Sons and Lovers. D. H. Lawrence

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      “Nay,” said Morel, showing his hand, “look thee at it! Tha niver wants ter shake hands wi’ a hand like that, does ter? There’s too much pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it.”

      The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily.

      “Are you tired?” asked the clergyman.

      “Tired? I ham that,” replied Morel. “You don’t know what it is to be tired, as I’m tired.”

      “No,” replied the clergyman.

      “Why, look yer ‘ere,” said the miner, showing the shoulders of his singlet. “It’s a bit dry now, but it’s wet as a clout with sweat even yet. Feel it.”

      “Goodness!” cried Mrs. Morel. “Mr. Heaton doesn’t want to feel your nasty singlet.”

      The clergyman put out his hand gingerly.

      “No, perhaps he doesn’t,” said Morel; “but it’s all come out of me, whether or not. An’ iv’ry day alike my singlet’s wringin’ wet. ‘Aven’t you got a drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from the pit.”

      “You know you drank all the beer,” said Mrs. Morel, pouring out his tea.

      “An’ was there no more to be got?” Turning to the clergyman—“A man gets that caked up wi’ th’ dust, you know,—that clogged up down a coalmine, he needs a drink when he comes home.”

      “I am sure he does,” said the clergyman.

      “But it’s ten to one if there’s owt for him.”

      “There’s water—and there’s tea,” said Mrs. Morel.

      “Water! It’s not water as’ll clear his throat.”

      He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through his great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out another saucerful, and stood his cup on the table.

      “My cloth!” said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate.

      “A man as comes home as I do ‘s too tired to care about cloths,” said Morel.

      “Pity!” exclaimed his wife, sarcastically.

      The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes.

      He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward, his mouth very red in his black face.

      “Mr. Heaton,” he said, “a man as has been down the black hole all day, dingin’ away at a coal face, yi, a sight harder than that wall—”

      “Needn’t make a moan of it,” put in Mrs. Morel.

      She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, he whined and played for sympathy. William sitting nursing the baby, hated him, with a boy’s hatred, for false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment of his mother. Annie had never liked him; she merely avoided him.

      When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth.

      “A fine mess!” she said.

      “Dos’t think I’m goin’ to sit wi’ my arms danglin’, cos tha’s got a parson for tea wi’ thee?” he bawled.

      They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, and Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked Annie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel to shout at her. In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the big glazed text over the mantelpiece and read distinctly:

      “God Bless Our Home!”

      Whereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up, rushed at him, boxed his ears, saying:

      “What are you putting in for?”

      And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her cheeks, while William kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and Morel growled:

      “I canna see what there is so much to laugh at.”

      One evening, directly after the parson’s visit, feeling unable to bear herself after another display from her husband, she took Annie and the baby and went out. Morel had kicked William, and the mother would never forgive him.

      She went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of the meadow to the cricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space of ripe, evening light, whispering with the distant mill-race. She sat on a seat under the alders in the cricket-ground, and fronted the evening. Before her, level and solid, spread the big green cricket-field, like the bed of a sea of light. Children played in the bluish shadow of the pavilion. Many rooks, high up, came cawing home across the softly-woven sky. They stooped in a long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling, like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree-clump that made a dark boss among the pasture.

      A few gentlemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear the chock of the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused; could see the white forms of men shifting silently over the green, upon which already the under shadows were smouldering. Away at the grange, one side of the hay-stacks was lit up, the other sides blue-grey. A waggon of sheaves rocked small across the melting yellow light.

      The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the bell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stood fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west’s scarlet. The big haystacks on the hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold.

      With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby was restless on his mother’s knee, clambering with his hands at the light.

      Mrs. Morel looked down at him. She had dreaded this baby like a catastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband. And now she felt strangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavy because of the child, almost as if it were unhealthy, or malformed. Yet it seemed quite well. But she noticed the peculiar knitting of the baby’s brows, and the peculiar heaviness of its eyes, as if it were trying to understand something that was pain. She felt, when she looked at her child’s dark, brooding pupils, as if a burden were on her heart.

      “He looks as if he was thinking about something—quite sorrowful,” said Mrs. Kirk.

      Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother’s heart melted into passionate grief. She bowed over him, and a few tears shook swiftly out of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers.

      “My lamb!” she cried softly.

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