Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence

by D. H. Lawrence

  The two of them hid behind the pinch. At last they saw the cortège approaching. Easu Ellis held the reins of the first team, and chewed the end of the whip. Beside him sat Joshua Jenkins, as a mute, fearful in black and like a scarecrow with loose danglings of crape. In the buggy behind them, on the floor-boards, was Gran’s coffin, shaking wofully, covered with a black cloth. Joe Low drove the second buggy, which was the second hearse, and he looked strained and anxious as the heavy coffin bumped when the buggy dropped into holes on the track. Then came the family shay with the chief male mourners. Then a little crowd on foot.

  The horses were behaving badly, not liking the road. It was hot, the vile east wind was blowing. Easu’s horse jibbed at the slough of the stream: would not take it. He was afraid the horses would jump, and toss the coffin out of the buggy. He had to get bearers to carry Gran’s poor remains across the mud and up the pinch to their last house. The bearers sunk almost to their knees in mud. The whole cortège was at a standstill.

  Joe Low’s horses, mortally frightened, were jumping round till they were almost facing the horses in the mourners’ shay. Easu ran to their heads. More bearers, strong men, came forward to lift out Dad’s heavy coffin. Everybody watched in terror as they staggered through the slough of the stream with that unnatural burden. Was it going to fall?

  No, they were through. Men were putting branches and big stones for the foot-mourners to cross, everybody sweating and sweltering. The sporting parson, his white surplice waving in the hateful, gritty hot wind, came striding over, holding his book. Then Tom, with a wooden, stupid face. Then Lennie, cracking nuts between his teeth and spitting out the shells, in an agony of nervousness. Then the other mourners, some carrying a few late, weird bush-flowers, picking their way over like a train of gruesome fowls, staggering and clutching on the stones and boughs, landing safe on the other bank. Jack watched from a safe distance above.

  There were two coffins, one on either side of the grave. Some of the uncles had top hats with dangling crape. Nearly everybody was black. Poor Len, what a black little crow he looked! The sporting parson read the service manfully. Then he announced hymn number 225.

  Jack could feel the hollow place below, with the black mourners, simmer with panic, when the parson in cold blood asked them to sing a hymn. But he read the first verse solemnly, like an overture:

  “Oh sweet and blessed country

  The home of God’s elect!

  Oh sweet and blessed country

  That eager hearts expect . . .”

  There was a deadly pause. There was going to be no answer from the uncomfortable congregation, under that hot sun.

  But Uncle Blogg was not to be daunted. He struck up in a rather fat, wheezy, Methodist voice, and Aunt Ruth piped feebly. The maiden Aunts, who had insisted on following their mother, though women were not expected to attend, listened to this for an awful minute or two, then they waveringly “tried” to join in. It was really only funny. And Tom in all his misery, suddenly started to laugh. Lennie looked up at him with wide eyes, but Tom’s shoulders shook, shook harder, especially when Aunt Minnie “tried” to sing alto. That alto he could not bear.

  The Reds were beginning to grin sheepishly and to turn their heads over their shoulders, as if the open country would not object to their grins. It was becoming a scandal.

  Lennie saved the situation. His voice came clear and pure, like a chorister’s, rising above the melancholy “trying” of the relations, a clear, pure singing, that seemed to dominate the whole wild bush.

  “Oh sweet and blessed country

  That eager hearts expect.

  Jesu in mercy bring us

  To that dear land of rest;

  Who art with God the Father,

  And Spirit ever blessed.”

  At the sound of Lennie’s voice, Tom turned white as a sheet, and looked as if he were going to die too. But the boy’s voice soared on, with that pure quality of innocence that was sheer agony to the elder brother.

  IV

  Jack, who was looking sick again, was sent away to the Greenlows’ next day. And he was glad to go, thankful to be out of it. He loathed death, he loathed death, and Wandoo had suddenly become full of death.

  The first cool days of the year, golden and blue, were at hand. The Greenlow girls made much of him. He rode with them after sheep, inspecting fences, examining far-off wells. They were not bad girls at all. They taught him to play solitaire at evening, to hold worsted, even to spin. Real companionable girls, thankful to have a young man in the house, spoiling him completely. Pa was home after the first day, and acted as a sort of hairy chimpanzee chaperone, but looking over his spectacles and hissing through his teeth was his severest form of reproof. He didn’t set Jack to wash that Sunday, but even gave him tit-bits from the joint, so that our young hero almost knew what it was to have a prospective father-in-law.

  Jack left Gum Tree Croft with regret. For he knew his life at Wandoo was over. Now Dad was dead, everything was going to break up. This was bitter to him, for it was the first place he had ever loved, ever wanted to stay in, for ever and ever. He loved the family. He couldn’t bear to go away from them.

  “Never mind!” he said to himself. “I shall always have them in some way or other, all my life.”

  Things seemed different when he got back. There wasn’t much real difference, except a bit of raking and clearing up had been done for the funeral. But Wandoo itself seemed to have died. For the meantime, the homestead was as if dead.

  Grace and Monica looked unnatural in black frocks. They felt unnatural.

  Jack was told that Mr. George was having a conclave in the parlour, and that he was to go in.

  Tom, Mrs. Ellis, and Mr. George and Dr. Rackett were there, seated round the table, on which were some papers. Jack shook hands, and sat uneasily in an empty chair on Dr. Rackett’s side of the table. Mr. George was explaining things simply.

  Mr. Ellis left no will. But the first marriage certificate had been found. Tom was to inherit Wandoo, but not till he came legally of age, in a year and a half’s time. Meanwhile Mrs. Ellis could continue on the place, and carry on as best she might, on behalf of herself and all the children. For a year and a half.

  She heard in silence. After a year and a half she would be homeless: or at least dependent on Tom, who was not her son. She sat silent in her black dress.

  Tom cleared his throat and stared at the table. Then he looked up at Jack, and, scarlet in the face, said:

  “I’ve been thinking, Ma, I don’t want the place. You have it, for Len. I don’t want it. You have it, for Len an’ the kids. I’d rather go away. Best if that certificate hadn’t never been found, if you’re going to feel you’re turned out.”

  He dropped his head in confusion. Mr. George held up his hand.

  “No more of that heroic talk,” he said. “When Jacob Ellis stored up that marriage certificate at the bottom of that box, he showed what he meant. And you may feel as you say to-day, but two years hence you might repent it.”

  Tom looked up angrily.

  “I don’t believe Tom would ever regret it,” put in Mrs. Ellis. “But I couldn’t think of it. Len wouldn’t let me, even if I wanted to.”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. George. “We’ve got to be sensible, and the law’s the law. You can’t alter it yet, my boy, even if you want to. You’re not of age yet.

  “So you listen to me. My plan is for you and Jack to go out into the colony and get some experience. Sow your wild oats if you’ve any to sow, or else pick up a bit of good oatseed. One or the other.

  “My idea is for you and Jack to go up for a year to Lang’s Well station, out Roeburne way. Lang’ll give you your keep and a pound a week each, and your fare refunded if you stay a year.

  “The ‘Rob Roy’ sails from Geraldton about a month from now; you can get passages on her. And I thought it would be just as well, Tom, if you and Jack rode up through that midland country. You’ve a hundred connections to see, who’ll ch
ange y’r horses for y’. And you’ll see the country. And y’ll be men of travel. We want men of experience, men of a wide outlook. Somebody’s got to be the head-piece of this colony, when men like me and the rest of us are gone. It’ll be a three hundred mile ride, but ye’ve nigh on a month to do it.

  “Now, what do you say, my boy? Your mother will stop on here with the children. I’ll see she gets a good man to run the place. And meanwhile she’ll be able to fix something up for herself. Oh, we shall settle all right. I’ll see your mother through all right. No fear of that. And no fear of any deterioration to the place. I’ll watch that. You bet I Will.”

  Tom twisted his fingers, white at the gills, and mumbled his thanks vaguely.

  “Jack,” said Mr. George. “I know you’re game. And you will look after Tom.”

  Dr. Rackett said he thought it a wise plan, and further, that if Mrs. Ellis would consent, he would like to bear the expenses of sending Lennie to school in England for the next three years.

  Mrs. Ellis woke from her dream to say quickly:

  “Although I thank you kindly, Dr. Rackett, I think you’ll understand if I say No.”

  Her decision startled everybody.

  “Prrh! Bah!” snorted Mr. George. “There’s one thing. I doubt if we could make Lennie go. But, with your permission, Alice, we’ll ask him. Jack, find Lennie for us.”

  “I’ll not say a word,” said Mrs. Ellis, nervously clutching the edge of the table. “I won’t influence him. But if he goes it’ll be the death of me. Poor old Lennie! Poor old Lennie!”

  “Prrh! Bah! That’s nonsense! Nonsense!” said Mr. George angrily. “Give the boy his chance, leave your fool emotions out, d’ye hear, Alice Ellis.”

  Mrs. Ellis sat like a martyr stubborn at the stake. Jack brought the mistrustful Len, who stood like a prisoner at the bar. Mr. George put the case as attractively as possible.

  Len slowly shook his head, with a grimace of distaste. “No, I don’t think!” he remarked. “Not fer mine, you bet! I stays alongside my pore ol’ Ma, here in Western Austrylia.”

  Mr. George adjusted his eyeglasses severely.

  “Your mother is neither poor nor old,” he said coldly.

  “I never!” broke out Lennie.

  “And this country, thank God, is called Australia, not Austrylia. When you open your mouth you give proof enough of your need for education. I should like to hear different language in your mouth, my son, and see different ideas working in your head.”

  Lennie, rather pale and nervous, stared with wide eyes at him.

  “You never — ” he said. “You never ketch me talkin’ like Jack Grant, not if y’ skin me alive.” And he shifted from one foot to the other.

  “I wouldn’t take the trouble to skin you, alive or dead. Your skin wouldn’t be worth it. But come. You’re an intelligent boy. You need education. You need it. Your nature needs it, child. Your mother ought to see that. Your nature needs you to be educated, well-educated. You’ll be wasted afterwards — you will. And you’ll repent it. Mark me, you’ll repent it, when you’re older, and your spirit, which should be trained and equipped, is as clumsy and half-baked as any other cornseed’s. You’ll be a fretful, uneasy, wasted man, you will. Your mother ought to see that. You’ll be a half-baked, quarter-educated bush-whacker, instead of a well-equipped man.”

  Len looked wonderingly at his mother. But she still sat like an obstinate martyr at the stake, and gave him no sign.

  “Don’t he educate me?” asked Len, pointing to Rackett.

  “As much as you’ll let him,” said Mr. George. “But — ”

  Lennie’s face crumpled up with irritation.

  “Oh, what for do you want me to be educated?” he cried testily. “I don’ want to be like Uncle Blogg. I don’ wantter be like Dr. Rackett even.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “‘N I don’ wantter be like Jack Grant neither. I don’ wantta. I don’ wantta, I tell y’ I don’ wantta.”

  “Do you think they would want to be like you?” asked Mr. George.

  Lennie looked from him to Rackett, and then to Jack.

  “Jack’s not so very diff’rent,” he said slowly. And he shook his head. “But can’t y’ believe me,” he cried. “I don’ wantta go to England. I don’ wantta talk fine and be like them. Can’t ye see I don’t? I don’ wantta. What’s the good! What’s the mortal use of it, anyhow? Aren’t I right as I am?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I wants to work. I wants to milk an’ feed, and plough, and reap and lay out irrigation, like Dad. An’ I wants to look after Ma an’ the kids. An’ then I’ll get married and be on a place of me own with kids of me own, an’ die, like Dad, an’ be done for. That’s what I wants. It is.”

  He looked desperately at his mother.

  Mr. George slowly shook his head, staring at the keen, beautiful, but reluctant boy.

  “I suppose that’s what we’ve come to,” said Rackett.

  “Didn’t you learn me!” cried Lennie defiantly. And striking a little attitude, like a naive earnest actor, he repeated:

  “‘Here rests, his head upon the lap of earth,

  A youth of fortune and to fame unknown.

  Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,

  And melancholy marked him for her own.

  “‘Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

  Heaven did a recompense as largely send.

  He gave to misery all he had, a tear,

  He gained from heaven, ‘twas all he wished, a friend.’

  “There,” he continued. “That’s me! An’ I’ve got a friend already.”

  “You’re a little fool,” said Mr. George. “Much mark of melancholy there is on you! And do you think misery is going to thank you for your idiotic tear? As for your friend, he’s going away. And you’re a fool, putting up a headstone to yourself while you’re alive still. Damn you, you little fool, and be damned to you.”

  Mr. George was really cross. He flounced his spectacles off his nose. Len was frightened. Then he said, rather waveringly, turning to his mother:

  “We’re all right, Ma, ain’t we?”

  Mrs. Ellis looked at him with her subtlest, tenderest smile. And in Lennie’s eyes burned a light of youthful indignation against these old men.

  CHAPTER XIII

  TOM AND JACK RIDE TOGETHER

  These days Monica was fascinating to Jack’s eyes. She wore a black dress, and her slimness, her impulsive girlishness under this cloud were wistful, exquisite. He would have liked to love her, soothingly, protectively, passionately. He would have liked to cherish her, with passion. Always he looked to her for a glance of intimacy, looked to see if she wouldn’t accept his passion and his cherishing. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to feel the eternal lightning of her slim body through the cloud of that black dress. He wanted to declare to her that he loved her, as Alec Rice had declared to Grace; and he wanted to ask her to marry him. To ask her to marry him at once.

  But mostly he wanted to touch her and hold her in his arms. He watched her all the time, hoping to get one of the old, long looks from her yellow eyes, from under her bended brows. Her long, deep, enigmatic looks, that used to worry him so. Now he longed for her to look at him like that.

  Or better still if she would let him see her trouble and her grief, and love her so, with a passionate cherishing.

  But she would do neither. She kept her grief and her provocation both out of sight, as if neither existed. Her little face remained mute and closed, like a shut-up bud. She only spoke to him with a vague distant voice, and she never really looked at him. Or if she did glance at him, it was in a kind of anger, and pain, as if she did not want to be interfered with; didn’t want to be pulled down.

  He was completely puzzled. Her present state was quite incomprehensible to him. She had nothing to reproach him with, surely. And if she had loved him, even a little, she could surely love him that little still. If she had so often taken his hand and clutched it, su
rely she could now let him take her hand, in real sympathy.

  It was if she were angry with him because Dad had died. Jack hadn’t wanted Dad to die. Indeed no. He was cut up by it as if he had been one of the family. And it was as bad a blow to his destiny as to hers. He was as sore and sorry as anybody. Yet she kept her face shut against him, and avoided him, as if he were to blame.

  Completely puzzled, Jack went on with his preparations for departure. He had no choice. He was under orders from Mr. George, and with Mrs. Ellis’ approval, to quit Wandoo, to ride with Tom up to Geraldton, and to spend at least a year on the sheep station up north. It had to be. It was the wheel of fate. So let it be.

  And as the last day drew near, the strange volcano of anger which slumbered at the bottom of his soul — a queer, quiescent crater of anger which churned its deep hot lava invisible — threw up jets of silver rage, which hardened rapidly into a black, rocky indifference. And this was characteristic of him: an indifference which was really congealed anger, and which gave him a kind of innocent, remote, childlike quietness.

  This was his nature. He was himself vaguely aware of the unplumbed crater of silent anger which lay at the bottom of his soul. It was not anger against any particular thing, or because of anything in particular. It was just generic, inherent in him. It was himself. It did not make him hate people, individually, unless they were hateful. It did not make him hard or cruel. Indeed he was too yielding rather than otherwise, too gentle and mindful of horses and cattle, for example, unmindful of himself. Tom often laughed at him for it. If Lucy had a will of her own, and a caprice she wanted to execute, he always let her go ahead, take her way, as far as was reasonable. If she exceeded her limits, his anger roused and there was no doing any more with him. But he very rarely, very rarely got really angry. Only then in the long, slow accumulation of hostility, as with Easu.

  But anger! A deep, fathomless well-head of slowly-moving, invisible fire. Somewhere in his consciousness he was aware of it, and in this awareness it was as if he belonged to a race apart. He never felt identified with the great humanity. He belonged to a race apart, like the race of Cain. This he had always known.