The Greatest Works of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ blood, almost like a dead man's face. He washed it, and went to bed. The night went by in delirium. In the morning he found his mother looking at him. Her blue eyes—they were all he wanted to see. She was there; he was in her hands.

      “It's not much, mother,” he said. “It was Baxter Dawes.”

      “Tell me where it hurts you,” she said quietly.

      “I don't know—my shoulder. Say it was a bicycle accident, mother.”

      He could not move his arm. Presently Minnie, the little servant, came upstairs with some tea.

      “Your mother's nearly frightened me out of my wits—fainted away,” she said.

      He felt he could not bear it. His mother nursed him; he told her about it.

      “And now I should have done with them all,” she said quietly.

      “I will, mother.”

      She covered him up.

      “And don't think about it,” she said—“only try to go to sleep. The doctor won't be here till eleven.”

      He had a dislocated shoulder, and the second day acute bronchitis set in. His mother was pale as death now, and very thin. She would sit and look at him, then away into space. There was something between them that neither dared mention. Clara came to see him. Afterwards he said to his mother:

      “She makes me tired, mother.”

      “Yes; I wish she wouldn't come,” Mrs. Morel replied.

      Another day Miriam came, but she seemed almost like a stranger to him.

      “You know, I don't care about them, mother,” he said.

      “I'm afraid you don't, my son,” she replied sadly.

      It was given out everywhere that it was a bicycle accident. Soon he was able to go to work again, but now there was a constant sickness and gnawing at his heart. He went to Clara, but there seemed, as it were, nobody there. He could not work. He and his mother seemed almost to avoid each other. There was some secret between them which they could not bear. He was not aware of it. He only knew that his life seemed unbalanced, as if it were going to smash into pieces.

      Clara did not know what was the matter with him. She realised that he seemed unaware of her. Even when he came to her he seemed unaware of her; always he was somewhere else. She felt she was clutching for him, and he was somewhere else. It tortured her, and so she tortured him. For a month at a time she kept him at arm's length. He almost hated her, and was driven to her in spite of himself. He went mostly into the company of men, was always at the George or the White Horse. His mother was ill, distant, quiet, shadowy. He was terrified of something; he dared not look at her. Her eyes seemed to grow darker, her face more waxen; still she dragged about at her work.

      At Whitsuntide he said he would go to Blackpool for four days with his friend Newton. The latter was a big, jolly fellow, with a touch of the bounder about him. Paul said his mother must go to Sheffield to stay a week with Annie, who lived there. Perhaps the change would do her good. Mrs. Morel was attending a woman's doctor in Nottingham. He said her heart and her digestion were wrong. She consented to go to Sheffield, though she did not want to; but now she would do everything her son wished of her. Paul said he would come for her on the fifth day, and stay also in Sheffield till the holiday was up. It was agreed.

      The two young men set off gaily for Blackpool. Mrs. Morel was quite lively as Paul kissed her and left her. Once at the station, he forgot everything. Four days were clear—not an anxiety, not a thought. The two young men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was like another man. None of himself remained—no Clara, no Miriam, no mother that fretted him. He wrote to them all, and long letters to his mother; but they were jolly letters that made her laugh. He was having a good time, as young fellows will in a place like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadow for her.

      Paul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with his mother in Sheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their train was late. Joking, laughing, with their pipes between their teeth, the young men swung their bags on to the tram-car. Paul had bought his mother a little collar of real lace that he wanted to see her wear, so that he could tease her about it.

      Annie lived in a nice house, and had a little maid. Paul ran gaily up the steps. He expected his mother laughing in the hall, but it was Annie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He stood a second in dismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek.

      “Is my mother ill?” he said.

      “Yes; she's not very well. Don't upset her.”

      “Is she in bed?”

      “Yes.”

      And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine had gone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag and ran upstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat up in bed, wearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked at him almost as if she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashy look about her.

      “Mother!” he said.

      “I thought you were never coming,” she answered gaily.

      But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face in the bedclothes, crying in agony, and saying:

      “Mother—mother—mother!”

      She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand.

      “Don't cry,” she said. “Don't cry—it's nothing.”

      But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried in terror and pain.

      “Don't—don't cry,” his mother faltered.

      Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, and the tears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, but he dared not lift his face out of the bedclothes.

      “You ARE late. Where have you been?” his mother asked.

      “The train was late,” he replied, muffled in the sheet.

      “Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?”

      “Yes.”

      “I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting.”

      With a wrench he looked up at her.

      “What is it, mother?” he asked brutally.

      She averted her eyes as she answered:

      “Only a bit of a tumour, my boy. You needn't trouble. It's been there—the lump has—a long time.”

      Up came the tears again. His mind was clear and hard, but his body was crying.

      “Where?” he said.

      She put her hand on her side.

      “Here. But you know they can sweal a tumour away.”

      He stood feeling dazed and helpless, like a child. He thought perhaps it was СКАЧАТЬ