Selected Stories

by D. H. Lawrence

  “What’s thy name?” he asked curiously.

  “Lydia,” she said.

  “Lydia!” he repeated, wonderingly. He felt rather shy.

  “Mine’s Geoffrey Wookey,” he said.

  She merely smiled at him.

  They were silent for a considerable time. By morning light, things look small. The huge trees of the evening were dwindled to hoary, small, uncertain things, trespassing in the sick pallor of the atmosphere. There was a dense mist, so that the light could scarcely breathe. Everything seemed to quiver with cold and sickliness.

  “Have you often slept out?” he asked her.

  “Not so very,” she answered.

  “You won’t go after him?” he asked.

  “I s’ll have to,” she replied, but she nestled in to Geoffrey. He felt a sudden panic.

  “You mustn’t,” he exclaimed, and she saw he was afraid for himself. She let it be, was silent.

  “We couldn’t get married?” he asked, thoughtfully.

  “No.”

  He brooded deeply over this. At length:

  “Would you go to Canada with me?”

  “We’ll see what you think in two months’ time,” she replied quietly, without bitterness.

  “I s’ll think the same,” he protested, hurt.

  She did not answer, only watched him steadily. She was there for him to do as he liked with; but she would not injure his fortunes, no, not to save his soul.

  “Haven’t you got no relations?” he asked.

  “A married sister at Crich?”

  “On a farm?”

  “No—married a farm-laborer—but she’s very comfortable. I’ll go there, if you want me to, just till I can get another place in service.”

  He considered this.

  “Could you get on a farm?” he asked wistfully.

  “Greenhalgh’s was a farm.”

  He saw the future brighten: she would be a help to him. She agreed to go to her sister, and to get a place of service,—until Spring, he said, when they would sail for Canada. He waited for her assent.

  “You will come with me then?” he asked.

  “When the time comes,” she said.

  Her want of faith made him bow his head: she had reason for it.

  “Shall you walk to Crich or go from Langley Mill to Ambergate? But it’s only ten mile to walk. So we can go together up Hunt’s Hill—you’d have to go past our lane-end, then I could easy nip down an’ fetch you some money—” he said, humbly.

  “I’ve got half a sovereign by me—it’s more than I s’ll want.”

  “Let’s see it,” he said.

  After a while, fumbling under the blanket, she brought out the piece of money. He felt she was independent of him. Brooding rather bitterly, he told himself she’d forsake him. His anger gave him courage to ask:

  “Shall you go in service in your maiden name?”

  “No.”

  He was bitterly wrathful with her—full of resentment.

  “I bet I s’ll niver see you again,” he said, with a short, hard laugh. She put her arms round him, pressed him to her bosom, while the tears rose to her eyes. He was reassured, but not satisfied.

  “Shall you write to me tonight?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “And can I write to you—who shall I write to?”

  “Mrs Bredon.”

  “ ‘Bredon’!” he repeated bitterly.

  He was exceedingly uneasy.

  The dawn had grown quite wan. He saw the hedges drooping wet down the grey mist. Then he told her about Maurice.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t!” she said. “You should ha’ put the ladder up for them, you should.”

  “Well—I don’t care.”

  “Go and do it now—and I’ll go.”

  “No, don’t you. Stop an’ see our Maurice, go on, stop an’ see him—then I s’ll be able to tell him.”

  She consented in silence. He had her promise she would not go before he returned. She adjusted her dress, found her way to the trough, where she performed her toilet.

  Geoffrey wandered round to the upper field. The stacks loomed wet in the mist, the hedge was drenched. Mist rose like steam from the grass, and the near hills were veiled almost to a shadow. In the valley, some peaks of black poplar showed fairly definite, jutting up. He shivered with chill.

  There was no sound from the stacks, and he could see nothing. After all, he wondered were they up there. But he reared the ladder to the place whence it had been swept, then went down the hedge to gather dry sticks. He was breaking off thin dead twigs under a holly tree when he heard, on the perfectly still air: “Well I’m dashed!”

  He listened intently. Maurice was awake.

  “Sithee here!” the lad’s voice exclaimed.

  Then, after a while, the foreign sound of the girl:

  “What—oh, thair!”

  “Ay, th’ ladder’s there, right enough.”

  “You said it had fall down.”

  “Well, I heard it drop—an’ I couldna feel it nor see it.”

  “You said it had fall down—you lie, you liar.”

  “Nay, as true as I’m here—”

  “You tell me lies—make me stay here—you tell me lies——.” She was passionately indignant.

  “As true as I’m standing here—,” he began.

  “Lies!—lies!—lies!” she cried. “I don’t believe you, never. You mean, you mean, mean, mean!!”

  “A’ raïght, then!” he was now incensed, in his turn.

  “You are bad, mean, mean, mean.”

  “Are yer commin’ down?” asked Maurice coldly.

  “No—I will not come with you—mean, to tell me lies.”

  “Are ter commin down?”

  “No, I don’t want you.”

  “A’ raïght then!”

  Geoffrey, peering through the holly tree, saw Maurice negotiating the ladder. The top rung was below the brim of the stack, and rested on the cloth, so it was dangerous to approach. The Fräulein watched him from the end of the stack, where the cloth thrown back showed the light, dry hay. He slipped slightly,—she screamed. When he had got onto the ladder, he pulled the cloth away, throwing it back, making it easy for her to descend.

  “Now are ter comin?” he asked.

  “No;” she shook her head violently, in a pet.

  Geoffrey felt slightly contemptuous of her. But Maurice waited.

  “Are ter comin?” he called again.

  “No,” she flashed, like a wild cat.

  “All right, then I’m going.”

  He descended. At the bottom, he stood holding the ladder.

  “Come on, while I hold it steady,” he said.

  There was no reply. For some minutes he stood patiently with his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He was pale, rather washed-out in his appearance, and he drew himself together with cold.

  “Are ter commin’, or aren’t ter?” he asked at length.

  Still there was no reply.

  “Then stop up till tha’rt ready,” he muttered, and he went away. Round the other side of the stacks he met Geoffrey.

  “What, are thaïgh here?” he exclaimed.

  “Bin here a’ naïght,” replied Geoffrey. “I come to help thee wi’ th’ cloth, but I found it on, an’ th’ ladder down, so I thowt tha’d gone.”

  “Did ter put th’ ladder up?”

  “I did a bit sin.”

  Maurice brooded over this, Geoffrey struggled with himself to get out his own news. At last he blurted:

  “Tha knows that woman as wor here yis’day dinner—’er come back, an’ stopped i’ th’ shed a’ night, out o’ th’ rain.”

  “Oh—ah!” said Maurice, his eye kindling, and a smile crossing his pallor.

  “An’ I s’ll gi’e her some breakfast.”

  “Oh ah!” repeated Maurice.

  “It’s th’ man as is good-for-nowt, not her,” protested Geoffrey. Maurice did not feel in a position to cast stones.

/>   “Tha pleases thysen,” he said, “what ter does.” He was very quiet, unlike himself. He seemed bothered and anxious, as Geoffrey had not seen him before.

  “What’s up wi’ thee?” asked the elder brother, who in his own heart was glad, and relieved.

  “Nowt,” was the reply.

  They went together to the hut. The woman was folding the blanket. She was fresh from washing, and looked very pretty. Her hair, instead of being screwed tightly back, was coiled in a knot low down, partly covering her ears. Before, she had deliberately made herself plain-looking: now she was neat and pretty, with a sweet, womanly gravity.

  “Hello, I didn’t think to find you here,” said Maurice, very awkwardly, smiling. She watched him gravely without reply. “But it was better in shelter than outside, last night,” he added.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Shall you get a few more sticks,” Geoffrey asked him. It was a new thing for Geoffrey to be leader. Maurice obeyed. He wandered forth into the damp, raw morning. He did not go to the stack, as he shrank from meeting Paula.

  At the mouth of the hut, Geoffrey was making the fire. The woman got out coffee from the box: Geoffrey set the tin to boil. They were arranging breakfast when Paula appeared. She was hat-less. Bits of hay stuck in her hair, and she was white-faced—altogether, she did not show to advantage.

  “Ah—you!” she exclaimed, seeing Geoffrey.

  “Hello!” he answered. “You’re out early.”

  “Where’s Maurice?”

  “I dunno, he should be back directly.”

  Paula was silent.

  “When have you come?” she asked.

  “I come last night, but I could see nobody about. I got up half an hour sin’, an’ put th’ ladder up ready to take the stack-cloth up.”

  Paula understood, and was silent. When Maurice returned with the faggots, she was crouched warming her hands. She looked up at him, but he kept his eyes averted from her. Geoffrey met the eyes of Lydia, and smiled. Maurice put his hands to the fire.

  “You cold?” asked Paula tenderly.

  “A bit,” he answered, quite friendly, but reserved. And all the while the four sat round the fire, drinking their smoked coffee, eating each a small piece of toasted bacon, Paula watched eagerly for the eyes of Maurice, and he avoided her. He was gentle, but would not give his eyes to her looks. And Geoffrey smiled constantly to Lydia, who watched gravely.

  The German girl succeeded in getting safely into the vicarage, her escapade unknown to anyone save the housemaid. Before a week was out, she was openly engaged to Maurice, and when her month’s notice expired, she went to live at the farm.

  Geoffrey and Lydia kept faith one with the other.

  The Minar at Home

  Like most colliers, Bower had his dinner before he washed himself. It did not surprise his wife that he said little. He seemed quite amiable, but evidently did not feel confidential. Gertie was busy with the three children, the youngest of whom lay kicking on the sofa, preparing to squeal, therefore she did not concern herself overmuch with her husband, once having ascertained, by a few shrewd glances at his heavy brows and his blue eyes, which moved conspicuously in his black face, that he was only pondering.

  He smoked a solemn pipe until six o’clock. Although he was really a good husband, he did not notice that Gertie was tired. She was getting irritable at the end of the long day.

  “Don’t you want to wash yourself?” she asked, grudgingly, at six o’clock. It was sickening to have a man sitting there in his pit-dirt, never saying a word, smoking like a Red Indian.

  “I’m ready when you are,” he replied.

  She laid the baby on the sofa, barricaded it in with pillows, and brought from the scullery a great panchion, a bowl of heavy red earthenware like brick, glazed inside to a dark mahogany color. Tall and thin and very pale, she stood before the fire holding the great bowl, her grey eyes flashing.

  “Get up, our Jack, this minute, or I’ll squash thee under this blessed panchion.”

  The fat boy of six, who was rolling on the rug in the firelight, said broadly:

  “Squash me, then.”

  “Get up,” she cried, giving him a push with her foot.

  “Gi’e ower,” he said, rolling jollily.

  “I’ll smack you,” she said grimly, preparing to put down the panchion.

  “Get up, theer,” shouted the father.

  Gertie ladled water from the boiler with a tin ladling can. Drops fell from her ladle hissing into the red fire, splashing on to the white hearth, blazing like drops of flame on the flat-topped steel fender. The father gazed at it all, unmoved.

  “I’ve told you,” he said “to put cold water in that panchion first. If one o’ th’ children goes an’ falls in——”

  “You can see as ’e doesn’t, then,” snapped she. She tempered the bowl with cold water, dropped in a flannel and a lump of soap, and spread the towel over the fender to warm.

  Then, and only then, Bower rose. He wore no coat, and his arms were freckled black. He stripped to the waist, hitched his trousers into the strap, and kneeled on the rug to wash himself. There was a great splashing and spluttering. The red firelight shone on his cap of white soap, and on the muscles of his back, on the strange working of his red and white muscular arms, that flashed up and down like individual creatures.

  Gertie sat with the baby clawing at her ears and hair and nose. Continually she drew back her face and head from the cruel little baby-clasp. Jack was hanging on to the kitchen door.

  “Come away from that door,” cried the mother.

  Jack did not come away, but neither did he open the door and run the risk of incurring his father’s wrath. The room was very hot, but the thought of a draught is abhorrent to a miner.

  With the baby on one arm, Gertie washed her husband’s back. She sponged it carefully with the flannel, and then, still with one hand, began to dry it on the rough towel.

  “Canna ter put th’ childt down an’ use both hands,” said her husband.

  “Yes; an’ then if th’ childt screets, there’s a bigger to-do than iver. There’s no suitin’ some folk.”

  “The childt ’ud non screet.”

  Gertie plumped it down. The baby began to cry. The wife rubbed her husband’s back till it grew pink, whilst Bower quivered with pleasure. As soon as she threw the towel down:

  “Shut that childt up,” he said.

  He wrestled his way into his shirt. His head emerged, with black hair standing roughly on end. He was rather an ugly man, just above medium height, and stiffly built. He had a thin black moustache over a full mouth, and a very full chin that was marred by a blue seam, where a horse had kicked him when he was a lad in the pit.

  With both hands on the mantelpiece above his head, he stood looking in the fire, his whitish shirt hanging like a smock over his pit trousers.

  Presently, still looking absently in the fire, he said:

  “Bill Andrews was standin’ at th’ pit top, an’ give ivery man as ’e come up one o’ these.”

  He handed to his wife a small, whitey-blue paper, on which was printed simply:

  “February 14th, 1912.

  “To the Manager—

  “I hereby give notice to leave your employment fourteen days from above date.

  “Signed——.”

  Gertie read the paper, blindly dodging her head from the baby’s grasp.

  “An’ what d’you reckon that’s for?” she asked.

  “I suppose it means as we come out.”

  “I’m sure!” she cried in indignation. “Well, tha’rt not goin’ to sign it.”

  “It’ll ma’e no diff’rence whether I do or dunna—t’others will.”

  “Then let ’em!” She made a small clicking sound in her mouth. “This ’ill ma’e th’ third strike as we’ve had sin’ we’ve been married; an’ a fat lot th’ better for it you are, arena you?”

  He squirmed uneasily.

  “No, but we mean to be,”
he said.

  “I’ll tell you what, colliers is a discontented lot, as doesn’t know what they do want. That’s what they are.”

  “Tha’d better not let some o’ th’ colliers as there is hear thee say so.”

  “I don’t care who hears me. An’ there isn’t a man in Eastwood but what’ll say as th’ last two strikes has ruined the place. There’s that much bad blood now atween th’ mesters an’ th’ men as there isn’t a thing but what’s askew. An’ what will it be, I should like to know!”

  “It’s not on’y here; it’s all ower th’ country alike,” he gloated.

  “Yes; it’s them blessed Yorkshire an’ Welsh colliers as does it. They’re that bug nowadays, what wi’ talkin’ an’ spoutin’, they hardly know which side their back-side hangs. Here, take this childt!”

  She thrust the baby into his arms, carried out the heavy bowlful of black suds, mended the fire, cleared round, and returned for the child.

  “Ben Haseldine said, an he’s a union man—he told me when he come for th’ union money yesterday, as th’ men doesn’t want to come out—not our men. It’s th’ union.”

  “Tha knows nowt about it, woman. It’s a’ woman’s jabber, from beginnin’ to end.”

  “You don’t intend us to know. Who wants th’ Minimum Wage? Butties doesn’t. There th’ butties ’ll be, havin’ to pay seven shillin’ a day to men as ’appen isn’t worth a penny more than five.”

  “But the butties is goin’ to have eight shillin’, accordin’ to scale.”

  “An’ then th’ men as can’t work tip-top, an’ is worth, ’appen, five shillin’ a day, they get the sack: an’ th’ old men, an’ so on …”

  “Nowt o’ th’ sort, woman, nowt o’ th’ sort. Tha’s got it off ’am-pat. There’s goin’ to be inspectors for all that, an’ th’ men ’ll get what they’re worth, accordin’ to age, an’ so on.”

  “An’ accordin’ to idleness an’—an’ what somebody says about ’em. I’ll back! There ’ll be a lot o’ fairness!”

  “Tha talks like a woman as knows nowt. What does thee know about it?”

  “I know what you did at th’ last strike. And I know this much, when Shipley men had their strike tickets, not one in three signed ’em—so there. An’ tha’rt not goin’ to!”