You were late,


Was I?


Was it rough riding?


I didn’t notice it.


Tea won’t be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the daffodils? Has the wind made you tired?


No, I think not,


It must be rough on the road—the wood moans so.


You can see by the clouds it’s a south-west wind; that helps me here.


You see, I don’t cycle, so I don’t understand,


Is there need to cycle to know that!


Aren’t they magnificent?


Magnificent! It’s a bit thick—they’re pretty! Why must you always be fondling things?


But I love to touch them,


Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don’t you have a bit more restraint, or reserve, or something? You wheedle the soul out of things. I would never wheedle—at any rate, I’d go straight. You’re always begging things to love you, as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them— You don’t want to love—your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren’t positive, you’re negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you’ve got a shortage somewhere.


Shall we go through the wood a little way? Isn’t it dreadful?


I don’t know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rabbit’s throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go! We will go back to the house. I don’t want to walk out.


Let us sit here a minute. Isn’t it beautiful?


Get out, or I’ll dot thee one.


Bill, I’ve had enough o’ thee. No, no—I’ve had enough.


Why are you sad?


I’m not sad; why should I be. I’m only normal.


But what is the matter?


Nothing!


Nay!


You’d far better not talk,


But I wish to know—


You always do,


It’s not fair to me. Don’t! Put it away. What is it?


You know, you know—we’d better break off.


Why! What has happened?


Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It’s no good— We agreed on friendship. How often have we agreed for friendship! And yet—it neither stops there, nor gets anywhere else. I can only give friendship—it’s all I’m capable of—it’s a flaw in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side—I hate a toppling balance. Let us have done.


But what has happened?


Nothing—it’s all in myself—it only comes out just now. We’re always like this towards Easter-time.


What do you want?


Why—I mustn’t come often—that’s all. Why should I monopolise you when I’m not—You see, I’m deficient in something with regard to you—


But I don’t understand. Yesterday—


I know, you never will! You’ll never believe that I can’t—can’t physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark—


What?


Love you.


What have they been saying at home?


It’s not that,


I’m glad you’ve come. It is such a sunny day. I was just going down the fields for the first time this year.


Shall I show you the eggs?


Do! They seem such a sign of spring, and so hopeful.


They are quite hot—I think we frightened her off them,


Ay, poor thing!


Isn’t it a strange warmth!


Blood heat,


Go away, Bill. I don’t want you. Do you think—if I didn’t come up so much—you might get to like somebody else—another man?


But I don’t know any other men. Why do you ask?


Why, because they say I’ve no right to come up like this—without we mean to marry—


Who says?


Mother—and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it’s not fair to you. And I’ve tried to find out—and I don’t think I love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?


I don’t know,


Do you think we love each other enough to marry?


No. I don’t think so—we’re too young.


I thought perhaps, that you, with your intensity in things, might have given me more—than I could ever make up to you. And even now—if you think it better—we’ll be engaged.


No, I don’t think so,


You see, with me—I don’t think one person would ever monopolise me—be everything to me—I think never.


No. This is your mother. I know she never liked me.


No, no, it isn’t. It was for your sake she spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself engaged. And if I ask you to come down any time, you won’t stop away, will you?


Well, what shall we do? I suppose I’d better drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go on alone.


I don’t see that we need. I can give you a French lesson, surely.


Well—and there are Sunday nights. I shan’t stop coming to chapel, because I enjoy it, and it’s all the social life I get. But you’ve no need to come home with me. I can go alone.


All right. But if I ask Edgar, he’ll always come with us, and then they can say nothing. And you won’t think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?


Oh no,


Because, a man gets across his bicycle—and goes to work—and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods.


No, I shan’t bother,


How white Paul looks! Miriam, you shouldn’t have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you’ve taken cold, Paul?


Oh, no!


You’re not going home, are you?


Yes. I said I’d be early.


But this is early,


Well—good-night, all!


Hasn’t Clara come? Yes. She’s reading.


She came this morning?


Yes. You said you’d bring me that letter from the man at Liberty’s. Have you remembered?


Oh, dash, no! But nag at me till you get it.


I don’t like to nag at you.


Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?


You know I always think she is quite agreeable.


You have chosen a fine day,


It happens so,


Yes. I am glad. What have you been doing all morning?


Well, you see. Clara only came with father—and so—she’s not been here very long.


You were at Margaret Bonford’s meeting the other evening,


Yes,


Why, how do you know?


I went in for a few minutes before the train came. I think she’s a lovable little woman,


Margaret Bonford! She’s a great deal cleverer than most men.


Well, I didn’t say she wasn’t. She’s lovable for all that.


And, of course, that is all that matters,


I suppose it matters more than her cleverness, which, after all, would never get her to heaven.


It’s not heaven she wants to get—it’s her fair share on earth,


Well. I thought she was warm, and awfully nice—only too frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace—


Darning her husband’s stockings,


I’m sure she wouldn’t mind darning even my stockings. And I’m sure she’d do them well. Just as I wouldn’t mind blacking her boots if she wanted me to. Well. I think I’ll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?


I believe, he’s gone for a load of coal. He should be back directly.


Then. I’ll go and meet him.


Hello! Where are you going?


Came to meet you. Can’t stand ‘Nevermore.’


Who is ‘Nevermore’?


The lady—Mrs. Dawes—it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed ‘Nevermore.’


Don’t you like her?


Not a fat lot. Why, do you?


No! No! I can’t say she’s much in my line. But why do you call her ‘Nevermore’?


Well, if she looks at a man she says haughtily ‘Nevermore,’ and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says disdainfully ‘Nevermore,’ and if she thinks back she says it in disgust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically.


You think she’s a man-hater?


She thinks she is,


But you don’t think so?


No,


Wasn’t she nice with you, then?


Could you imagine her nice with anybody?


Do you know a new song to teach me?


'Mary Morrison'?


What song was that? We have such jolly times. Do you like singing?


If it is good,


You mean if it is high-class and trained?


I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,


You might as well insist on having people’s voices trained before you allowed them to talk. Really, people sing for their own pleasure, as a rule.


And it may be for other people’s discomfort.


Then the other people should have flaps to their ears,


And you find life happier now?


Infinitely.


And you are satisfied?


So long as I can be free and independent.


And you don’t miss anything in your life?


I’ve put all that behind me.


You’ll find you’re always tumbling over the things you’ve put behind you,


What a treat to be a knight, and to have a pavilion here.


And to have us shut up safely?


Yes, singing with your maids at your broidery. I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have ‘W.S.P.U.’ emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant.


I have no doubt, that you would much rather fight for a woman than let her fight for herself.


I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow.


And you are the looking-glass?


Or the shadow,


I am afraid, that you are too clever.


Well, I leave it to you to be good. Be good, sweet maid, and just let me be clever.


Tell your father, Miss Leivers, that his young beas’es ’as broke that bottom fence three days an’ runnin’.


Which?


Come along a bit, an’ I’ll show you. No hanky-pankyin’,


No,


Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers. It’s ages since you’ve been down.


Your horse is a fine fellow!


Isn’t he! As loving as any man!


More loving than most men, I should think,


He’s a nice boy! Are you coming in? Do come in, Mr.—I didn’t catch it.


Morel,


Because if you do you might come and fish any time. We scarcely see a soul from week’s end to week’s end. I should be thankful.


What fish are there in the pond? I shouldn’t mind swimming here,


Do. Come when you like. My brother will be awfully pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to talk to. Do come and swim.


It’s a fine depth, and so clear.


Do you swim? Miss Limb was just saying we could come when we liked.


Of course there’s the farm-hands,


She makes me feel uncomfortable,


You mean Miss Limb?


Yes. What’s a matter with her? Is she going dotty with being too lonely?


It’s not the right sort of life for her. I think it’s cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her more. But—she upsets me.


She makes me feel sorry for her—yes, and she bothers me,


she wants a man.


But it’s the loneliness sends her cracked,


Do you still think she is disagreeable?


Something’s the matter with her,


Ah!


Why don’t you get some?


I don’t believe in it. They look better growing.


But you’d like some?


They want to be left.


I don’t believe they do.


I don’t want the corpses of flowers about me,


That’s a stiff, artificial notion. They don’t die any quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they look nice in a bowl—they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it looks corpse-like.


Whether it is one or not?


It isn’t one to me. A dead flower isn’t a corpse of a flower.


And even so—what right have you to pull them?


Because I like them, and want them—and there’s plenty of them.


And that is sufficient?


Yes. Why not? I’m sure they’d smell nice in your room in Nottingham.


And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.


But then—it does not matter if they do die.


I think, if you treat them with reverence you don’t do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters.


But no, you get ’em because you want ’em, and that’s all. Look at these! sturdy and lusty like little trees and like boys with fat legs. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, If the Lord won’t have you the devil must. I thought you wanted a funeral. Look how they’ve come out of the wood!


Yes,


It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they would be when they got breast to breast with the open space.


Do you think they were?


I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes—those bursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from the open tiptoeing into the forests.


I should think the second,


Yes, you do feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force yourself into the dark, don’t you?


How should I know?


It has been nice, hasn’t it? Don’t you think so?


There she is, mother!


Ah! So she is!


Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streets and streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether.


So she does! Don’t imagine I like it. I don’t like it, I really don’t! Just think of your money wasted!


You never mind my money. You forget I’m a fellow taking his girl for an outing.


Stop it at once, sir! How can I do it?


You’ve got nothing to do. Stand still!


An old thing like me!


You see. I want people to think we’re awful swells. So look ikey.


I’ll jowl your head,


Strut! Be a fantail pigeon.


Can I show you the town, madam?


No, thank you. I’ve got my son. You go away with you! Ha! that’s the Jew’s House. Now, do you remember that lecture, Paul—? It’s nothing. My heart is only a bit old; one must expect it. Now this is better than I thought it could be! I suppose it is open to anybody?


Yes. Do you think they’d have the damned cheek to send us away.


Well, I’m sure,


they would if they heard your language.


Why can’t a man have a young mother? What is she old for?


Well,


she can scarcely help it.


And why wasn’t I the oldest son? Look—they say the young ones have the advantage—but look, they had the young mother. You should have had me for your eldest son.


I didn’t arrange it,


Come to consider, you’re as much to blame as me.


What are you old for!


Why can’t you walk? Why can’t you come with me to places?


At one time,


I could have run up that hill a good deal better than you.


What’s the good of that to me?


It’s too bad of you to be ill. Little, it is—


Ill!


I’m a bit old, and you’ll have to put up with it, that’s all.


Then who does she live with?


With her mother, on Bluebell Hill.


And have they enough to keep them?


I don’t think so. I think they do lace work.


And wherein lies her charm, my boy?


I don’t know that she’s charming, mother. But she’s nice. And she seems straight, you know—not a bit deep, not a bit.


But she’s a good deal older than you.


She’s thirty, I’m going on twenty-three.


You haven’t told me what you like her for.


Because I don’t know—a sort of defiant way she’s got—a sort of angry way.


You don’t look very well, my lad.


I dunno,


I feel anyhow or nohow, ma.


Are you sure they’re good lodgings?


Yes—yes. Only—it’s a winder when you have to pour your own tea out—an’ nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and sup it up. It somehow takes a’ the taste out of it.


And so it knocks you up?


I dunno. I want to get married,


But,


I thought you said you’d wait another year.


Yes, I did say so,


And you know,


Annie’s a bit of a spendthrift. She’s saved no more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you haven’t had much chance.


I’ve got thirty-three quid,


It doesn’t go far,


I didn’t want, ma!


No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take away five pounds for the wedding and things—it leaves twenty-nine pounds. You won’t do much on that.


But do you really want to get married?


Do you feel as if you ought?


Yes,


Then,


we must all do the best we can for it, lad.


I don’t want Annie to feel handicapped,


My lad,


you’re steady—you’ve got a decent place. If a man had needed me I’d have married him on his last week’s wages. She may find it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls are like that. They look forward to the fine home they think they’ll have. But I had expensive furniture. It’s not everything.


You’re not sorry she’s married, mother, are you?


I’m not sorry she’s married—but—it seems strange that she should go from me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer to go with her Leonard. That’s how mothers are—I know it’s silly.


And shall you be miserable about her?


When I think of my own wedding day,


I can only hope her life will be different.


But you can trust him to be good to her?


Yes, yes. They say he’s not good enough for her. But I say if a man is genuine, as he is, and a girl is fond of him—then—it should be all right. He’s as good as she.


So you don’t mind?


I would never have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn’t feel to be genuine through and through. And yet, there’s a gap now she’s gone.


At any rate, mother, I s’ll never marry,


Ay, they all say that, my lad. You’ve not met the one yet. Only wait a year or two.


But I shan’t marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we’ll have a servant.


Ay, my lad, it’s easy to talk. We’ll see when the time comes.


What time? I’m nearly twenty-three.


Yes, you’re not one that would marry young. But in three years’ time—


I shall be with you just the same.


We’ll see, my boy, we’ll see.


But you don’t want me to marry?


I shouldn’t like to think of you going through your life without anybody to care for you and do—no.


And you think I ought to marry?


Sooner or later every man ought.


But you’d rather it were later.


It would be hard—and very hard. It’s as they say:


A son’s my son till he takes him a wife, But my daughter’s my daughter the whole of her life.


And you think I’d let a wife take me from you?


Well, you wouldn’t ask her to marry your mother as well as you,


She could do what she liked; she wouldn’t have to interfere.


She wouldn’t—till she’d got you—and then you’d see.


I never will see. I’ll never marry while I’ve got you—I won’t.


But I shouldn’t like to leave you with nobody, my boy,


You’re not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I’ll give you till seventy-five. There you are, I’m fat and forty-four. Then I’ll marry a staid body. See!


Go to bed,


go to bed.


And we’ll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it’ll be just all right. I s’ll perhaps be rich with my painting.


Will you go to bed!


And then you s’ll have a pony-carriage. See yourself—a little Queen Victoria trotting round.


I tell you to go to bed,


Nay, tha doesna. I’ll gi’e thee a smoke kiss if ter’s a mind.


I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all,


Well, an’ tha s’lt ha’e a whiff,


along wi’ t’ kiss.


I want a draw at thy fag,


I’ll gi’e thee a smoke kiss,


Tha’rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel,


Ha’e a smoke kiss?


Shonna!


I’ve non got it,


Liar!


’S true as I’m here!


You brazen imp!


Tha tickled me, Beat,


You are a little cat, Beat,


Well, you shouldn’t be brazen,


Did it, pore fing!


Kiss?


Daren’t I?


Go on!


You touched! You touched!


No! I didn’t touch, did I? Wasn’t I clear?


I couldn’t say,


But you touched. You’re beaten.


I did not touch!


As plain as anything,


Box his ears for me!


Nay. I daren’t. You must do it yourself.


And nothing can alter the fact that you touched,


I think you are despicable!


And I knew you couldn’t jump that heap,


It’s not religious to be religious. I reckon a crow is religious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because it feels itself carried to where it’s going, not because it thinks it is being eternal. I don’t believe God knows such a lot about Himself. God doesn’t know things, He is things. And I’m sure He’s not soulful.


May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, is changing, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and left you its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I have given it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you are a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun—as a mystic monk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret—no, have regretted—the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not talk to you through the senses—rather through the spirit. That is why we cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be dreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people marry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be commonplace with each other without feeling awkward—not as two souls. So I feel it. Ought I to send this letter?—I doubt it. But there—it is best to understand. Au revoir.


You are a nun—you are a nun. Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little mistake. Was the mistake mine?


I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put me to shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympathy. But in fundamentals we may always be together I think. I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many a sketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which, to my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovely joke, that. Au revoir.


Why, mother!


Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it! His picture’s got first prize, Fred, and is sold for twenty guineas.


My word, that’s something like!


And Major Moreton has bought it!


It looks like meanin’ something, that does, Mrs. Morel,


Mother!


Didn’t I say we should do it!


You didn’t think, mother—


No, my son—not so much—but I expected a good deal.


But not so much,


No—no—but I knew we should do it.


Twenty guineas, mother! That’s just what you wanted to buy Arthur out. Now you needn’t borrow any. It’ll just do.


Indeed, I shan’t take it all,


But why?


Because I shan’t.


Well—you have twelve pounds, I’ll have nine.


They tell me Paul’s got first prize for his picture, and sold it to Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound.


Oh, what stories people do tell!


Ha! I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha’d told Fred Hodgkisson.


As if I would tell him such stuff!


Ha!


It’s true he has got the first prize,


Has he, beguy!


But as for fifty pounds—such nonsense! Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that’s true.


Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!


Yes, and it was worth it.


Ay! I don’t misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a paintin’ as he knocked off in an hour or two! And when does he handle th’ money?


That I couldn’t tell you. When the picture is sent home, I suppose.


Yes, an’ that other lad ’ud ’a done as much if they hadna ha’ killed ’im,


Mother, I want an evening suit.


Yes, I was afraid you would. There’s that one of William’s, that I know cost four pounds ten and which he’d only worn three times.


Should you like me to wear it, mother?


Yes. I think it would fit you—at least the coat. The trousers would want shortening. The tailor can make it right. It’s beautiful stuff. I never could find in my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now.


Go along with you! What do they want to know me for?


They do! If they want to know me—and they say they do—then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever as I am.


Go along with you, child!


You know. I don’t want to belong to the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the common people.


But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn’t you be in a tear. You know you consider yourself equal to any gentleman.


In myself, not in my class or my education or my manners. But in myself I am.


Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?


Because—the difference between people isn’t in their class, but in themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas, and from the common people—life itself, warmth. You feel their hates and loves.


It’s all very well, my boy. But, then, why don’t you go and talk to your father’s pals?


But they’re rather different.


Not at all. They’re the common people. After all, whom do you mix with now—among the common people? Those that exchange ideas, like the middle classes. The rest don’t interest you.


But—there’s the life—


I don’t believe there’s a jot more life from Miriam than you could get from any educated girl—say Miss Moreton. It is you who are snobbish about class.


My boy, all your cleverness, your breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn’t seem to bring you much happiness.


What is happiness! It’s nothing to me! How am I to be happy?


That’s for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some good woman who would make you happy—and you began to think of settling your life—when you have the means—so that you could work without all this fretting—it would be much better for you.


You mean easy, mother. That’s a woman’s whole doctrine for life—ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it.


Oh, do you! And do you call yours a divine discontent?


Yes. I don’t care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So long as life’s full, it doesn’t matter whether it’s happy or not. I’m afraid your happiness would bore me.


You never give it a chance. But it does matter! And you ought to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn’t be a happy one!


Your own’s been bad enough, mater, but it hasn’t left you so much worse off than the folk who’ve been happier. I reckon you’ve done well. And I am the same. Aren’t I well enough off?


You’re not, my son. Battle—battle—and suffer. It’s about all you do, as far as I can see.


But why not, my dear? I tell you it’s the best—


It isn’t. And one ought to be happy, one ought.


Never mind, Little. So long as you don’t feel life’s paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn’t matter, happiness or unhappiness.


But I want you to be happy,


Eh, my dear—say rather you want me to live.


Well, my lad, you did it yourself, now you must make the best of it.


I thought it couldn’t be your voice,” she said.”


If you’re coming in you won’t have to mind the work. I know we’re about blocked up. But sit you down. Will you drink a bottle of stout? Clara, get him a bottle of stout. You look as if you could do with it. Haven’t you never any more colour than that?


It’s only a thick skin I’ve got that doesn’t show the blood through. Well, here’s health!


And thank you. And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don’t set the house on fire,


Thank you,


Nay, you needn’t thank me. I s’ll be glad to smell a bit of smoke in th’ ’ouse again. A house o’ women is as dead as a house wi’ no fire, to my thinkin’. I’m not a spider as likes a corner to myself. I like a man about, if he’s only something to snap at.


I’ve heard a bit about you from Clara. You’re in Jordan’s, aren’t you?


Yes.


Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to ask me for one of my toffies.


Did he? And did he get it?


Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t—which was latterly. For he’s the sort that takes all and gives naught, he is—or used to be.


I think he’s very decent,


Yes; well, I’m glad to hear it.


And you’ve been going with Miriam Leivers?


Well—


Yes, she’s a nice girl. She’s very nice, but she’s a bit too much above this world to suit my fancy.


She is a bit like that,


She’ll never be satisfied till she’s got wings and can fly over everybody’s head, she won’t,” she said.”


Do you like jennying?


What can a woman do!


Is it sweated?


More or less. Isn’t all woman’s work? That’s another trick the men have played, since we force ourselves into the labour market.


Now then, you shut up about the men. If the women wasn’t fools, the men wouldn’t be bad uns, that’s what I say. No man was ever that bad wi’ me but what he got it back again. Not but what they’re a lousy lot, there’s no denying it.


But they’re all right really, aren’t they?” he asked.”


Well, they’re a bit different from women,” she answered.”


Would you care to be back at Jordan’s?


I don’t think so,


Yes, she would! thank her stars if she could get back. Don’t you listen to her. She’s for ever on that ’igh horse of hers, an’ it’s back’s that thin an’ starved it’ll cut her in two one of these days.


And you will go with Mrs. Hodgkisson to Hucknall? I say, Susan, I heard a whisper of your getting married. What about it?


Who’s been talking to you?


Nobody. I merely heard a whisper that you were thinking—


Well, I am, though you needn’t tell anybody. What’s more, I wish I wasn’t!


Nay, Susan, you won’t make me believe that.


Shan’t I? You can believe it, though. I’d rather stop here a thousand times.


Why, Susan?


That’s why!


And must you? Ah, I’m sorry. But you’ll see it’ll turn out all right. You’ll make the best of it,


There’s nothing else for it.


Yea, there’s making the worst of it. Try and make it all right. Would you, care to come back to Jordan’s?


Why?


Well, because Susan is thinking of leaving,” he said.”


Have you said anything about it?


Except to you, not a word.


I will apply when the advertisement is out,” she said.”


You will apply before that. I will let you know exactly when.


You are affected in that piece,


What of this?


H’m! It doesn’t interest me much.


Because you don’t understand it,


Then why ask me about it?


Because I thought you would understand.


You read French, do you?


What did you say?


I did not know you read French,


Did you not?


Rotten swank! You don’t like Spiral work,” he said.”


Oh, well, all work is work,


What would you prefer to do?” he asked.”


There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice, that I haven’t wasted time considering.


Pah! You only say that because you’re too proud to own up what you want and can’t get.


You know me very well,


I know you think you’re terrific great shakes, and that you live under the eternal insult of working in a factory. What was I so impudent to Clara for? Serve her right; she stinks with silent pride. Have one? I bought a handful to sweeten me up. There is always about you, a sort of waiting. Whatever I see you doing, you’re not really there: you are waiting—like Penelope when she did her weaving. I’ll call you Penelope,


Would it make any difference?


That doesn’t matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say, you seem to forget I’m your boss. It just occurs to me.


And what does that mean?


It means I’ve got a right to boss you.


Is there anything you want to complain about?


Oh, I say, you needn’t be nasty,


I don’t know what you want,


I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully.


Call you ‘sir’, perhaps?


Yes, call me ‘sir’. I should love it.


Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir.


You’re too blessed superior for anything,


Hey, haven’t you got a chocolate for anybody?


Sorry, Pussy. I meant to have offered them; then I went and forgot ’em.


I think you did,


I’ll bring you some this afternoon. You don’t want them after they’ve been lying about, do you?


Oh, I’m not particular,


Oh no. They’ll be dusty. Sorry I left these things littering about. They’ll be dirty now. You should have taken them. I wonder why you didn’t. I meant to have told you I wanted you to. Will you take some? These are fresh. Oh, take several—for luck. Here you are, Pussy. Don’t be greedy!


Are they all for her?


Of course they’re not,


Come out! I can have first pick, can’t I, Paul?


Be nice with ’em,


You are a dear,


Tenpence. Do you mind going on with your work,


Paul, Paul, I want you. I want you. Come on. Come before you begin on the letters.


You didn’t think we’d forgot you?


Why?


'Why,' he says! 'Why!' Why, look here!


Oh, kisses for my birthday. How did you know?


Yes, you want to know, don’t you? There’s one from everybody—except Lady Clara—and two from some. But I shan’t tell you how many I put.


Oh, I know, you’re spooney,


There you are mistaken! I could never be so soft.


You always pretend to be such a hard-hearted hussy. And you know you’re as sentimental—


I’d rather be called sentimental than frozen meat,


Do you say such nasty things about me?


No, my duck. No, my duck, because you don’t think yourself a fine figure in marble and us nothing but dirt. I’m as good as you, aren’t I, Paul?


Why, we’re not better than one another, are we?


But I’m as good as you, aren’t I, Paul?


Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you’re better.


I thought I’d get here before the others—won’t they say I’m deep! Now shut your eyes—


And open your mouth, and see what God sends you. I’m going to look. No, Fanny,


From us all,


No, but—


Are they the right sort?


Jove! they’re the best in the catalogue.


But they’re the right sorts?


They’re off the little list I’d made to get when my ship came in.


They was all on thorns to do it; they all paid their shares, all except the Queen of Sheba.


And wouldn’t she join?


She didn’t get the chance; we never told her; we wasn’t going to have her bossing this show. We didn’t want her to join. I can give you a kiss to-day. You’ve looked so white, it’s made my heart ache.


You have stayed to dinner!


Yes; and I seem to have dined on old surgical-appliance stock. I must go out now, or I shall feel stale india-rubber right through.


You are going anywhere?


You feel as if you could scoop up the folk like tadpoles, and have a handful of them,


Yes; it is not necessary to get far off in order to see us proportionately. The trees are much more significant.


Bulk only,


It is comforting, to think the town goes no farther. It is only a little sore upon the country yet.


A little scab. But the town’s all right, it’s only temporary. This is the crude, clumsy make-shift we’ve practised on, till we find out what the idea is. The town will come all right.


I feel better,


Thank you. Great compliment!


Oh, my brother!


H’m! that’s snatching back with the left hand what you gave with the right, and no mistake. But what was the matter with you? I know you were brooding something special. I can see the stamp of it on your face yet.


I think I will not tell you,


All right, hug it,


No, it was the girls.


What about ’em?


They have been plotting something for a week now, and to-day they seem particularly full of it. All alike; they insult me with their secrecy.


Do they?


I should not mind, if they did not thrust it into my face—the fact that they have a secret.


Just like women,


It is hateful, their mean gloating. They can have all the secrets in the world, but they might refrain from glorying in them, and making me feel more out of it than ever. It is—it is almost unbearable.


I will tell you what it’s all about. It’s my birthday, and they’ve bought me a fine lot of paints, all the girls. They’re jealous of you merely because I sometimes bring you a book. But, you see, it’s only a trifle. Don’t bother about it, will you—because well, what would they say if they saw us here now, in spite of their victory? She is wanting somebody to take her hands—for all she is so contemptuous of us,


Is that two o’clock striking?


Mr. Paul Morel. A lady’s handwriting! Don’t let the girls see it.


You will allow me to send you this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathise and wish you well.—C.D.


Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can’t afford it. Good Lord, who ever’d have thought it!


How old were you when you married?


Twenty-two.


It is eight years ago?


Yes.


And when did you leave him?


Three years ago.


Five years! Did you love him when you married him?


I thought I did—more or less. I didn’t think much about it. And he wanted me. I was very prudish then.


And you sort of walked into it without thinking?


Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life.


Somnambule? But—when did you wake up?


I don’t know that I ever did, or ever have—since I was a child.


You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn’t wake you?


No; he never got there,


Got where?


At me. He never really mattered to me.


But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?


He—he sort of degraded me. He wanted to bully me because he hadn’t got me. And then I felt as if I wanted to run, as if I was fastened and bound up. And he seemed dirty.


I see. And was he always dirty?


A bit. And then he seemed as if he couldn’t get at me, really. And then he got brutal—he was brutal!


And why did you leave him finally?


Because—because he was unfaithful to me—


But did you—were you ever—did you ever give him a chance?


Chance? How?


To come near to you.


I married him—and I was willing—


I believe he loves you,


It looks like it,


Did you leave him out of count all along?


He left me,


And I suppose he couldn’t make himself mean everything to you?


He tried to bully me into it.


Come on. Let’s go and get some tea.


Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?


In what way?


Oh, I don’t know. But weren’t you horrid with him? Didn’t you do something that knocked him to pieces?


What, pray?


Making him feel as if he were nothing—I know,


You are so clever, my friend. Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?


I promised to go up to Willey Farm,


Oh, very well.


You don’t mind, do you?


Why should I?


You know. Miriam and I have been a lot to each other ever since I was sixteen—that’s seven years now.


It’s a long time,


Yes; but somehow she—it doesn’t go right—


How?


She seems to draw me and draw me, and she wouldn’t leave a single hair of me free to fall out and blow away—she’d keep it.


But you like to be kept.


No. I don’t. I wish it could be normal, give and take—like me and you. I want a woman to keep me, but not in her pocket.


But if you love her, it couldn’t be normal, like me and you.


Yes; I should love her better then. She sort of wants me so much that I can’t give myself.


Wants you how?


Wants the soul out of my body. I can’t help shrinking back from her.


And yet you love her!


No, I don’t love her. I never even kiss her.


Why not?


I don’t know.


I suppose you’re afraid,


I’m not. Something in me shrinks from her like hell—she’s so good, when I’m not good.


How do you know what she is?


I do! I know she wants a sort of soul union.


But how do you know what she wants?


I’ve been with her for seven years.


And you haven’t found out the very first thing about her.


What’s that?


That she doesn’t want any of your soul communion. That’s your own imagination. She wants you.


But she seems—


You’ve never tried,


I shall come home when I like. I am old enough.


Must she keep you till this time?


It is I who stay,


And she lets you? But very well,


I am twenty-four, almost.


Yes. What makes you say it?


Sir Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four.


Does it need Sir Thomas More’s sanction?


No; but one ought to marry about then.


Ay,


I can’t marry you, not now, because we’ve no money, and they depend on me at home. But I want to marry now—


You want to marry?


A woman—you know what I mean. Now, at last, I must,


And you love me?


Why are you ashamed of it,


You wouldn’t be ashamed before your God, why are you before people?


Nay. I am not ashamed.


You are, and it’s my fault. But you know I can’t help being—as I am—don’t you?


I know you can’t help it,


I love you an awful lot—then there is something short.


Where?


Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed—like a spiritual cripple. And I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?


I don’t know,


And I don’t know. Don’t you think we have been too fierce in our what they call purity? Don’t you think that to be so much afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness? You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the motion from you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse.


Yes, it is so.


There is between us, all these years of intimacy. I feel naked enough before you. Do you understand?


I think so,


Don’t be bitter,


Nay. I am not bitter.


What are you thinking about?


I was thinking, all the while, I love you. I have been obstinate.


Yes,


That’s all,


Kiss me,


I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you—as if there was nothing to hide. We will be happy?


Some sort of perversity in our souls, makes us not want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that.


Sometime you will have me?


Not now,


No,


I love to feel your arm there! It rests me so.


We belong to each other,


Yes.


Then why shouldn’t we belong to each other altogether?


But—


I know it’s a lot to ask, but there’s not much risk for you really—not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?


Oh, I can trust you. It’s not that—it’s not that at all—but—


What?


I don’t know!


You don’t think it ugly?


No, not now. You have taught me it isn’t.


You are afraid?


Yes, I am only afraid,


Never mind. You should please yourself.


You shall have me. Won’t you be late? Good-bye!


Oh! isn’t it wonderful? How high you are!


Clouds are on fire,


Beautiful! Haven’t you got enough?


Nearly. It is like being on a ship up here.


And how long will you stay?


While the sunset lasts.


They are lovely,


I’ve torn my sleeve,


I shall have to mend it. How warm!


Shall we stay out?


Won’t it rain?


No, let us walk a little way. Shall we go in among the trees?


Do you want to?


Yes. I like the darkness. I wish it were thicker—good, thick darkness.


The rain!


Yes—is it coming on you? We must go,


Yes,


The rain is coming in on us,


It is a pity. It is a pity,


What?


To have to go. I feel so still.


Still!


Stiller than I have ever been in my life. The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only a presence. A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that’s what we do in death—sleep in wonder. Let us stay here awhile. I feel so strange and still, along with everything.


Ay,


To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our effort—to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep—that is very beautiful, I think; that is our after-life—our immortality.


Yes?


Yes—and very beautiful to have.


You don’t usually say that.


No.


Your face is bright, like a transfiguration. I have never seen anything more beautiful than this,


And the water singing to itself as it runs—do you love it?


Don’t you think it’s a great day? And our day—just between us. Will you come?


You are sure you want me?


Yes, quite sure.


When I come to you, you don’t really want me, do you?


Ah, yes!


Nay,


You see, you see—as we are—how can I get used to you? It would come all right if we were married.


You mean, now, it is always too much shock?


Yes—and—


You are always clenched against me.


You see. I’m not used to the thought—


You are lately,


But all my life. Mother said to me: ‘There is one thing in marriage that is always dreadful, but you have to bear it.’ And I believed it.


And still believe it,


No! I believe, as you do, that loving, even in that way, is the high-water mark of living.


That doesn’t alter the fact that you never want it.


No. Don’t say so! You don’t understand. Don’t I want your children?


But not me.


How can you say so? But we must be married to have children—


Shall we be married, then? I want you to have my children.


We are too young,


Twenty-four and twenty-three—


Not yet,


When you will. I shan’t go so much to Miriam’s, mother.


You please yourself,


What about Clara? I hear nothing of her lately.


I walked with her about twenty minutes yesterday,” he replied.


And what did she talk about?


I don’t know. I suppose I did all the jawing—I usually do. I think I was telling her about the strike, and how the women took it.


Yes.


Half a minute. Hold your arm still. I think Clara has such beautiful arms,” he said.


Yes! When did you draw them?


On Tuesday, in the work-room. You know, I’ve got a corner where I can work. Often I can do every single thing they need in the department, before dinner. Then I work for myself in the afternoon, and just see to things at night.


Yes,


Come, my boy. I’m sure it’s time you went to bed.


I shall break off with Miriam, mother,


But I thought—


Well. I don’t love her. I don’t want to marry her—so I shall have done.


But. I thought lately you had made up your mind to have her, and so I said nothing.


I had—I wanted to—but now I don’t want. It’s no good. I shall break off on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn’t I?


You know best. You know I said so long ago.


I can’t help that now. I shall break off on Sunday.


Well. I think it will be best. But lately I decided you had made up your mind to have her, so I said nothing, and should have said nothing. But I say as I have always said, I don’t think she is suited to you.


On Sunday I break off,


Never mind, my son. You will be so much better when it is all over.


I have been thinking, we ought to break off.


Why?


Because it’s no good going on.


Why is it no good?


It isn’t. I don’t want to marry. I don’t want ever to marry. And if we’re not going to marry, it’s no good going on.


But why do you say this now?


Because I’ve made up my mind.


And what about these last months, and the things you told me then?


I can’t help it! I don’t want to go on.


You don’t want any more of me?


I want us to break off—you be free of me, I free of you.


And what about these last months?


I don’t know. I’ve not told you anything but what I thought was true.


Then why are you different now?


I’m not—I’m the same—only I know it’s no good going on.


You haven’t told me why it’s no good.


Because I don’t want to go on—and I don’t want to marry.


How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn’t?


I know; but I want us to break off.


I have said you were only fourteen—you are only four! You are a child of four,


All right; if I’m a child of four, what do you want me for? I don’t want another mother.”


And have you told your people?” she asked.


I have told my mother.


Then what do you want?


Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all these years; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you, and you will go your way without me. You will have an independent life of your own then. And, we shall always be more or less each other’s work. You have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us start and live by ourselves.


What do you want to do?


Nothing—only to be free,


And what have I to tell my mother?” she asked.


I told my mother, that I was breaking off—clean and altogether.


I shall not tell them at home,” she said.


You please yourself. Tell them you wouldn’t and won’t marry me, and have broken off. It’s true enough.


Always—it has always been so! It has been one long battle between us—you fighting away from me.


But we’ve had some perfect hours, some perfect times, when we were together!” he pleaded.


Never! never! It has always been you fighting me off.


Not always—not at first!


Always, from the very beginning—always the same!


You ought to marry a man who worships you, then you could do as you liked with him. Plenty of men will worship you, if you get on the private side of their natures. You ought to marry one such. They would never fight you off.


Thank you! But don’t advise me to marry someone else any more. You’ve done it before.


Very well. I will say no more.


When did you think of this?


I thought definitely on Thursday night.


I knew it was coming. And have you said anything to Clara?” she asked.


No; but I shall tell her now.


Do you remember the things you said this time last year, in my grandmother’s house—nay last month even?


Yes. I do! And I meant them! I can’t help that it’s failed.


It has failed because you want something else.


It would have failed whether or not. You never believed in me.


We will go and have tea here?” he asked.


Yes. And we shall not see each other?


No—or rarely,


Nor write?


As you will. We’re not strangers—never should be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You please yourself.


I see!


Have a chocolate?


All right. Give me a hard one—nut. I don’t like creams.


Here you are, then, here’s an almond for you.


You are nice!


Well, we thought you looked overcast, and they dared me offer you a chocolate.


I don’t mind if I have another—another sort. I told her,


I’m glad,


I said we’d have done altogether,


That’s right, my son. It’s hard for her now, but best in the long run. I know. You weren’t suited for her.


I’ve had such a lark with some girls in a pub,


Now have some supper,


She never thought she’d have me, mother, not from the first, and so she’s not disappointed.


I’m afraid, she doesn’t give up hopes of you yet.


No, perhaps not.


You’ll find it’s better to have done,


I don’t know,


Well, leave her alone,


Mother. I s’ll make a painter that they’ll attend to.


Very well, my boy, we’ll see,


You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you’re not swanky one of these days!


I’m quite content, my boy,


But you’ll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie!


And what about Minnie?


Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was going to do that,


when you went out in the rain for some coal. That looks a lot like your being able to manage servants!


Well, it was only the child’s niceness. You can’t do two things at once, can you? She was busy washing up,


It could easy have waited a bit. Now look how your feet paddle!


Yes—brazen young baggage!


Well, Queen of Sheba!


But why?


I think it suits you. You’ve got a new frock on.


And what of it?


Suits you—awfully! I could design you a dress.


How would it be?


More so!


Good-night,


Shall we go a walk on Monday?


Shall you tell Miriam?


I have broken off with her,


When?


Last Sunday.


You quarrelled?


No! I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely I should consider myself free. We will walk a little while. Which way shall we go?


I don’t mind.


Then we’ll go up the steps. Come along,


And this afternoon. You will come?


I think so,


You will meet me at the Fountain at two o’clock,


I can’t be there till half-past.


Yes!


I will try at a quarter past.


You are late,


Only five minutes,


I’d never have done it to you. You want some flowers. That’s a fine colour!


I’d rather have had something softer,


Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street?


Why, did you leave Miriam?


Because I wanted to leave her,


Why?


Because I didn’t want to go on with her. And I didn’t want to marry.


You didn’t want to marry Miriam, or you didn’t want to marry at all?


Both, both!


And what did she say?


Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always had battled her off.


But you have really been going with her for some time?


Yes.


And now you don’t want any more of her?


No. I know it’s no good.


Don’t you think you’ve treated her rather badly?


Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been no good going on. Two wrongs don’t make a right.


How old are you?


Twenty-five.


And I am thirty,


I know you are.


I shall be thirty-one—or am I thirty-one?


I neither know nor care. What does it matter!


You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly. It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come,


Why, did you hate Baxter Dawes? Will you go down to the river?


It is slippery. Never mind,


It’s risky, or messy, at any rate. Shall we go back?


Not for my sake,


All right. You see, I can’t help you; I should only hinder. Give me that little parcel and your gloves. Your poor shoes!


Well, I’ll go again,


Well, I’ll be damned! Mind! Come now. It doesn’t matter. It’s a swindle!


But there’s a rut where a man has been, so if we go on I guess we shall find the path again.


Let us try going forward,


Now they ought to be drowned,


It’s impossible!


Stop a minute,


Your flowers are smashed. Why dost look so heavy? Nay! Never thee bother! But tha shouldna worrit!


No, I don’t worry!


Yea, tha does! Dunna thee worrit,


No!


Now we’re back at the ordinary level. And now I’ll clean thy boots and make thee fit for respectable folk. What am I supposed to be doing, cleaning shoes or dibbling with love? Answer me that!


Just whichever I please,


I’m your boot-boy for the time being, and nothing else! T-t-t-t! I tell you, nothing gets done when there’s a woman about. There you are, you see! Aren’t I a great hand at restoring you to respectability? Stand up! There, you look as irreproachable as Britannia herself!


I could wish you’d had something of a better day,


Nay! We’ve been saying how nice it is.


Have you been saying so!


Truly!


Then I’m sure the day’s good enough. I don’t know whether you’d like some radishes as well, but I’ve got some in the garden—and a cucumber.


I should like some radishes. If she knew!


Well, she doesn’t know; and it shows we’re nice in ourselves, at any rate. You look quite enough to satisfy an archangel, and I’m sure I feel harmless—so—if it makes you look nice, and makes folk happy when they have us, and makes us happy—why, we’re not cheating them out of much!


I don’t know whether—


Oh, how pretty!


Shall she have them all?


Yes, she shall have them all. You have got enough for your share.


Ah, but I shall ask her to give me one!


Then she does as she pleases,


You don’t feel criminal, do you?


Criminal! No.


But you seem to feel you have done a wrong?


No. I only think, ‘If they knew!’


If they knew, they’d cease to understand. As it is, they do understand, and they like it. What do they matter? Here, with only the trees and me, you don’t feel not the least bit wrong, do you? Not sinners, are we?


No,


You like your little bit of guiltiness, I believe,


I believe Eve enjoyed it, when she went cowering out of Paradise.


You are late!


Yes; I’ve been down Clifton Grove with Clara.


But won’t people talk?


Why? They know she’s a suffragette, and so on. And what if they do talk!


Of course, there may be nothing wrong in it. But you know what folks are, and if once she gets talked about—


Well, I can’t help it. Their jaw isn’t so almighty important, after all.


I think you ought to consider her.


So I do! What can people say?—that we take a walk together. I believe you’re jealous.


You know I should be glad if she weren’t a married woman.


Well, my dear, she lives separate from her husband, and talks on platforms; so she’s already singled out from the sheep, and, as far as I can see, hasn’t much to lose. No; her life’s nothing to her, so what’s the worth of nothing? She goes with me—it becomes something. Then she must pay—we both must pay! Folk are so frightened of paying; they’d rather starve and die.


Very well, my son. We’ll see how it will end.


Very well, my mother. I’ll abide by the end.


We’ll see!


And she’s—she’s awfully nice, mother; she is really! You don’t know!


That’s not the same as marrying her.


It’s perhaps better.


Should you like to know her?


Yes. I should like to know what she’s like.


But she’s nice, mother, she is! And not a bit common!


I never suggested she was.


But you seem to think she’s—not as good as—She’s better than ninety-nine folk out of a hundred, I tell you! She’s better, she is! She’s fair, she’s honest, she’s straight! There isn’t anything underhand or superior about her. Don’t be mean about her!


I am sure I am not mean about her. She may be quite as you say, but—


You don’t approve,


And do you expect me to?


Yes!—yes!—if you’d anything about you, you’d be glad! Do you want to see her?


I said I did.


Then I’ll bring her—shall I bring her here?


You please yourself.


Then I will bring her here—one Sunday—to tea. If you think a horrid thing about her, I shan’t forgive you.


As if it would make any difference!


Oh, but it feels so fine, when she’s there! She’s such a queen in her way.


And what have you been doing lately?


I—oh, not much! I made a sketch of Bestwood from the garden, that is nearly right at last. It’s the hundredth try.


You’ve not been out, then, lately?


Yes; I went up Clifton Grove on Monday afternoon with Clara.


It was not very nice weather, was it?


But I wanted to go out, and it was all right. The Trent is full.


And did you go to Barton?


No; we had tea in Clifton.


Did you! That would be nice.


It was! The jolliest old woman! She gave us several pom-pom dahlias, as pretty as you like.


What made her give them you?


Because she liked us—because we were jolly, I should think.


Were you late home?


I caught the seven-thirty.


Ha! And how is Clara?


Quite all right, I think.


That’s good! By the way, what of her husband? One never hears anything of him.


He’s got some other woman, and is also quite all right,


At least, so I think.


I see—you don’t know for certain. Don’t you think a position like that is hard on a woman?


Rottenly hard!


It’s so unjust! The man does as he likes—


Then let the woman also,


How can she? And if she does, look at her position!


What of it?


Why, it’s impossible! You don’t understand what a woman forfeits—


No, I don’t. But if a woman’s got nothing but her fair fame to feed on, why, it’s thin tack, and a donkey would die of it! You see, she never knew the fearful importance of marriage. She thought it was all in the day’s march—it would have to come—and Dawes—well, a good many women would have given their souls to get him; so why not him? Then she developed into the femme incomprise, and treated him badly, I’ll bet my boots.


And she left him because he didn’t understand her?


I suppose so. I suppose she had to. It isn’t altogether a question of understanding; it’s a question of living. With him, she was only half-alive; the rest was dormant, deadened. And the dormant woman was the femme incomprise, and she had to be awakened.


And what about him.


I don’t know. I rather think he loves her as much as he can, but he’s a fool.


It was something like your mother and father,


Yes; but my mother, I believe, got real joy and satisfaction out of my father at first. I believe she had a passion for him; that’s why she stayed with him. After all, they were bound to each other.


Yes,


That’s what one must have, I think, the real, real flame of feeling through another person—once, only once, if it only lasts three months. See, my mother looks as if she’d had everything that was necessary for her living and developing. There’s not a tiny bit of feeling of sterility about her.


No,


And with my father, at first, I’m sure she had the real thing. She knows; she has been there. You can feel it about her, and about him, and about hundreds of people you meet every day; and, once it has happened to you, you can go on with anything and ripen.


What happened, exactly?


It’s so hard to say, but the something big and intense that changes you when you really come together with somebody else. It almost seems to fertilise your soul and make it that you can go on and mature.


And you think your mother had it with your father?


Yes; and at the bottom she feels grateful to him for giving it her, even now, though they are miles apart.


And you think Clara never had it?


I’m sure.


Have you told your mother about Clara?


Yes, and she is coming to tea on Sunday.


To your house?


Yes; I want mater to see her.


I may call in as I go to chapel,


Very well,


I thought you weren’t coming,


I was sure you weren’t coming. And I wondered, when I was in the train, whatever I should do if you weren’t there!


What a pity there is a coal-pit here where it is so pretty!


Do you think so? You see, I am so used to it I should miss it. No; and I like the pits here and there. I like the rows of trucks, and the headstocks, and the steam in the daytime, and the lights at night. When I was a boy, I always thought a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, and its lights, and the burning bank,—and I thought the Lord was always at the pit-top. Don’t you want to come home?


Yes, I want to come,


Mother—Clara,


He has told me a good deal about you,


I hope you don’t mind my coming,


I was pleased when he said he would bring you,


It’s such a pretty day, mother! And we saw a jay.


Perhaps you’ll leave your things in the parlour,


Oh, thank you,


I leave my things lying about,


You have gone to live down Sneinton Boulevard? When I was a girl—girl, I say!—when I was a young woman we lived in Minerva Terrace.


Oh, did you! I have a friend in number 6.


This is Mrs. Dawes, father. Oh, indeed! 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. And may you have come far?


Only from Nottingham,


From Nottingham! Then you have had a beautiful day for your journey.


You will let me help you wash up,


Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute,


It’s the end of the run with these chaps.


Count your money,


I’m well off,


How much? Pf! Can I turn them into gold?


I’m afraid not,


Hello, Miriam!


You said you’d come!


Yes. Had you forgotten? It seems strange to see you here.


Yes, it seems strange to be here.


This is pretty, isn’t it?


I like it very much,


Have you come down alone?


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,


Do you like the chrysanthemums?


Yes; they are very fine. Which sort do you like best?


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.


What! is that Miriam?


Yes; she said she’d call and see Clara.


You told her, then?


Yes; why shouldn’t I?


There’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t,


Why can’t I do as I like?


You’ve not seen Mrs. Morel before?


No; but she’s so nice!


Yes, 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! When will you want it back?


When you like,


When will you come up to Willey Farm?


I couldn’t say,


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!


You’re sure you won’t come in?


No, thanks.


We are going to chapel.


Ah, I shall see you, then!


Yes.


What I hate is the bloodhound quality in Miriam.


Yes, yes; doesn’t it make you hate her, now!


But it serves her right,


You still keep on with Miriam,


Only talk. There never was a great deal more than talk between us,


Your mother doesn’t care for her,


No, or I might have married her. But it’s all up really! If I was with her now, we should be jawing about the ‘Christian Mystery’, or some such tack. Thank God, I’m not!


But you can’t really give her up,


I don’t give her up, because there’s nothing to give,


There is for her.


I don’t know why she and I shouldn’t be friends as long as we live. But it’ll only be friends. What are you drawing away for? Why do you want to walk alone? Because I said I would be friends with Miriam! I tell you it’s only words that go between us. Damn it! What do you want now?


You’d better run after Miriam,


Stand up! stand up! We will go over the fields,


Like treading among the stars,


What time is it?


It doesn’t matter,


Yes it does—yes! I must go!


It’s early yet,


I don’t know.


I can’t see,


Then don’t bother.


Yes; I’m going!


Wait! I’ll look! I’ll strike a match.


What is it?


You can’t do it,


Two minutes to nine,


And can I get from here to the station in fourteen minutes?


No. At any rate—


But can’t I do it?


If you hurry. But you could easily walk it, Clara; it’s only seven miles to the tram. I’ll come with you.


No; I want to catch the train.


But why?


I do—I want to catch the train.


Very well. Come along, then. There she is! She’s over the viaduct. You’ll just do it.


Well, I must say your boots are in a nice state! She caught the train then?


Yes.


I hope her feet weren’t so filthy. Where on earth you dragged her I don’t know!


Did you like her?


Yes, I liked her. But you’ll tire of her, my son; you know you will. Have you been running?


We had to run for the train.


You’ll go and knock yourself up. You’d better drink hot milk.


This is how she serves me, is it?


Shall I book seats?


Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I’ve never seen you in it.


But, good Lord, Clara! Think of me in evening suit at the theatre!


Would you rather not?


I will if you want me to; but I s’ll feel a fool.


Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won’t you?


I suppose I s’ll have to.


What are you taking a suitcase for?


Clara asked me,


And what seats are you going in?


Circle—three-and-six each!


Well, I’m sure!


It’s only once in the bluest of blue moons,


I s’ll have to walk home!


It is too late?


I love you! You look beautiful in that dress. It doesn’t matter,


Won’t you, come home for the night? I can sleep with mother.


What will your mother say?


She won’t mind.


You’re sure?


Quite!


Shall I come?


If you will.


Very well.


Who have you got there? It’s Mr. Morel; he has missed his train. I thought we might put him up for the night, and save him a ten-mile walk.


H’m. That’s your lookout! If you’ve invited him, he’s very welcome as far as I’m concerned. You keep the house!


If you don’t like me, I’ll go away again,


Nay, nay, you needn’t! Come along in! I dunno what you’ll think of the supper I’d got her. More chips you can’t have.


It’s a shame to bother you,


Oh, don’t you be apologetic! It doesn’t do wi’ me! You treated her to the theatre, didn’t you?


Well?


Well, and what’s an inch of bacon! Take your coat off. My sirs! but you two’s a pair of bright beauties, I must say! What’s all that get-up for?


I believe we don’t know,


There isn’t room in this house for two such bobby-dazzlers, if you fly your kites that high! And look at that blossom! What does she reckon she did it for?


You like to see it, don’t you?


Me like to see it! What should I like to see her make a fool of herself for?


I’ve seen people look bigger fools,


Oh, ay! and when was that?


When they made frights of themselves,


They’re fools either road,


No. Folk ought to look as well as they can.


And do you call that looking nice! That—that looks as if it wasn’t properly dressed!


I believe you’re jealous that you can’t swank as well,


Me! I could have worn evening dress with anybody, if I’d wanted to!


And why didn’t you want to? Or did you wear it?


Me! No, I didn’t! And when I was in service, I knew as soon as one of the maids came out in bare shoulders what sort she was, going to her sixpenny hop!


Were you too good to go to a sixpenny hop?


There’s a nice crozzly bit!


Don’t give me the best!


She’s got what she wants,


But do have some!


No thanks!


Why won’t you? They say Sarah Bernhardt’s fifty,


Fifty! She’s turned sixty!


Well, you’d never think it! She made me want to howl even now.


I should like to see myself howling at that bad old baggage! It’s time she began to think herself a grandmother, not a shrieking catamaran—


A catamaran is a boat the Malays use,


And it’s a word as I use,


My mother does sometimes, and it’s no good my telling her,


I s’d think she boxes your ears,


She’d like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool to stand on.


That’s the worst of my mother. She never wants a stool for anything.


But she often can’t touch that lady with a long prop,


I s’d think she doesn’t want touching with a prop. I shouldn’t.


It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head with one,


Why are you so vindictive towards me? I’ve not stolen anything from you.


No; I’ll watch that. Why, I’d forgot all about them! Where have they sprung from?


Out of my drawer.


H’m! You bought ’em for Baxter, an’ he wouldn’t wear ’em, would he? Said he reckoned to do wi’out trousers i’ bed. He couldn’t bear ’em, them pyjama things.


Well, it’s everyone to his taste. My mother loves me in them. She says I’m a pierrot. It is funny, but it takes hours to settle down to sleep after the theatre.


It’s about time you did,


Are you tired?


Not the least bit,


Shall we have a game at cribbage?


I’ve forgotten it.


Well, I’ll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?


You’ll please yourselves, but it’s pretty late.


A game or so will make us sleepy. Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and two’s eight—!


Isn’t it nigh on time you two was thinking o’ bed?


Half a minute. We’ll stop, then,


Well, I’m glad you’ve finished. Here, take your things and this is your candle. Your room’s over this; there’s only two, so you can’t go far wrong. Well, good-night. I hope you’ll rest well.


I’m sure I shall; I always do,


Yes; and so you ought at your age,


Will you unfasten my dress?


Now then! aren’t you coming up?


No, not yet,


Oh, very well then! If it’s not late enough, stop a bit longer. Only you needn’t come waking me up when I’ve got to sleep.


I shan’t be long,


Sorry!


My hands are so cold,


I like it,


Come you to my room. Yes! Why not?


Do you think you’re going to sleep till Doomsday?


It ought only to be about five o’clock,


Well, it’s half-past seven, whether or not. Here, I’ve brought you a cup of tea.


What’s it so late for!


It’s no good your scratching your head. It won’t make it no earlier. Here, an’ how long d’you think I’m going to stand waiting wi’ this here cup?


Oh, dash the cup!


You should go to bed earlier,


I went to bed before you did,


Yes, my Guyney, you did!


Fancy, having tea brought to bed to me! My mother’ll think I’m ruined for life.


Don’t she never do it?


She’d as leave think of flying.


Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That’s why they’ve turned out such bad uns,


You’d only Clara. And Mr. Radford’s in heaven. So I suppose there’s only you left to be the bad un.


I’m not bad; I’m only soft. I’m only a fool, I am! What’s the good, of your whittling and worrying and twistin’ and too-in’ at that painting of yours? What good does it do you, I should like to know? You’d better be enjoyin’ yourself.


Oh, but. I made over thirty guineas last year.


Did you! Well, that’s a consideration, but it’s nothing to the time you put in.


And I’ve got four pounds owing. A man said he’d give me five pounds if I’d paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went and put the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy, so I had to knock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn’t like the dog. I made a picture of it. What shall I do when he pays me the four pounds?


Nay! you know your own uses for your money,


But I’m going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the seaside for a day or two?


Who?


You and Clara and me.


What, on your money!


Why not?


You wouldn’t be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!


So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?


Nay; you may settle that atween you.


And you’re willing?


You’ll do as you like, whether I’m willing or not.


What’ll you have?


Nowt wi’ a bleeder like you!


Did you learn all that at th’ theatre th’ other night?


Why, what about th’ theatre?


Oh, him in a bob-tailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!


That’s comin’ it strong. Tart an’ all?


Tart, begod!


Go on; let’s have it!


You’ve got it, an’ I reckon Morelly had it an’ all.


Well, I’ll be jiggered! An’ was it a proper tart?


Tart, God blimey—yes!


How do you know?


Oh. I reckon he spent th’ night—


But who was she? D’you know her?


I should shay sho,


Then spit it out,


It’s a wonder he hasn’t let on himself. He’ll be braggin’ of it in a bit.


Come on, Paul, it’s no good. You might just as well own up.


Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?


Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad,


She was all right,


Strike me—! One o’ that sort? Paul, boy, I’m surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?


Just a bit, like!


Oh well. I’ll be going!


Nay, you don’t get off as easy as that, my lad. We’ve got to have a full account of this business.


Then get it from Dawes!


You shouldn’t funk your own deeds, man,


Oh, Mr. Morel!


Now, then!


Come out! Come out, you—,


That’s enough, Dawes,


Come on, you’d better be getting on.


That’s the little sod as started it!


Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes! You know it was you all the time.


All right,


Serve him jolly well right!


But it’s a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes,


I tell you I was glad he did. Will you have another, Mr. Morel?


He’s a man as doesn’t care for anything, is Baxter Dawes,


Pooh! is he? He’s a loud-mouthed one, he is, and they’re never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken chap, if you want a devil!


Well, Paul, my lad, you’ll have to take care of yourself now for a while.


You won’t have to give him a chance over you, that’s all,


Can you box?


Not a bit,


I might give you a turn or two,


Thanks, I haven’t time.


Go along with him, Mr. Jenkinson,


Good-night all! Half a minute, old man. You an’ me’s going the same road, I believe.


Mr. Morel doesn’t like it. You’ll see, we shan’t have him in much more. I’m sorry; he’s good company. And Baxter Dawes wants locking up, that’s what he wants. I’m sorry.


That’s him to a ‘T’, like a navvy! He’s not fit for mixing with decent folk.


Yet you married him


I did! But how was I to know?


I think he might have been rather nice


You think I made him what he is!


Oh no! he made himself. But there’s something about him—


And what are you going to do?


How?


About Baxter.


There’s nothing to do, is there?


You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?


No; I haven’t the least sense of the ‘fist’. It’s funny. With most men there’s the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It’s not so with me. I should want a knife or a pistol or something to fight with.


Then you’d better carry something


Nay I’m not daggeroso.


But he’ll do something to you. You don’t know him.


All right we’ll see.


And you’ll let him?


Perhaps, if I can’t help it.


And if he kills you?


I should be sorry, for his sake and mine.


You do make me angry!


That’s nothing afresh.


But why are you so silly? You don’t know him.


And don’t want.


Yes, but you’re not going to let a man do as he likes with you?


What must I do?


I should carry a revolver I’m sure he’s dangerous.


I might blow my fingers off.


No; but won’t you?


No.


Not anything?


And you’ll leave him to—?


Yes.


You are a fool!


Fact!


I could shake you! Let a man like him do as he likes with you.


You can go back to him if he triumphs.


Do you want me to hate you?


Well, I only tell you.


And you say you love me!


Ought I to slay him to please you? But if I did, see what a hold he’d have over me.


Do you think I’m a fool!


Not at all. But you don’t understand me, my dear. The man in righteousness arrayed, The pure and blameless liver, Needs not the keen Toledo blade, Nor venom-freighted quiver,


I wish I could understand you


There’s simply nothing to understand.


Sorry! I’ll stop your whistle, my jockey! You’re goin’ to answer for that job of the other night.


Go and tell Fanny I want order 097, quick! Six and five’s eleven and seven’s one-and-six Five and ninepence! What’s that?


I’m going to show you what it is. Yer crawlin’ little—, yer daresn’t face me proper!


All right Yes! Er—yes! I’ll come down directly. I’ve got a visitor just now.


Yer little devil! I’ll visitor you, inside of two minutes! Think I’m goin’ to have you whipperty-snappin’ round?


Fanny says you could have had it last night if you’d let her know.


All right Get it off.


By God, I’ll stop your gallop!


Hey! Hey!


What’s a-matter, what’s a-matter?


I’m just goin’ ter settle this little—, that’s all.


What do you mean?


What I say


What’s it all about?


Couldn’t say.


Couldn’t yer, couldn’t yer!


Have you finished? Get off about your business, and don’t come here tipsy in the morning.


Tipsy! Who’s tipsy? I’m no more tipsy than you are!


We’ve heard that song before Now you get off, and don’t be long about it. Comin’ here with your rowdying. Get out before you’re turned out!


Why, who’ll turn me out?


Get off my premises—get off!


Come off!


What do you think I took the case up for?


Well, I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing.


Why need my name have been dragged in?


Better speak it openly than leave it to be whispered.


There was no need for anything at all.


We are none the poorer.


You may not be.


And you?


I need never have been mentioned.


And what do you think of it all?


I think he’s a fool.


Have you ever considered where it will end?


No things work out of themselves.


They do, in a way one doesn’t like, as a rule.


And then one has to put up with them.


You’ll find you’re not as good at ‘putting up’ as you imagine. Do you ever ask her opinion?


What of?


Of you, and the whole thing.


I don’t care what her opinion of me is. She’s fearfully in love with me, but it’s not very deep.


But quite as deep as your feeling for her.


Yes You know, mother, I think there must be something the matter with me, that I can’t love. When she’s there, as a rule, I do love her. Sometimes, when I see her just as the woman, I love her, mother; but then, when she talks and criticises, I often don’t listen to her. Perhaps; and I love her better than Miriam. But why don’t they hold me?


But you wouldn’t want to marry Clara?


No; at first perhaps I would. But why—why don’t I want to marry her or anybody? I feel sometimes as if I wronged my women, mother.


How wronged them, my son?


I don’t know.


And as for wanting to marry, there’s plenty of time yet.


But no, mother. I even love Clara, and I did Miriam; but to give myself to them in marriage I couldn’t. I couldn’t belong to them. They seem to want me, and I can’t ever give it them.


You haven’t met the right woman.


And I never shall meet the right woman while you live.


We’ll see, my son.


Will you always stay at Jordan’s?


No. No; I s’ll leave Nottingham and go abroad—soon.


Go abroad! What for?


I dunno! I feel restless.


But what shall you do?


I shall have to get some steady designing work, and some sort of sale for my pictures first. I am gradually making my way. I know I am.


And when do you think you’ll go?


I don’t know. I shall hardly go for long, while there’s my mother.


You couldn’t leave her?


Not for long.


And if you made a nice lot of money, what would you do?


Go somewhere in a pretty house near London with my mother.


I see.


I could still come and see you. I don’t know. Don’t ask me what I should do; I don’t know. Don’t ask me anything about the future. I don’t know anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter what it is? Clara,


But what do you always want to be kissing and embracing for? Surely there’s a time for everything.


Do I always want to be kissing you?


Always, even if I come to ask you about the work. I don’t want anything to do with love when I’m at work. Work’s work—


And what is love? Has it to have special hours?


Yes; out of work hours.


And you’ll regulate it according to Mr. Jordan’s closing time?


Yes; and according to the freedom from business of any sort.


It is only to exist in spare time?


That’s all, and not always then—not the kissing sort of love.


And that’s all you think of it?


It’s quite enough.


I’m glad you think so.


It’s very fine,


Now don’t get sentimental. There are some fine waves this morning. Aren’t you coming?


In a minute,


Oo, it will be so cold!


Go, then!


But you’ll come in?


In a minute. Not much more than a big white pebble on the beach, not much more than a clot of foam being blown and rolled over the sand. Look how little she is! She’s lost like a grain of sand in the beach—just a concentrated speck blown along, a tiny white foam-bubble, almost nothing among the morning. Why does she absorb me? What is she, after all? Here’s the seacoast morning, big and permanent and beautiful; there is she, fretting, always unsatisfied, and temporary as a bubble of foam. What does she mean to me, after all? She represents something, like a bubble of foam represents the sea. But what is she? It’s not her I care for.


But she is magnificent, and even bigger than the morning and the sea. Is she—? Is she—?


What are you looking at?


You. What is she? What is she? You, go with your mother to Sutton. I am so dull.


It seems, it seemed as if you only loved me at night—as if you didn’t love me in the daytime.


The night is free to you. In the daytime I want to be by myself.


But why? Why, even now, when we are on this short holiday?


I don’t know. Love-making stifles me in the daytime.


But it needn’t be always love-making,


It always is, when you and I are together. Do you ever want to marry me?


Do you me?


Yes, yes; I should like us to have children. But you don’t really want a divorce from Baxter, do you?


No. I don’t think I do.


Why?


I don’t know.


Do you feel as if you belonged to him?


No; I don’t think so.


What, then?


I think he belongs to me,


And you never really intended to belong to me?


Yes, I do belong to you,


No, because you don’t want to be divorced. I consider you treated Baxter rottenly,


I suppose you thought he was a lily of the valley, and so you put him in an appropriate pot, and tended him according. You made up your mind he was a lily of the valley and it was no good his being a cow-parsnip. You wouldn’t have it.


I certainly never imagined him a lily of the valley.


You imagined him something he wasn’t. That’s just what a woman is. She thinks she knows what’s good for a man, and she’s going to see he gets it; and no matter if he’s starving, he may sit and whistle for what he needs, while she’s got him, and is giving him what’s good for him.


And what are you doing?


I’m thinking what tune I shall whistle,


You think I want to give you what’s good for you?


I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom, not of prison. Miriam made me feel tied up like a donkey to a stake. I must feed on her patch, and nowhere else. It’s sickening!


And would you let a woman do as she likes?


Yes; I’ll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn’t—well, I don’t hold her.


If you were as wonderful as you say—,


I should be the marvel I am. Love’s a dog in a manger,


And which of us is the dog?


Oh well, you, of course.


But we walk side by side, and yet I’m in London arguing with an imaginary Orpen; and where are you? Who was that?


It was Baxter,


He looks shady,


His true commonness comes out,


Do you hate him?


You talk, about the cruelty of women; I wish you knew the cruelty of men in their brute force. They simply don’t know that the woman exists.


Don’t I?


No,


Don’t I know you exist?


About me you know nothing, about me!


No more than Baxter knew?


Perhaps not as much.


But you know me pretty well. Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?


He wouldn’t let me,


And I have let you know me?


It’s what men won’t let you do. They won’t let you get really near to them,


And haven’t I let you?


Yes, but you’ve never come near to me. You can’t come out of yourself, you can’t. Baxter could do that better than you.


You begin to value Baxter now you’ve not got him,


No; I can only see where he was different from you. Do you think it’s worth it—the—the sex part?


The act of loving, itself?


Yes; is it worth anything to you?


But how can you separate it? It’s the culmination of everything. All our intimacy culminates then.


Not for me. I feel, as if I hadn’t got you, as if all of you weren’t there, and as if it weren’t me you were taking—


Who, then?


Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that I daren’t think of it. But is it me you want, or is it It? When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I did feel as if I had all of him,


And it was better?


Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don’t say you haven’t given me more than he ever gave me.


Or could give you.


Yes, perhaps; but you’ve never given me yourself.


If I start to make love to you. I just go like a leaf down the wind.


And leave me out of count,


And then is it nothing to you?


It’s something; and sometimes you have carried me away—right away—I know—and—I reverence you for it—but—


Don’t ‘but’ me,


Good-evening!


Paul Morel?


I’ve got yer, have I?


I shall miss my train,


You’re going to get it from me now,


Are yer goin’ to take that top-coat off,


or are you goin’ to lie down to it?


But. I don’t know how to fight.


All right, then,


I mustn’t lie here, it’s silly. I said I was going to get up. Why don’t I?


It’s not much, mother. It was Baxter Dawes.


Tell me where it hurts you,


I don’t know—my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother.


Your mother’s nearly frightened me out of my wits—fainted away,


And now I should have done with them all,


I will, mother.


And don’t think about it, only try to go to sleep. The doctor won’t be here till eleven.


She makes me tired, mother.


Yes; I wish she wouldn’t come,


You know, I don’t care about them, mother,


I’m afraid you don’t, my son,


Is my mother ill?


Yes; she’s not very well. Don’t upset her.


Is she in bed?


Yes.


Mother!


I thought you were never coming,


Mother—mother—mother!


Don’t cry,


And you won’t be any worse, mother?


No, my son.


You promise me?


Yes; I won’t be any worse.


You’ll see, she’ll never be better.


Oh, you don’t know!


I do,


Try and forget it, dear, try and forget it.


I will,


Don’t think of it, Paul! Don’t think of it, my darling!


My father’s come,


Has he?


How dun I find thee, lass?


Well, I’m middlin’,


I see tha art,


Have you gone on all right?


Yis, ’Er’s a bit behint-hand now and again, as yer might expect.


Does she have your dinner ready?


Well, I’ve ’ad to shout at ’er once or twice,


And you must shout at her if she’s not ready. She will leave things to the last minute.


Annie. I saw a lizard dart on that rock!


By the way, 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!


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.


I said to him, ‘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?


He wouldn’t say anything—good, bad or indifferent,


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?


You might.


A visitor to see you, Jim Crow. Caw! He can only say ‘Caw!’ I have brought you a gentleman to see you. Now say ‘Thank you,’ and show some manners.


Dr. Ansell told me you were here. So I thought I’d come in,


Say ‘Caw!’ Say ‘Caw!’ Jim Crow.


He is getting on all right?


Oh yes! He lies and imagines he’s going to die, and it frightens every word out of his mouth.


And you must have somebody to talk to,


That’s it! 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!


Isn’t it?


I suppose I am a godsend,


Oh, dropped straight from heaven!


Have you had a bad time?


What are you doing in Sheffield?


My mother was taken ill at my sister’s in Thurston Street. What are you doing here?


I couldn’t say for sure,


Dr. Ansell told me you were here. Typhoid’s pretty bad, I know,


What did you come for?


Because Dr. Ansell said you didn’t know anybody here. Do you?


I know nobody nowhere,


it’s because you don’t choose to, then. We s’ll be taking my mother home as soon as we can,


What’s a-matter with her?


She’s got a cancer. But we want to get her home. We s’ll have to get a motor-car.


Why don’t you ask Thomas Jordan to lend you his?


It’s not big enough,


Then ask Jack Pilkington; he’d lend it you. You know him.


I think I s’ll hire one,


You’re a fool if you do,


Did you get a job here?


I was only here a day or two before I was taken bad,


You want to get in a convalescent home,


I’m goin’ in no convalescent home,


My father’s been in the one at Seathorpe, an’ he liked it. Dr. Ansell would get you a recommend. The seaside would be all right just now. Sun on those sandhills, and the waves not far out. By Gad! it’s all right when you know you’re going to walk again, and swim!


Is she far gone?


She’s going like wax. Well, I’ll be going. I’ll leave you this half-crown.


I don’t want it,


Well. 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,


He’s all right. Should I tell him to come? He might bring you some papers to look at. Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?


No,


He’s getting better. I went to see him yesterday—the doctor told me.


Is he very bad?


He has been. He’s mending now. What did he say to you? Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking. Won’t you be nice with me? What’s the matter?


Don’t!


Is it Baxter that upsets you?


I have been vile to him!


I’ve said many a time you haven’t treated him well,


I’ve treated him—no, I’ve treated him badly. And now you treat me badly. It serves me right.


How do I treat you badly?


It serves me right. 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!


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 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,


Did you sleep, my dear?


Yes,


Not very well?


Well, yes!


Has it been bad?


No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention.


It’s a sunny day,


It’s a beautiful day.


Do you think you’ll be carried down?


I shall see.


Didn’t you get up, pigeon?


No,


I think he gives you too much,


I think he does,


Doesn’t it tickle you?


It does,


You want your hair doing in a plait. Lie still.


I try to think of the nice times—when we went to Mablethorpe, and Robin Hood’s Bay, and Shanklin. After all, not everybody has seen those beautiful places. And wasn’t it beautiful! I try to think of that, not of the other things.


Take me!


I’d nearly forgotten,


I’d thought quite,


No. Shall we go to the seaside for the week-end?


What is it dear?


Nothing! Don’t those windmill sails look monotonous? She will never give in,


There are different ways of dying. My father’s people are frightened, and have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into a slaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother’s people are pushed from behind, inch by inch. They are stubborn people, and won’t die.


Yes,


And she won’t die. She can’t. Mr. Renshaw, the parson, was in the other day. ‘Think!’ he said to her; ‘you will have your mother and father, and your sisters, and your son, in the Other Land.’ And she said: ‘I have done without them for a long time, and can do without them now. It is the living I want, not the dead.’ She wants to live even now.


Oh, how horrible!


And she looks at me, and she wants to stay with me. She’s got such a will, it seems as if she would never go—never!


Don’t think of it!


And she was religious—she is religious now—but it is no good. She simply won’t give in. And do you know, I said to her on Thursday: ‘Mother, if I had to die, I’d die. I’d will to die.’ And she said to me, sharp: ‘Do you think I haven’t? Do you think you can die when you like?’ And I don’t want her to eat, and she knows it. When I ask her: ‘Shall you have anything’ she’s almost afraid to say ‘Yes.’ ‘I’ll have a cup of Benger’s,’ she says. ‘It’ll only keep your strength up,’ I said to her. ‘Yes’—and she almost cried—‘but there’s such a gnawing when I eat nothing, I can’t bear it.’ So I went and made her the food. It’s the cancer that gnaws like that at her. I wish she’d die!


Come! I’m going.


You shouldn’t get up. I wanted to come. Here! I brought you some sweets. Hardly any different. I was at Skegness. I wanted a change. I went with Clara,


I knew as much,


It was an old promise,


You have it your own way,


Nay, she’s tired of me. Since August she’s been getting tired of me. I s’ll go abroad when my mother’s dead,


Abroad!


Yes; I don’t care what I do. I s’ll have to begin a new start of some sort, and you as well, I suppose. I dunno where. Things have to happen. It’s no good doing anything—at least—no, I don’t know. Give me some toffee.


What made that scar on your mouth?


I had a bicycle accident,


You shouldn’t ha’ laughed at me. When? That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me—you with your hand on her shoulder.


I never laughed at you. I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed,


It was that as did me,


I never laughed, except as I’m always laughing.


When she’s dead, that fire will go out.


Paul! How late you are!


Not very,


Why, what time is it?


It’s only just gone eleven.


Oh! I thought it was later.


Can’t you sleep, my pigeon?


No, I can’t,


Never mind, Little! Never mind, my love. I’ll stop with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better.


Now go to bed,


Will you sleep?


Yes, I think so.


You feel better, my Little, don’t you?


Yes,


How is she?


The same—the same! The doctor says she can’t last, but I know she will. She’ll be here at Christmas.


Shall I give you some milk?


A little,


You slept a bit later this morning, little one,


Did I?


Yes; it’s nearly eight o’clock.


Can’t you give her something to put an end to it?


She can’t last many days now, Mr. Morel,


I can’t bear it much longer; we shall all go mad. Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie,


Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?


Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel,


But I’ll bet they are sore. But, at any rate, there’ll be something to buy in with this week. Your father’s pit things will want well airing, Annie,


She’ll live over Christmas,


She won’t. I s’ll give her morphia.


Which?


All that came from Sheffield,


Ay—do!


Don’t walk about, Paul.


No, my dear,


What are you doing?


I s’ll put ’em in her night milk.


Oh, it is bitter, Paul!


It’s a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you. He thought it would leave you in such a state in the morning.


And I hope it won’t. But it is horrid!


I know—I tasted it. But I’ll give you some clean milk afterwards.


I think so,


Has she had it?


Yes—and she said it was bitter.


Oh!


And I told her it was a new draught. Where’s that milk?


I wonder why nurse didn’t come to settle me down?


She said she was going to a concert, my love,


Did she? Annie, that draught was horrid!


Was it, my love? Well, never mind. Let us settle you down. Perhaps nurse will be so late.


Ay, try.


There. There!—now you’ll sleep.


Yes. I didn’t think you could do the bed so nicely,


You’ll sleep, my love,


Yes. Good-night.


Shall we sit up?


I s’ll lie with her as I always do. She might wake up.


All right. And call me if you see any difference.


Yes. Paul, Paul!


Yes?


Come and look at her.


She’s going!


Yes,


How long has she been like it?


I only just woke up. Isn’t it awful!


She may last like this. You go to my bed. I’ll sit up.


No,


I’ll stop with you.


I’d rather you didn’t,


Hush!


Had I better stop a-whoam?


No. No. Go to work. Go to work. She’ll last through to-morrow.


I don’t think so.


Yes.


Am I to go?


Just the same,


Isn’t it awful! Doesn’t she look awful! If she looks like that!


Drink some tea,


How is she?


Nurse, she’ll last like this for days?


She can’t, Mr. Morel. She can’t. Isn’t it dreadful! Who would have thought she could stand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down.


Paul—Paul—she’s gone!


My love—my love—oh, my love! My love—oh, my love!


She’s better, Mr. Morel, she’s better.


Ay—poor thing! Well, call at the surgery about six for the certificate.


You noticed the blinds were down?


No,


Why—has she gone?


When wor that?


About twelve this morning.


H’m!


Have you seen her?


Mother, mother!


I thought tha wor niver comin’, lad.


I didn’t think you’d sit up. I forgot you’d be alone, father,


Dost want owt to eat?


No.


Sithee—I made thee a drop o’ hot milk. Get it down thee; it’s cold enough for owt.


My dear! My dear!


Yes,


And don’t you think she looks nice?


Yes.


I have been dreaming of thy mother,


Have you, father? When I dream of her it’s always just as she was when she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural, as if nothing had altered.


You know Clara’s coming down for the day to-morrow?


Yes. Yes, you told me,


I told the landlady your wife was coming,


Did you? Let me fill you up,


You sit still,


Say when,


Thanks! But you’ve no business to get up.


It does me good, lad. I begin to think I’m right again, then.


You are about right, you know.


I am, certainly I am,


And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield. It’s funny, starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess than you.


In what way, lad?


I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s as if I was in a tangled sort of hole, rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere.


I know—I understand it. But you’ll find it’ll come all right.


I suppose so,


You’ve not done for yourself like I have,


How old are you?


Thirty-nine,


You’ll just be in your prime. You don’t look as if much life had gone out of you.


It hasn’t. The go is there.


We’ve both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly,


Yes, begod!


And I don’t see, why you shouldn’t go on where you left off.


What—


Yes—fit your old home together again.


Couldn’t be done,


Why? Because you don’t want?


Perhaps.


You mean you don’t want her?


I hardly know,


I believe she wants you,


Do you?


Yes. She never really hitched on to me—you were always there in the background. That’s why she wouldn’t get a divorce. That’s how women are with me. They want me like mad, but they don’t want to belong to me. And she belonged to you all the time. I knew.


Perhaps I was a fool,


You were a big fool,


But perhaps even then you were a bigger fool,


Do you think so? At any rate, I’m clearing out to-morrow,


I see,


Aren’t you getting cold?


I was lookin’ at these legs,


What’s up with ’em? They look all right,


They look all right. But there’s some water in ’em yet.


And what about it?


Come and look. Look here. Look at the water under here.


Where? It’s nothing,


You feel,


H’m!


Rotten, isn’t it?


Why? It’s nothing much.


You’re not much of a man with water in your legs.


I can’t see as it makes any difference. I’ve got a weak chest.


I suppose the rest of me’s all right,


You ought to look better than this,


Oh, I’m all right now.


Shall we go to the lodging straight off, or somewhere else?


We may as well go home,


Sit down, Jack,


I don’t want that chair,


Sit down!


I should think you’re cold. Come nearer to the fire.


Thank you, I’m quite warm. When are you going back?


Well, the rooms are taken until to-morrow, so he wants me to stop. He’s going back to-night.


And then you’re thinking of going to Sheffield?


Yes.


Are you fit to start work?


I’m going to start.


You’ve really got a place?


Yes—begin on Monday.


You don’t look fit. Why don’t I? And have you got lodgings in Sheffield?


And can you manage all right?


I s’d think so. I s’ll have to!


I shall go by the four-twenty. I wish you’d take your boots off. There’s a pair of slippers of mine.


Thank you,


Are you coming then or later?


I don’t know,


I’m meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen,


Then,