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

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 fists twisted in the scarf and his knuckles dug in the throat of the other man. He was a pure instinct, without reason or feeling. His body, hard and wonderful in itself, cleaved against the struggling body of the other man; not a muscle in him relaxed. He was quite unconscious, only his body had taken upon itself to kill this other man. For himself, he had neither feeling nor reason. He lay pressed hard against his adversary, his body adjusting itself to its one pure purpose of choking the other man, resisting exactly at the right moment, with exactly the right amount of strength, the struggles of the other, silent, intent, unchanging, gradually pressing its knuckles deeper, feeling the struggles of the other body become wilder and more frenzied. Tighter and tighter grew his 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 they were knotted, and he was flung away, helpless. He heard the horrid sound 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 prostrate body of his rival. Suddenly the whistle of the train shrieked two 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 the field into Nottingham, and dimly in his consciousness as he went, he felt on his foot the place where his boot had knocked against one of the lad’s bones. The knock seemed to reecho inside him; he hurried to get away from it.

Morel gradually came to himself. He knew where he was and what had happened, but he did not want to move. He lay still, with tiny bits of snow tickling his face. It was pleasant to lie quite, quite still. The time passed. It was the bits of 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 pulled himself together to stir; then gradually he got up. Pain made him sick and dazed, but his brain was clear. Reeling, he groped for his 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 his face was still bleeding. Walking blindly, every step making him sick with 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 his mother⁠—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 was discoloured 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—they were 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 told her 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 bronchitis set in. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She would sit and look at him, then away into space. There was something between 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 stranger to 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 constant sickness and gnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, as it were, nobody there. He could not work. He and his mother seemed almost to avoid each other. There was some secret between them which they could not bear. He was not aware of it. He only knew that his life seemed unbalanced, as if it were going to smash into pieces.

Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised that he seemed unaware of her. Even when he came to