Sons and Lovers. D. H. Lawrence

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      The baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own, but its look was heavy, steady, as if it had realised something that had stunned some point of its soul.

      In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes always looking at her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her. She no longer loved her husband; she had not wanted this child to come, and there it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart. She felt as if the navel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had not been broken. A wave of hot love went over her to the infant. She held it close to her face and breast. With all her force, with all her soul she would make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. She would love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Its clear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her? When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was there a reproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with fear and pain.

      Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hill opposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands.

      “Look!” she said. “Look, my pretty!”

      She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, almost with relief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her bosom again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back whence he came.

      “If he lives,” she thought to herself, “what will become of him—what will he be?”

      Her heart was anxious.

      “I will call him ‘Paul,’” she said suddenly; she knew not why.

      After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the deep green meadow, darkening all.

      As she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel was home by ten o’clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.

      Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemed to exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody. If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about his dinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that made their mother’s blood boil, and made them hate him.

      On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o’clock. The baby was unwell, and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Morel, tired to death, and still weak, was scarcely under control.

      “I wish the nuisance would come,” she said wearily to herself.

      The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too tired to carry him to the cradle.

      “But I’ll say nothing, whatever time he comes,” she said. “It only works me up; I won’t say anything. But I know if he does anything it’ll make my blood boil,” she added to herself.

      She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could not bear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept her head bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But it went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurched against the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at the white pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, then returned, stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child.

      “Is there nothing to eat in the house?” he asked, insolently, as if to a servant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the clipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morel hated him most in this condition.

      “You know what there is in the house,” she said, so coldly, it sounded impersonal.

      He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle.

      “I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer,” he said affectedly.

      “And you got it,” she said, still ignoring him.

      He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the table with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer to get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons, forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and a clang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start.

      “What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?” the mother cried.

      “Then tha should get the flamin’ things thysen. Tha should get up, like other women have to, an’ wait on a man.”

      “Wait on you—wait on you?” she cried. “Yes, I see myself.”

      “Yis, an’ I’ll learn thee tha’s got to. Wait on me, yes, tha sh’lt wait on me—”

      “Never, milord. I’d wait on a dog at the door first.”

      “What—what?”

      He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent second in threat.

      “P-h!” she went quickly, in contempt.

      He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharply on his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.

      One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed into the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair. To her very soul she was sick; she clasped the child tightly to her bosom. A few moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she brought herself to. The baby was crying plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding rather profusely. As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, some drops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was at least not hurt. She balanced her head to keep equilibrium, so that the blood ran into her eye.

      Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table with one hand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance, he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of her rocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then, leaning forward over her, and swaying as he spoke, he said, in tone of wondering concern:

      “Did it catch thee?”

      He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child. With the catastrophe he had lost all balance.

      “Go away!” she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind. He hiccoughed. “Let’s—let’s look at it,” he said, hiccoughing again.

      “Go away!” she cried.

      “Lemme—lemme look at it, lass.”

      She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying grasp on the back of her rocking-chair.

      “Go away,” she said, and weakly she pushed him off.

      He stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her. Summoning all her strength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of will, moving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where she bathed her eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too dizzy. Afraid lest she should swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair, trembling in every fibre. By instinct, she kept the baby clasped.

      Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back into its cavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws, for the scattered spoons.

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