Sons and Lovers - Daimon Club

She followed him. He took her hand and kissed her
finger-tips. They went in silence. When they came to the light,
he let go her hand. Neither spoke till they reached the station.
Then they looked each other in the eyes.
"Good-night," she said.
And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically.
People talked to him. He heard faint echoes answering them.
He was in a delirium. He felt that he would go mad if Monday did
not come at once. On Monday he would see her again. All himself
was pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened. He could not bear it.
He could not see her till Monday. And Sunday intervened--hour
after hour of tension. He wanted to beat his head against the
door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whisky
on the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must not
be upset, that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed.
There he sat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out of
the window at the far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought nor
slept,
but sat perfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold that
he came to himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two.
It was after three o'clock. He was exhausted, but still there was
the torment of knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bed
and slept. Then he cycled all day long, till he was fagged out.
And he scarcely knew where he had been. But the day after was Monday.
He slept till four o'clock. Then he lay and thought. He was coming
nearer to himself--he could see himself, real, somewhere in front.
She would go a walk with him in the afternoon. Afternoon! It seemed
years ahead.
Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard him
pottering about. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavy
boots scraping the yard. Cocks were still crowing. A cart
went down the road. His mother got up. She knocked the fire.
Presently she called him softly. He answered as if he were asleep.
This shell of himself did well.
He was walking to the station--another mile! The train
was near Nottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels?
But it did not matter; it would get there before dinner-time. He
was at Jordan's. She would come in half an hour. At any rate,
she would be near. He had done the letters. She would be there.
Perhaps she had not come. He ran downstairs. Ah! he saw her
through the glass door. Her shoulders stooping a little to her
work made him feel he could not go forward; he could not stand.
He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quite cold.
Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real self
with this shell.
"And this afternoon," he struggled to say. "You will come?"
"I think so," she replied, murmuring.