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

shivering slightly. His door was an inch open. As Clara came upstairs, he would intercept her. He waited. All was dead silence. The clock struck two. Then he heard a slight scrape of the fender downstairs. Now he could not help himself. His shivering was uncontrollable. He felt he must go or die.

He stepped off the bed, and stood a moment, shuddering. Then he went straight to the door. He tried to step lightly. The first stair cracked like a shot. He listened. The old woman stirred in her bed. The staircase was dark. There was a slit of light under the stair-foot door, which opened into the kitchen. He stood a moment. Then he went on, mechanically. Every step creaked, and his back was creeping, lest the old woman’s door should open behind him up above. He fumbled with the door at the bottom. The latch opened with a loud clack. He went through into the kitchen, and shut the door noisily behind him. The old woman daren’t come now.

Then he stood, arrested. Clara was kneeling on a pile of white underclothing on the hearthrug, her back towards him, warming herself. She did not look round, but sat crouching on her heels, and her rounded beautiful back was towards him, and her face was hidden. She was warming her body at the fire for consolation. The glow was rosy on one side, the shadow was dark and warm on the other. Her arms hung slack.

He shuddered violently, clenching his teeth and fists hard to keep control. Then he went forward to her. He put one hand on her shoulder, the fingers of the other hand under her chin to raise her face. A convulsed shiver ran through her, once, twice, at his touch. She kept her head bent.

“Sorry!” he murmured, realising that his hands were very cold.

Then she looked up at him, frightened, like a thing that is afraid of death.

“My hands are so cold,” he murmured.

“I like it,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

The breath of her words were on his mouth. Her arms clasped his knees. The cord of his sleeping-suit dangled against her and made her shiver. As the warmth went into him, his shuddering became less.

At length, unable to stand so any more, he raised her, and she buried her head on his shoulder. His hands went over her slowly with an infinite tenderness of caress. She clung close to him, trying to hide herself against him. He clasped her very fast. Then at last she looked at him, mute, imploring, looking to see if she must be ashamed.

His eyes were dark, very deep, and very quiet. It was as if her beauty and his taking it hurt him, made him sorrowful. He looked at her with a little pain, and was afraid. He was so humble before her. She kissed him fervently on the eyes, first one, then the other, and she folded herself to him. She gave herself. He held her fast. It was a moment intense almost to agony.

She stood letting him adore her and tremble with joy of her. It healed her hurt pride. It healed her; it made her glad. It made her feel erect and proud again. Her pride had been wounded inside her. She had been cheapened. Now she radiated with joy and pride again. It was her restoration and her recognition.

Then he looked at her, his face radiant. They laughed to each other, and he strained her to his chest. The seconds ticked off, the minutes passed, and still the two stood clasped rigid together, mouth to mouth, like a statue in one block.

But again his fingers went seeking over her, restless, wandering, dissatisfied. The hot blood came up wave upon wave. She laid her head on his shoulder.

“Come you to my room,” he murmured.

She looked at him and shook her head, her mouth pouting disconsolately, her eyes heavy with passion. He watched her fixedly.

“Yes!” he said.

Again she shook her head.

“Why not?” he asked.

She looked at him still heavily, sorrowfully, and again she shook her head. His eyes hardened, and he gave way.

When, later on, he was back in bed, he wondered why she had refused to come to him openly, so that her mother would know. At any rate, then things would have been definite. And she could have stayed with him the night, without having to go, as she was, to her mother’s bed. It was strange, and he could not understand it. And then almost immediately he fell asleep.

He awoke in the morning with someone speaking to him. Opening his eyes, he saw Mrs. Radford, big and stately, looking down on him. She held a cup of tea in her hand.

“Do you think you’re going to sleep till Doomsday?” she said.

He laughed at once.

“It ought only to be about five o’clock,” he said.

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

He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, and roused himself.

“What’s it so late for!” he grumbled.

He resented being wakened. It amused her. She saw his neck in the flannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl’s. He rubbed his hair crossly.

“It’s no good your scratching your head,” she said. “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!” he said.

“You should go to bed earlier,” said the woman.

He looked up at her, laughing with impudence.

“I went to bed before you did,” he said.

“Yes, my Guyney, you did!” she exclaimed.

“Fancy,” he said, stirring his tea, “having tea brought to bed to me! My mother’ll think I’m ruined for life.”

“Don’t she never do it?” asked Mrs. Radford.

“She’d as leave think of flying.”

“Ah, I always spoilt my lot! That’s why they’ve turned out such bad uns,” said the elderly woman.

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

“I’m not bad;