CHAPTER XIII

　　It was true as he said. As a rule, when he started love-making,the emotion was strong enough to carry with it everything--reason, soul,blood--in a great sweep, like the Trent carries bodily its back-swirlsand intertwinings, noiselessly. Gradually the little criticisms,the little sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything bornealong in one flood. He became, not a man with a mind, but agreat instinct. His hands were like creatures, living; his limbs,his body, were all life and consciousness, subject to no will of his,but living in themselves. Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous,wintry stars were strong also with life. He and they struck withthe same pulse of fire, and the same joy of strength which heldthe bracken-frond stiff near his eyes held his own body firm. It was as if he, and the stars, and the dark herbage, and Clarawere licked up in an immense tongue of flame, which tore onwardsand upwards. Everything rushed along in living beside him;everything was still, perfect in itself, along with him. This wonderful stillness in each thing in itself, while it was beingborne along in a very ecstasy of living, seemed the highest pointof bliss.

　　And Clara knew this held him to her, so she trusted altogetherto the passion. It, however, failed her very often. They didnot often reach again the height of that once when the peewitshad called. Gradually, some mechanical effort spoilt their loving,or, when they had splendid moments, they had them separately,and not so satisfactorily. So often he seemed merely to be runningon alone; often they realised it had been a failure, not what theyhad wanted. He left her, knowing THAT evening had only madea little split between them. Their loving grew more mechanical,without the marvellous glamour. Gradually they began to introducenovelties, to get back some of the feeling of satisfaction. They would be very near, almost dangerously near to the river,so that the black water ran not far from his face, and it gavea little thrill; or they loved sometimes in a little hollow belowthe fence of the path where people were passing occasionally,on the edge of the town, and they heard footsteps coming, almost feltthe vibration of the tread, and they heard what the passersbysaid--strange little things that were never intended to be heard. And afterwards each of them was rather ashamed, and these thingscaused a distance between the two of them. He began to despise hera little, as if she had merited it!

　　One night he left her to go to Daybrook Station over the fields. It was very dark, with an attempt at snow, although the springwas so far advanced. Morel had not much time; he plunged forward. The town ceases almost abruptly on the edge of a steep hollow; there thehouses with their yellow lights stand up against the darkness. He wentover the stile, and dropped quickly into the hollow of the fields. Under the orchard one warm window shone in Swineshead Farm. Paul glanced round. Behind, the houses stood on the brim of the dip,black against the sky, like wild beasts glaring curiously withyellow eyes down into the darkness. It was the town that seemedsavage and uncouth, glaring on the clouds at the back of him. Some creature stirred under the willows of the farm pond. It was toodark to distinguish anything.

　　He was close up to the next stile before he saw a dark shapeleaning against it. The man moved aside.

　　"Good-evening!" he said.

　　"Good-evening!" Morel answered, not noticing.

　　"Paul Morel?" said the man.

　　Then he knew it was Dawes. The man stopped his way.

　　"I've got yer, have I?" he said awkwardly.

　　"I shall miss my train," said Paul.

　　He could see nothing of Dawes's face. The man's teeth seemedto chatter as he talked.

　　"You're going to get it from me now," said Dawes.

　　Morel attempted to move forward; the other man stepped in frontof him.

　　"Are yer goin' to take that top-coat off," he said, "or areyou goin' to lie down to it?"

　　Paul was afraid the man was mad.

　　"But," he said, "I don't know how to fight."

　　"All right, then," answered Dawes, and before the younger manknew where he was, he was staggering backwards from a blow acrossthe face.

　　The whole night went black. He tore off his overcoat and coat,dodging a blow, and flung the garments over Dawes. The latterswore savagely. Morel, in his shirt-sleeves, was now alert andfurious. He felt his whole body unsheath itself like a claw. He could not fight, so he would use his wits. The other man becamemore distinct to him; he could see particularly the shirt-breast.Dawes stumbled over Paul's coats, then came rushing forward. The young man's mouth was bleeding. It was the other man's mouth he was dying to get at, and the desire was anguish in its strength. He stepped quickly through the stile, and as Dawes was coming throughafter him, like a flash he got a blow in over the other's mouth. He shivered with pleasure. Dawes advanced slowly, spitting. Paulwas afraid; he moved round to get to the stile again. Suddenly, fromout of nowhere, came a great blow against his ear, that sent himfalling helpless backwards. He heard Dawes's heavy panting,like a wild beast's, then came a kick on the knee, giving himsuch agony that he got up and, quite blind, leapt clean under hisenemy's guard. He felt blows and kicks, but they did not hurt. He hung on to the bigger man like a wild cat, till at last Dawes fellwith a crash, losing his presence of mind. Paul went down with him. Pure instinct brought his hands to the man's neck, and before Dawes,in frenzy and agony, could wrench him free, he had got his fiststwisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug in the throat of theother man. He was a pure instinct, without reason or feeling. His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against thestruggling body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He was quite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to killthis other man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He lay pressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itselfto its one pure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactlyat the right moment, with exactly the right amount of strength,the struggles of the other, silent, intent, unchanging, graduallypressing its knuckles deeper, feeling the struggles of the otherbody become wilder and more frenzied. Tighter and tighter grewhis body, like a screw that is gradually increasing in pressure,till something breaks.

　　Then suddenly he relaxed, full of wonder and misgiving. Dawes had been yielding. Morel felt his body flame with pain,as he realised what he was doing; he was all bewildered. Dawes's struggles suddenly renewed themselves in a furious spasm. Paul's hands were wrenched, torn out of the scarf in which theywere knotted, and he was flung away, helpless. He heard the horridsound of the other's gasping, but he lay stunned; then, still dazed,he felt the blows of the other's feet, and lost consciousness.

　　Dawes, grunting with pain like a beast, was kicking the prostratebody of his rival. Suddenly the whistle of the train shriekedtwo fields away. He turned round and glared suspiciously. What was coming? He saw the lights of the train draw across his vision. It seemed to him people were approaching. He made off across thefield into Nottingham, and dimly in his consciousness as he went,he felt on his foot the place where his boot had knocked againstone of the lad's bones. The knock seemed to re-echo inside him;he hurried to get away from it.

　　Morel gradually came to himself. He knew where he was andwhat had happened, but he did not want to move. He lay still,with tiny bits of snow tickling his face. It was pleasantto lie quite, quite still. The time passed. It was the bitsof snow that kept rousing him when he did not want to be roused. At last his will clicked into action.

　　"I mustn't lie here," he said; "it's silly."

　　But still he did not move.

　　"I said I was going to get up," he repeated. "Why don't I?"

　　And still it was some time before he had sufficiently pulledhimself together to stir; then gradually he got up. Pain made himsick and dazed, but his brain was clear. Reeling, he groped forhis coats and got them on, buttoning his overcoat up to his ears. It was some time before he found his cap. He did not know whether hisface was still bleeding. Walking blindly, every step making him sickwith pain, he went back to the pond and washed his face and hands. The icy water hurt, but helped to bring him back to himself. He crawled back up the hill to the tram. He wanted to get to hismother--he must get to his mother--that was his blind intention. He covered his face as much as he could, and struggled sickly along. Continually the ground seemed to fall away from him as he walked,and he felt himself dropping with a sickening feeling into space; so,like a nightmare, he got through with the journey home.

　　Everybody was in bed. He looked at himself. His face wasdiscoloured and smeared with blood, almost like a dead man's face. He washed it, and went to bed. The night went by in delirium. In the morning he found his mother looking at him. Her blue eyes--theywere all he wanted to see. She was there; he was in her hands.

　　"It's not much, mother," he said. "It was Baxter Dawes."

　　"Tell me where it hurts you," she said quietly.

　　"I don't know--my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother."

　　He could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant,came upstairs with some tea.

　　"Your mother's nearly frightened me out of my wits--fainted away,"she said.

　　He felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he toldher about it.

　　"And now I should have done with them all," she said quietly.

　　"I will, mother."

　　She covered him up.

　　"And don't think about it," she said--"only try to go to sleep. The doctor won't be here till eleven."

　　He had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bronchitisset in. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She wouldsit and look at him, then away into space. There was somethingbetween them that neither dared mention. Clara came to see him. Afterwards he said to his mother:

　　"She makes me tired, mother."

　　"Yes; I wish she wouldn't come," Mrs. Morel replied.

　　Another day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a strangerto him.

　　"You know, I don't care about them, mother," he said.

　　"I'm afraid you don't, my son," she replied sadly.

　　It was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon he was able to go to work again, but now there was a constantsickness and gnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed,as it were, nobody there. He could not work. He and his motherseemed almost to avoid each other. There was some secret betweenthem which they could not bear. He was not aware of it. He onlyknew that his life seemed unbalanced, as if it were going to smashinto pieces.

　　Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised that he seemed unaware of her. Even when he cameto her he seemed unaware of her; always he was somewhere else. She felt she was clutching for him, and he was somewhere else. It tortured her, and so she tortured him. For a month at a timeshe kept him at arm's length. He almost hated her, and was drivento her in spite of himself. He went mostly into the company of men,was always at the George or the White Horse. His mother was ill,distant, quiet, shadowy. He was terrified of something; he darednot look at her. Her eyes seemed to grow darker, her face more waxen;still she dragged about at her work.

　　At Whitsuntide he said he would go to Blackpool for fourdays with his friend Newton. The latter was a big, jolly fellow,with a touch of the bounder about him. Paul said his mother must goto Sheffield to stay a week with Annie, who lived there. Perhaps thechange would do her good. Mrs. Morel was attending a woman's doctorin Nottingham. He said her heart and her digestion were wrong. She consented to go to Sheffield, though she did not want to;but now she would do everything her son wished of her. Paul saidhe would come for her on the fifth day, and stay also in Sheffieldtill the holiday was up. It was agreed.

　　The two young men set off gaily for Blackpool. Mrs. Morel wasquite lively as Paul kissed her and left her. Once at the station,he forgot everything. Four days were clear--not an anxiety,not a thought. The two young men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was like another man. None of himself remained--no Clara,no Miriam, no mother that fretted him. He wrote to them all,and long letters to his mother; but they were jolly letters thatmade her laugh. He was having a good time, as young fellows willin a place like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadowfor her.

　　Paul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with hismother in Sheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their train was late. Joking, laughing, with their pipes betweentheir teeth, the young men swung their bags on to the tram-car. Paulhad bought his mother a little collar of real lace that he wantedto see her wear, so that he could tease her about it.

　　Annie lived in a nice house, and had a little maid. Paul rangaily up the steps. He expected his mother laughing in the hall,but it was Annie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He stood a second in dismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek.

　　"Is my mother ill?" he said.

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

　　"Is she in bed?"

　　"Yes."

　　And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshinehad gone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bagand ran upstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mothersat up in bed, wearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked at him almost as if she were ashamed of herself,pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashy look about her.

　　"Mother!" he said.

　　"I thought you were never coming," she answered gaily.

　　But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buriedhis face in the bedclothes, crying in agony, and saying:

　　"Mother--mother--mother!"

　　She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand.

　　"Don't cry," she said. "Don't cry--it's nothing."

　　But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and hecried in terror and pain.

　　"Don't--don't cry," his mother faltered.

　　Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried,and the tears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped,but he dared not lift his face out of the bedclothes.

　　"You ARE late. Where have you been?" his mother asked.

　　"The train was late," he replied, muffled in the sheet.

　　"Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?"

　　"Yes."

　　"I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting."

　　With a wrench he looked up at her.

　　"What is it, mother?" he asked brutally.

　　She averted her eyes as she answered:

　　"Only a bit of a tumour, my boy. You needn't trouble. It's been there--the lump has--a long time."

　　Up came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard,but his body was crying.

　　"Where?" he said.

　　She put her hand on her side.

　　"Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away."

　　He stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thoughtperhaps it was as she said. Yes; he reassured himself it was so. But all the while his blood and his body knew definitely what it was. He sat down on the bed, and took her hand. She had never had but theone ring--her wedding-ring.

　　"When were you poorly?" he asked.

　　"It was yesterday it began," she answered submissively.

　　"Pains?"

　　"Yes; but not more than I've often had at home. I believeDr. Ansell is an alarmist."

　　"You ought not to have travelled alone," he said, to himselfmore than to her.

　　"As if that had anything to do with it!" she answered quickly.

　　They were silent for a while.

　　"Now go and have your dinner," she said. "You MUST be hungry."

　　"Have you had yours?"

　　"Yes; a beautiful sole I had. Annie IS good to me."

　　They talked a little while, then he went downstairs. He was very white and strained. Newton sat in miserable sympathy.

　　After dinner he went into the scullery to help Annie to wash up. The little maid had gone on an errand.

　　"Is it really a tumour?" he asked.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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