Sons and Lovers, D. H. Lawrence [best fiction books to read TXT] 📗

a lady, even rather stiff. The young woman was very nervous. She had almost a wistful look, almost resigned.

“Mother⁠—Clara,” said Paul.

Mrs. Morel held out her hand and smiled.

“He has told me a good deal about you,” she said.

The blood flamed in Clara’s cheek.

“I hope you don’t mind my coming,” she faltered.

“I was pleased when he said he would bring you,” replied Mrs. Morel.

Paul, watching, felt his heart contract with pain. His mother looked so small, and sallow, and done-for beside the luxuriant Clara.

“It’s such a pretty day, mother!” he said. “And we saw a jay.”

His mother looked at him; he had turned to her. She thought what a man he seemed, in his dark, well-made clothes. He was pale and detached-looking; it would be hard for any woman to keep him. Her heart glowed; then she was sorry for Clara.

“Perhaps you’ll leave your things in the parlour,” said Mrs. Morel nicely to the young woman.

“Oh, thank you,” she replied.

“Come on,” said Paul, and he led the way into the little front room, with its old piano, its mahogany furniture, its yellowing marble mantelpiece. A fire was burning; the place was littered with books and drawing-boards. “I leave my things lying about,” he said. “It’s so much easier.”

She loved his artist’s paraphernalia, and the books, and the photos of people. Soon he was telling her: this was William, this was William’s young lady in the evening dress, this was Annie and her husband, this was Arthur and his wife and the baby. She felt as if she were being taken into the family. He showed her photos, books, sketches, and they talked a little while. Then they returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Morel put aside her book. Clara wore a blouse of fine silk chiffon, with narrow black-and-white stripes; her hair was done simply, coiled on top of her head. She looked rather stately and reserved.

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

“Oh, did you!” said Clara. “I have a friend in number 6.”

And the conversation had started. They talked Nottingham and Nottingham people; it interested them both. Clara was still rather nervous; Mrs. Morel was still somewhat on her dignity. She clipped her language very clear and precise. But they were going to get on well together, Paul saw.

Mrs. Morel measured herself against the younger woman, and found herself easily stronger. Clara was deferential. She knew Paul’s surprising regard for his mother, and she had dreaded the meeting, expecting someone rather hard and cold. She was surprised to find this little interested woman chatting with such readiness; and then she felt, as she felt with Paul, that she would not care to stand in Mrs. Morel’s way. There was something so hard and certain in his mother, as if she never had a misgiving in her life.

Presently Morel came down, ruffled and yawning, from his afternoon sleep. He scratched his grizzled head, he plodded in his stocking feet, his waistcoat hung open over his shirt. He seemed incongruous.

“This is Mrs. Dawes, father,” said Paul.

Then Morel pulled himself together. Clara saw Paul’s manner of bowing and shaking hands.

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Morel. “I am very glad to see you⁠—I am, I assure you. But don’t disturb yourself. No, no make yourself quite comfortable, and be very welcome.”

Clara was astonished at this flood of hospitality from the old collier. He was so courteous, so gallant! She thought him most delightful.

“And may you have come far?” he asked.

“Only from Nottingham,” she said.

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

Then he strayed into the scullery to wash his hands and face, and from force of habit came on to the hearth with the towel to dry himself.

At tea Clara felt the refinement and sangfroid of the household. Mrs. Morel was perfectly at her ease. The pouring out the tea and attending to the people went on unconsciously, without interrupting her in her talk. There was a lot of room at the oval table; the china of dark blue willow-pattern looked pretty on the glossy cloth. There was a little bowl of small, yellow chrysanthemums. Clara felt she completed the circle, and it was a pleasure to her. But she was rather afraid of the self-possession of the Morels, father and all. She took their tone; there was a feeling of balance. It was a cool, clear atmosphere, where everyone was himself, and in harmony. Clara enjoyed it, but there was a fear deep at the bottom of her.

Paul cleared the table whilst his mother and Clara talked. Clara was conscious of his quick, vigorous body as it came and went, seeming blown quickly by a wind at its work. It was almost like the hither and thither of a leaf that comes unexpected. Most of herself went with him. By the way she leaned forward, as if listening, Mrs. Morel could see she was possessed elsewhere as she talked, and again the elder woman was sorry for her.

Having finished, he strolled down the garden, leaving the two women to talk. It was a hazy, sunny afternoon, mild and soft. Clara glanced through the window after him as he loitered among the chrysanthemums. She felt as if something almost tangible fastened her to him; yet he seemed so easy in his graceful, indolent movement, so detached as he tied up the too-heavy flower branches to their stakes, that she wanted to shriek in her helplessness.

Mrs. Morel rose.

“You will let me help you wash up,” said Clara.

“Eh, there are so few, it will only take a minute,” said the other.

Clara, however, dried the tea-things, and was glad to be on such good terms with his mother; but it was torture not to be able to follow him down the garden. At last she allowed herself to go; she felt as if a rope were taken off her ankle.

The afternoon was golden over the hills of Derbyshire. He stood across in the other garden, beside a