CHAPTER VIII

　　Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly.

　　"'Among other things,' 'Postle?" she repeated. "Do you meanlove laughs at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers,and men friends, and lady friends, and even at the b'loved himself?"

　　She affected a great innocence.

　　"In fact, it's one big smile," he replied.

　　"Up its sleeve, 'Postle Morel--you believe me," she said;and she went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter.

　　Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself. Every one of Paul'sfriends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left herin the lurch--seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then.

　　"Are you still at school?" asked Miriam of Beatrice.

　　"Yes."

　　"You've not had your notice, then?"

　　"I expect it at Easter."

　　"Isn't it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because youdidn't pass the exam.?"

　　"I don't know," said Beatrice coldly.

　　"Agatha says you're as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me ridiculous. I wonder why you didn't pass."

　　"Short of brains, eh, 'Postle?" said Beatrice briefly.

　　"Only brains to bite with," replied Paul, laughing.

　　"Nuisance!" she cried; and, springing from her seat,she rushed and boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while she wrestled with him. At last shebroke free, and seized two handfuls of his thick, dark brown hair,which she shook.

　　"Beat!" he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. "I hate you!"

　　She laughed with glee.

　　"Mind!" she said. "I want to sit next to you."

　　"I'd as lief be neighbours with a vixen," he said,nevertheless making place for her between him and Miriam.

　　"Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!" she cried; and, with herhair-comb, she combed him straight. "And his nice little moustache!"she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache. "It's a wicked moustache, 'Postle," she said. "It's a red for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?"

　　He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice lookedinside it.

　　"And fancy me having Connie's last cig.," said Beatrice,putting the thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her,and she puffed daintily.

　　"Thanks so much, darling," she said mockingly.

　　It gave her a wicked delight.

　　"Don't you think he does it nicely, Miriam?" she asked.

　　"Oh, very!" said Miriam.

　　He took a cigarette for himself.

　　"Light, old boy?" said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him.

　　He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winking at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes tremblingwith mischief, and his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she could not bear it. As he was now,she had no connection with him; she might as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his full red lips. She hated his thickhair for being tumbled loose on his forehead.

　　"Sweet boy!" said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and givinghim a little kiss on the cheek.

　　"I s'll kiss thee back, Beat," he said.

　　"Tha wunna!" she giggled, jumping up and going away. "Isn't he shameless, Miriam?"

　　"Quite," said Miriam. "By the way, aren't you forgettingthe bread?"

　　"By Jove!" he cried, flinging open the oven door.

　　Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.

　　"Oh, golly!" cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouchedbefore the oven, she peered over his shoulder. "This is what comesof the oblivion of love, my boy."

　　Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt blackon the hot side; another was hard as a brick.

　　"Poor mater!" said Paul.

　　"You want to grate it," said Beatrice. "Fetch me the nutmeg-grater."

　　She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater,and she grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing her cigarette, knocking the charcoal offthe poor loaf.

　　"My word, Miriam! you're in for it this time," said Beatrice.

　　"I!" exclaimed Miriam in amazement.

　　"You'd better be gone when his mother comes in. I know whyKing Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it! 'Postle would fix upa tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she'd have boxed thebrazen thing's ears who made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred's."

　　She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughedin spite of herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully.

　　The garden gate was heard to bang.

　　"Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it up in a damp towel."

　　Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastilyblew her scrapings into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light.

　　"Smell of burning!" she exclaimed.

　　"It's the cigarettes," replied Beatrice demurely.

　　"Where's Paul?"

　　Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic faceand blue eyes, very sad.

　　"I suppose he's left you to settle it between you," he said. He nodded sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcasticto Beatrice.

　　"No," said Beatrice, "he's gone off with number nine."

　　"I just met number five inquiring for him," said Leonard.

　　"Yes--we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby,"said Beatrice.

　　Annie laughed.

　　"Oh, ay," said Leonard. "And which bit should you have?"

　　"I don't know," said Beatrice. "I'll let all the otherspick first."

　　"An' you'd have the leavings, like?" said Leonard, twisting upa comic face.

　　Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.

　　"This bread's a fine sight, our Paul," said Annie.

　　"Then you should stop an' look after it," said Paul.

　　"You mean YOU should do what you're reckoning to do,"replied Annie.

　　"He should, shouldn't he!" cried Beatrice.

　　"I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand," said Leonard.

　　"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie.

　　"Yes--but I'd been in all week---"

　　"And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard kindly.

　　"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever," Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went outwith Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy.

　　"Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I don't think it will rain."

　　When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf,unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly.

　　"It's a mess!" he said.

　　"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it,after all--twopence, ha'penny."

　　"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll takeit to heart. However, it's no good bothering."

　　He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a littledistance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her forsome moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutablereason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his forehead. Why might she notpush it back for him, and remove the marks of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands. It lookedso firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,why not her?

　　Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almostwith terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and cametowards her.

　　"Half-past eight!" he said. "We'd better buck up. Where's your French?"

　　Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book.Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life,in her own French. He had found this was the only way to get herto do compositions. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. Hewould read it now; she felt as if her soul's history were goingto be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered.

　　"'Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille,'" he read. "'Il faisaitencore un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme,et puis, jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chansonvif et resonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presquetous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dansle cri des grives. Il est si clair---'"

　　Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still,trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraidof her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work,humbly writing above her words.

　　"Look," he said quietly, "the past participle conjugatedwith avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes."

　　She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free,fine curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot,shuddering. He saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips partedpiteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny,ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And he knew,before he could kiss her, he must drive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back again into his heart. He returned to her exercise.

　　Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the ovenin a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the wayhe crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to be somethingcruel in it, something cruel in the swift way he pitched the breadout of the tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentlein his movements she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was,she was hurt.

　　He returned and finished the exercise.

　　"You've done well this week," he said.

　　She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repayher entirely.

　　"You really do blossom out sometimes," he said. "You oughtto write poetry."

　　She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.

　　"I don't trust myself," she said.

　　"You should try!"

　　Again she shook her head.

　　"Shall we read, or is it too late?" he asked.

　　"It is late--but we can read just a little," she pleaded.

　　She was really getting now the food for her life duringthe next week. He made her copy Baudelaire's "Le Balcon". Then heread it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growingalmost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showinghis teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She couldnot understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole--nor Verlaine.

　　 "Behold her singing in the field Yon solitary highland lass."

　　That nourished her heart. So did "Fair Ines". And--

　　 "It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, And breathing holy quiet like a nun."

　　These were like herself. And there was he, saying in histhroat bitterly:

　　 "Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses."

　　The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven,arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion,the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathedup in the scullery.

　　"Mater needn't know till morning," he said. "It won't upsether so much then as at night."

　　Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and lettershe had received, saw what books were there. She took one that hadinterested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble to lock the door.

　　He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His motherwas seated in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hangingdown her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire,her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offendingloaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took offhis coat, and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtlyaside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found onthe table. Then---

　　"I forgot that bread, mother," he said.

　　There was no answer from either woman.

　　"Well," he said, "it's only twopence ha'penny. I can pay youfor that."

　　Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slidthem towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouthwas shut tightly.

　　"Yes," said Annie, "you don't know how badly my mother is!"

　　The girl sat staring glumly into the fire.

　　"Why is she badly?" asked Paul, in his overbearing way.

　　"Well!" said Annie. "She could scarcely get home."

　　He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill.

　　"WHY could you scarcely get home?" he asked her, still sharply. She would not answer.

　　"I found her as white as a sheet sitting here," said Annie,with a suggestion of tears in her voice.

　　"Well, WHY?" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyesdilating passionately.

　　"It was enough to upset anybody," said Mrs. Morel, "huggingthose parcels--meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains---"

　　"Well, why DID you hug them; you needn't have done."

　　"Then who would?"

　　"Let Annie fetch the meat."

　　"Yes, and I WOULD fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came."

　　"And what was the matter with you?" asked Paul of his mother.

　　"I suppose it's my heart," she replied. Certainly she lookedbluish round the mouth.

　　"And have you felt it before?"

　　"Yes--often enough."

　　"Then why haven't you told me?--and why haven't you seen a doctor?"

　　Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring.

　　"You'd never notice anything," said Annie. "You're too eagerto be off with Miriam."

　　"Oh, am I--and any worse than you with Leonard?"

　　"I was in at a quarter to ten."

　　There was silence in the room for a time.

　　"I should have thought," said Mrs. Morel bitterly, "that shewouldn't have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenfulof bread."

　　"Beatrice was here as well as she."

　　"Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt."

　　"Why?" he flashed.

　　"Because you were engrossed with Miriam," replied Mrs. Morel hotly.

　　"Oh, very well--then it was NOT!" he replied angrily.

　　He was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he beganto read. Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twistedinto a plait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night.

　　Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wantedto upbraid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill,for he was troubled. So, instead of running away to bed, as he wouldhave liked to do, he sat and waited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly.

　　"You'd better go to bed before your father comes in," said themother harshly. "And if you're going to have anything to eat,you'd better get it."

　　"I don't want anything."

　　It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle forsupper on Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her.

　　"If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imaginethe scene," said Mrs. Morel. "But you're never too tired to goif SHE will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then."

　　"I can't let her go alone."

　　"Can't you? And why does she come?"

　　"Not because I ask her."

　　"She doesn't come without you want her---"

　　"Well, what if I DO want her---" he replied.

　　"Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to gotrapseing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight,and got to go to Nottingham in the morning---"

　　"If I hadn't, you'd be just the same."

　　"Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face,stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateenof her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see.

　　"I do like her," he said, "but---"

　　"LIKE her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seemsto me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie,nor me, nor anyone now for you."

　　"What nonsense, mother--you know I don't love her--I--I tellyou I DON'T love her--she doesn't even walk with my arm, because Idon't want her to."

　　"Then why do you fly to her so often?"

　　"I DO like to talk to her--I never said I didn't. But I DON'Tlove her."

　　"Is there nobody else to talk to?"

　　"Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of thingsthat you're not interested in, that---"

　　"What things?"

　　Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.

　　"Why--painting--and books. YOU don't care about Herbert Spencer."

　　"No," was the sad reply. "And YOU won't at my age."

　　"Well, but I do now--and Miriam does---"

　　"And how do you know," Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, "that Ishouldn't. Do you ever try me!"

　　"But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whethera picture's decorative or not; you don't care what MANNER it is in."

　　"How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do youever talk to me about these things, to try?"

　　"But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you knowt's not."

　　"What is it, then--what is it, then, that matters to me?"she flashed. He knitted his brows with pain.

　　"You're old, mother, and we're young."

　　He only meant that the interests of HER age were not theinterests of his. But he realised the moment he had spokenthat he had said the wrong thing.

　　"Yes, I know it well--I am old. And therefore I may stand aside;I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait onyou--the rest is for Miriam."

　　He could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that hewas life to her. And, after all, she was the chief thing to him,the only supreme thing.

　　"You know it isn't, mother, you know it isn't!"

　　She was moved to pity by his cry.

　　"It looks a great deal like it," she said, half putting asideher despair.

　　"No, mother--I really DON'T love her. I talk to her, but Iwant to come home to you."

　　He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated,to go to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw herarms round his neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried,in a whimpering voice, so unlike her own that he writhed in agony:

　　"I can't bear it. I could let another woman--but not her. She'd leave me no room, not a bit of room---"

　　And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly.

　　"And I've never--you know, Paul--I've never had a husband--not really---"

　　He stroked his mother's hair, and his mouth was on her throat.

　　"And she exults so in taking you from me--she's not likeordinary girls."

　　"Well, I don't love her, mother," he murmured, bowing his headand hiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissedhim a long, fervent kiss.

　　"My boy!" she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love.

　　Without knowing, he gently stroked her face.

　　"There," said his mother, "now go to bed. You'll be so tiredin the morning." As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. "There's your father--now go." Suddenly she looked at him almostas if in fear. "Perhaps I'm selfish. If you want her, take her,my boy."

　　His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling.

　　"Ha--mother!" he said softly.

　　Morel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one cornerof his eye. He balanced in the doorway.

　　"At your mischief again?" he said venomously.

　　Mrs. Morel's emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkardwho had come in thus upon her.

　　"At any rate, it is sober," she said.

　　"H'm--h'm! h'm--h'm!" he sneered. He went into the passage,hung up his hat and coat. Then they heard him go down three stepsto the pantry. He returned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morel had bought for her son.

　　"Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more thantwenty-five shillings, I'm sure I'm not going to buy you pork-pieto stuff, after you've swilled a bellyful of beer."

　　"Wha-at--wha-at!" snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. "Wha-at--not for me?" He looked at the piece of meat and crust,and suddenly, in a vicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire.

　　Paul started to his feet.

　　"Waste your own stuff!" he cried.

　　"What--what!" suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clenchinghis fist. "I'll show yer, yer young jockey!"

　　"All right!" said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. "Show me!"

　　He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smackat something. Morel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. The young man stood, smiling with his lips.

　　"Ussha!" hissed the father, swiping round with a great strokejust past his son's face. He dared not, even though so close,really touch the young man, but swerved an inch away.

　　"Right!" said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father'smouth, where in another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke. But he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale and dark at the mouth. Morel wasdancing up to deliver another blow.

　　"Father!" said Paul, so that the word rang.

　　Morel started, and stood at attention.

　　"Mother!" moaned the boy. "Mother!"

　　She began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him,although she could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself. He laid her down on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky,which at last she could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he kneeled in front of her he did not cry, but the tears randown his face quickly. Morel, on the opposite side of the room,sat with his elbows on his knees glaring across.

　　"What's a-matter with 'er?" he asked.

　　"Faint!" replied Paul.

　　"H'm!"

　　The elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled offto bed. His last fight was fought in that home.

　　Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother's hand.

　　"Don't be poorly, mother--don't be poorly!" he said timeafter time.

　　"It's nothing, my boy," she murmured.

　　At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and rakedthe fire. Then he cleared the room, put everything straight,laid the things for breakfast, and brought his mother's candle.

　　"Can you go to bed, mother?"

　　"Yes, I'll come."

　　"Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him."

　　"No. I'll sleep in my own bed."

　　"Don't sleep with him, mother."

　　"I'll sleep in my own bed."

　　She rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her closelyupstairs, carrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close.

　　"Good-night, mother."

　　"Good-night!" she said.

　　He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery. And yet, somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he stillloved his mother best. It was the bitter peace of resignation.

　　The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day werea great humiliation to him.

　　Everybody tried to forget the scene.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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