this interview. It was in the dinner-hour. The two did not often go out together now, but this day he asked her to go with him to the Castle grounds. There they sat while the scarlet geraniums and the yellow calceolarias blazed in the sunlight. She was now always rather protective, and rather resentful towards him.
“Did you know Baxter was in Sheffield Hospital with typhoid?” he asked.
She looked at him with startled grey eyes, and her face went pale.
“No,” she said, frightened.
“He's getting better. I went to see him yesterday—the doctor told me.”
Clara seemed stricken by the news.
“Is he very bad?” she asked guiltily.
“He has been. He's mending now.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking.”
There was a distance between the two of them. He gave her more information.
She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk together, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance from him. He was wanting her comfort badly.
“Won't you be nice with me?” he asked.
She did not answer.
“What's the matter?” he said, putting his arm across her shoulder.
“Don't!” she said, disengaging herself.
He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding.
“Is it Baxter that upsets you?” he asked at length.
“I HAVE been VILE to him!” she said.
“I've said many a time you haven't treated him well,” he replied.
And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of thought.
“I've treated him—no, I've treated him badly,” she said. “And now you treat ME badly. It serves me right.”
“How do I treat you badly?” he said.
“It serves me right,” she repeated. “I never considered him worth having, and now you don't consider ME. But it serves me right. He loved me a thousand times better than you ever did.”
“He didn't!” protested Paul.
“He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that's what you don't do.”
“It looked as if he respected you!” he said.
“He did! And I MADE him horrid—I know I did! You've taught me that. And he loved me a thousand times better than ever you do.”
“All right,” said Paul.
He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was almost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He was not sorry when he left her.
She went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. The meeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money. She wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As she looked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only she wanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now to be self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel really love her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So she kneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distance between them was still very great—too great. It frightened the man. It almost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him across an insuperable distance. She was proud now.
Morel went to see Dawes once or twice. There was a sort of friendship between the two men, who were all the while deadly rivals. But they never mentioned the woman who was between them.
Mrs. Morel got gradually worse. At first they used to carry her downstairs, sometimes even into the garden. She sat propped in her chair, smiling, and so pretty. The gold wedding-ring shone on her white hand; her hair was carefully brushed. And she watched the tangled sunflowers dying, the chrysanthemums coming out, and the dahlias.
Paul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that she was dying. But they kept up a pretence of cheerfulness. Every morning, when he got up, he went into her room in his pyjamas.
“Did you sleep, my dear?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Not very well?”
“Well, yes!”
Then he knew she had lain awake. He saw her hand under the bedclothes, pressing the place on her side where the pain was.
“Has it been bad?” he asked.
“No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention.”
And she sniffed in her old scornful way. As she lay she looked like a girl. And all the while her blue eyes watched him. But there were the dark pain-circles beneath that made him ache again.
“It's a sunny day,” he said.
“It's a beautiful day.”
“Do you think you'll be carried down?”
“I shall see.”
Then he went away to get her breakfast. All day long he was conscious of nothing but her. It was a long ache that made him feverish. Then, when he got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window. She was not there; she had not got up.
He ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask:
“Didn't you get up, pigeon?”
“No,” she said, “it was that morphia; it made me tired.”
“I think he gives you too much,” he said.
“I think he does,” she answered.
He sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying on her side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear.
“Doesn't it tickle you?” he said, gently putting it back.
“It does,” she replied.
His face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like a girl's—warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror, agony, and love.
“You want your hair doing in a plait,” he said. “Lie still.”
And going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. It was like fine long silk of brown and grey. Her head was snuggled between her shoulders. As he lightly brushed and plaited her hair, he bit his lip and felt dazed. It all seemed unreal, he could not understand it.
At night he often worked
