
And the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottingham
people; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs.
Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very
clear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paul
saw.
Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found
herself easily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul’s
surprising regard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting,
expecting someone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this
little interested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she
felt, as she felt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs.
Morel’s way. There was something so hard and certain in his mother, as
if she never had a misgiving in her life.
Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoon
sleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he plodded in his stocking feet,
his waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous.
“This is Mrs. Dawes, father,” said Paul.
Then Morel pulled himself together. Clara saw Paul’s manner of bowing
and shaking hands.
“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Morel. “I am very glad to see you—I am, I
assure you. But don’t disturb yourself. No, no make yourself quite
comfortable, and be very welcome.”
Clara was astonished at this flood of hospitality from the old collier.
He was so courteous, so gallant! She thought him most delightful.
“And may you have come far?” he asked.
“Only from Nottingham,” she said.
“From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful day for your journey.”
Then he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face, and from
force of habit came on to the hearth with the towel to dry himself.
At tea Clara felt the refinement and sang-froid of the household. Mrs.
Morel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea and attending
to the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in her
talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark blue
willow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little
bowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the
circle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the
self-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone;
there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where
everyone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a
fear deep at the bottom of her.
Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was
conscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming
blown quickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and
thither of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him.
By the way she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see
she was possessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman
was sorry for her.
Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two women to
talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced
through the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums.
She felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet he
seemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as he
tied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wanted
to shriek in her helplessness.
Mrs. Morel rose.
“You will let me help you wash up,” said Clara.
“Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute,” said the other.
Clara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be on such good
terms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow him
down the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if a
rope were taken off her ankle.
The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood across
in the other garden, beside a bush of pale Michaelmas daisies, watching
the last bees crawl into the hive. Hearing her coming, he turned to her
with an easy motion, saying:
“It’s the end of the run with these chaps.”
Clara stood near him. Over the low red wall in front was the country
and the far-off hills, all golden dim.
At that moment Miriam was entering through the garden-door. She saw
Clara go up to him, saw him turn, and saw them come to rest together.
Something in their perfect isolation together made her know that it was
accomplished between them, that they were, as she put it, married. She
walked very slowly down the cinder-track of the long garden.
Clara had pulled a button from a hollyhock spire, and was breaking it
to get the seeds. Above her bowed head the pink flowers stared, as if
defending her. The last bees were falling down to the hive.
“Count your money,” laughed Paul, as she broke the flat seeds one by
one from the roll of coin. She looked at him.
“I’m well off,” she said, smiling.
“How much? Pf!” He snapped his fingers. “Can I turn them into gold?”
“I’m afraid not,” she laughed.
They looked into each other’s eyes, laughing. At that moment they
became aware of Miriam. There was a click, and everything had altered.
“Hello, Miriam!” he exclaimed. “You said you’d come!”
“Yes. Had you forgotten?”
She shook hands with Clara, saying:
“It seems strange to see you here.”
“Yes,” replied the other; “it seems strange to be here.”
There was a hesitation.
“This is pretty, isn’t it?” said Miriam.
“I like it very much,” replied Clara.
Then Miriam realised that Clara was accepted as she had never been.
“Have you come down alone?” asked Paul.
“Yes; I went to Agatha’s to tea. We are going to chapel. I only called
in for a moment to see Clara.”
“You should have come in here to tea,” he said.
Miriam laughed shortly, and Clara turned impatiently aside.
“Do you like the chrysanthemums?” he asked.
“Yes; they are very fine,” replied Miriam.
“Which sort do you like best?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The bronze, I think.”
“I don’t think you’ve seen all the sorts. Come and look. Come and see
which are _your_ favourites, Clara.”
He led the two women back to his own garden, where the towsled bushes
of flowers of all colours stood raggedly along the path down to the
field. The situation did not embarrass him, to his knowledge.
“Look, Miriam; these are the white ones that came from your garden.
They aren’t so fine here, are they?”
“No,” said Miriam.
“But they’re hardier. You’re so sheltered; things grow big and tender,
and then die. These little yellow ones I like. Will you have some?”
While they were out there the bells began to ring in the church,
sounding loud across the town and the field. Miriam looked at the
tower, proud among the clustering roofs, and remembered the sketches he
had brought her. It had been different then, but he had not left her
even yet. She asked him for a book to read. He ran indoors.
“What! is that Miriam?” asked his mother coldly.
“Yes; she said she’d call and see Clara.”
“You told her, then?” came the sarcastic answer.
“Yes; why shouldn’t I?”
“There’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Morel, and
she returned to her book. He winced from his mother’s irony, frowned
irritably, thinking: “Why can’t I do as I like?”
“You’ve not seen Mrs. Morel before?” Miriam was saying to Clara.
“No; but she’s _so_ nice!”
“Yes,” said Miriam, dropping her head; “in some ways she’s very fine.”
“I should think so.”
“Had Paul told you much about her?”
“He had talked a good deal.”
“Ha!”
There was silence until he returned with the book.
“When will you want it back?” Miriam asked.
“When you like,” he answered.
Clara turned to go indoors, whilst he accompanied Miriam to the gate.
“When will you come up to Willey Farm?” the latter asked.
“I couldn’t say,” replied Clara.
“Mother asked me to say she’d be pleased to see you any time, if you
cared to come.”
“Thank you; I should like to, but I can’t say when.”
“Oh, very well!” exclaimed Miriam rather bitterly, turning away.
She went down the path with her mouth to the flowers he had given her.
“You’re sure you won’t come in?” he said.
“No, thanks.”
“We are going to chapel.”
“Ah, I shall see you, then!” Miriam was very bitter.
“Yes.”
They parted. He felt guilty towards her. She was bitter, and she
scorned him. He still belonged to herself, she believed; yet he could
have Clara, take her home, sit with her next his mother in chapel, give
her the same hymn-book he had given herself years before. She heard him
running quickly indoors.
But he did not go straight in. Halting on the plot of grass, he heard
his mother’s voice, then Clara’s answer:
“What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam.”
“Yes,” said his mother quickly, “yes; _doesn’t_ it make you hate her,
now!”
His heart went hot, and he was angry with them for talking about the
girl. What right had they to say that? Something in the speech itself
stung him into a flame of hate against Miriam. Then his own heart
rebelled furiously at Clara’s taking the liberty of speaking so about