Sons and Lovers D. H. Lawrence (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) 📖

I’m only soft,” she said, as she went out of the bedroom. “I’m only a fool, I am!”

Clara was very quiet at breakfast, but she had a sort of air of proprietorship over him that pleased him infinitely. Mrs. Radford was evidently fond of him. He began to talk of his painting.

“What’s the good,” exclaimed the mother, “of your whittling and worrying and twistin’ and too-in’ at that painting of yours? What good does it do you, I should like to know? You’d better be enjoyin’ yourself.”

“Oh, but,” exclaimed Paul, “I made over thirty guineas last year.”

“Did you! Well, that’s a consideration, but it’s nothing to the time you put in.”

“And I’ve got four pounds owing. A man said he’d give me five pounds if I’d paint him and his missis and the dog and the cottage. And I went and put the fowls in instead of the dog, and he was waxy, so I had to knock a quid off. I was sick of it, and I didn’t like the dog. I made a picture of it. What shall I do when he pays me the four pounds?”

“Nay! you know your own uses for your money,” said Mrs. Radford.

“But I’m going to bust this four pounds. Should we go to the seaside for a day or two?”

“Who?”

“You and Clara and me.”

“What, on your money!” she exclaimed, half-wrathful.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t be long in breaking your neck at a hurdle race!” she said.

“So long as I get a good run for my money! Will you?”

“Nay; you may settle that atween you.”

“And you’re willing?” he asked, amazed and rejoicing.

“You’ll do as you like,” said Mrs. Radford, “whether I’m willing or not.”

XIII Baxter Dawes

Soon after Paul had been to the theatre with Clara, he was drinking in the Punch Bowl with some friends of his when Dawes came in. Clara’s husband was growing stout; his eyelids were getting slack over his brown eyes; he was losing his healthy firmness of flesh. He was very evidently on the downward track. Having quarrelled with his sister, he had gone into cheap lodgings. His mistress had left him for a man who would marry her. He had been in prison one night for fighting when he was drunk, and there was a shady betting episode in which he was concerned.

Paul and he were confirmed enemies, and yet there was between them that peculiar feeling of intimacy, as if they were secretly near to each other, which sometimes exists between two people, although they never speak to one another. Paul often thought of Baxter Dawes, often wanted to get at him and be friends with him. He knew that Dawes often thought about him, and that the man was drawn to him by some bond or other. And yet the two never looked at each other save in hostility.

Since he was a superior employee at Jordan’s, it was the thing for Paul to offer Dawes a drink.

“What’ll you have?” he asked of him.

“Nowt wi’ a bleeder like you!” replied the man.

Paul turned away with a slight disdainful movement of the shoulders, very irritating.

“The aristocracy,” he continued, “is really a military institution. Take Germany, now. She’s got thousands of aristocrats whose only means of existence is the army. They’re deadly poor, and life’s deadly slow. So they hope for a war. They look for war as a chance of getting on. Till there’s a war they are idle good-for-nothings. When there’s a war, they are leaders and commanders. There you are, then⁠—they want war!”

He was not a favourite debater in the public-house, being too quick and overbearing. He irritated the older men by his assertive manner, and his cocksureness. They listened in silence, and were not sorry when he finished.

Dawes interrupted the young man’s flow of eloquence by asking, in a loud sneer:

“Did you learn all that at th’ theatre th’ other night?”

Paul looked at him; their eyes met. Then he knew Dawes had seen him coming out of the theatre with Clara.

“Why, what about th’ theatre?” asked one of Paul’s associates, glad to get a dig at the young fellow, and sniffing something tasty.

“Oh, him in a bobtailed evening suit, on the lardy-da!” sneered Dawes, jerking his head contemptuously at Paul.

“That’s comin’ it strong,” said the mutual friend. “Tart an’ all?”

“Tart, begod!” said Dawes.

“Go on; let’s have it!” cried the mutual friend.

“You’ve got it,” said Dawes, “an’ I reckon Morelly had it an’ all.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said the mutual friend. “An’ was it a proper tart?”

“Tart, God blimey⁠—yes!”

“How do you know?”

“Oh,” said Dawes, “I reckon he spent th’ night⁠—”

There was a good deal of laughter at Paul’s expense.

“But who was she? D’you know her?” asked the mutual friend.

“I should shay sho,” said Dawes.

This brought another burst of laughter.

“Then spit it out,” said the mutual friend.

Dawes shook his head, and took a gulp of beer.

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t let on himself,” he said. “He’ll be braggin’ of it in a bit.”

“Come on, Paul,” said the friend; “it’s no good. You might just as well own up.”

“Own up what? That I happened to take a friend to the theatre?”

“Oh well, if it was all right, tell us who she was, lad,” said the friend.

“She was all right,” said Dawes.

Paul was furious. Dawes wiped his golden moustache with his fingers, sneering.

“Strike me⁠—! One o’ that sort?” said the mutual friend. “Paul, boy, I’m surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?”

“Just a bit, like!”

He winked at the other men.

“Oh well,” said Paul, “I’ll be going!”

The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

“Nay,” he said, “you don’t get off as easy as that, my lad. We’ve got to have a full account of this business.”

“Then get it from Dawes!” he said.

“You shouldn’t funk your own deeds, man,” remonstrated the friend.

Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer in his face.

“Oh, Mr. Morel!” cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the “chucker-out.”

Dawes spat and rushed for the young