Sons and Lovers. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ an’ so I pinched ‘im, an’ ‘e was mad, an’ so he snatched my cobbler an’ run off with it. An’ so I run after ‘im, an’ when I was gettin’ hold of him, ‘e dodged, an’ it ripped ‘is collar. But I got my cobbler—”

      He pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hanging on a string. This old cobbler had “cobbled”—hit and smashed—seventeen other cobblers on similar strings. So the boy was proud of his veteran.

      “Well,” said Mrs. Morel, “you know you’ve got no right to rip his collar.”

      “Well, our mother!” he answered. “I never meant tr’a done it—an’ it was on’y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a’ready.”

      “Next time,” said his mother, “you be more careful. I shouldn’t like it if you came home with your collar torn off.”

      “I don’t care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose.”

      The boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded.

      “No—well, you be more careful.”

      William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel who hated any bother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over.

      But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. Then:

      “Where’s that Willy?” he asked.

      “What do you want him for?” asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.

      “I’ll let ‘im know when I get him,” said Morel, banging his pit-bottle on to the dresser.

      “I suppose Mrs. Anthony’s got hold of you and been yarning to you about their Alfy’s collar,” said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.

      “Niver mind who’s got hold of me,” said Morel. “When I get hold of ‘im I’ll make his bones rattle.”

      “It’s a poor tale,” said Mrs. Morel, “that you’re so ready to side with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own children.”

      “I’ll learn ‘im!” said Morel. “It none matters to me whose lad ‘e is; ‘e’s none goin’ rippin’ an’ tearin’ about just as he’s a mind.”

      “‘Ripping and tearing about!’” repeated Mrs. Morel. “He was running after that Alfy, who’d taken his cobbler and he accidentally got hold of his collar, because the other dodged—as an Anthony would.”

      “I know!” shouted Morel threateningly.

      “You would, before you’re told,” replied his wife bitingly.

      “Niver you mind,” stormed Morel. “I know my business.”

      “That’s more than doubtful,” said Mrs. Morel, “supposing some loud mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.”

      “I know,” repeated Morel.

      And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying:

      “Can I have my tea, mother?”

      “Tha can ha’e more than that!” shouted Morel.

      “Hold your noise, man,” said Mrs. Morel; “and don’t look so ridiculous.”

      “He’ll look ridiculous before I’ve done wi’ him!” shouted Morel rising from his chair and glaring at his son.

      William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone pale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father.

      “Go out!” Mrs. Morel commanded her son.

      William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, and crouched.

      “I’ll gi’e him ‘go out!’” he shouted like an insane thing.

      “What!” cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. “You shall not touch him for her telling, you shall not!”

      “Shonna I?” shouted Morel. “Shonna I?”

      And, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in between them, with her fist lifted.

      “Don’t you dare!” she cried.

      “What!” he shouted, baffled for the moment. “What!”

      She spun round to her son.

      “Go out of the house!” she commanded him in fury.

      The boy, as if hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morel rushed to the door, but was too late. He returned, pale under his pit-dirt with fury. But now his wife was fully roused.

      “Only dare!” she said in a loud, ringing voice. “Only dare, milord, to lay a finger on that child! You’ll regret it for ever.”

      He was afraid of her. In a towering rage, he sat down.

      When the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joined the Women’s Guild. It was a little club of women attached to the Co-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday night in the long room over the grocery shop of the Bestwood “Co-op.” The women were supposed to discuss the benefits to be derived from co-operation, and other social questions. Sometimes Mrs. Morel read a paper. It seemed queer to the children to see their mother, who was always busy about the house, sitting writing in her rapid fashion, thinking, referring to books, and writing again. They felt for her on such occasions the deepest respect.

      But they loved the Guild. It was the only thing to which they did not grudge their mother—and that partly because she enjoyed it, partly because of the treats they derived from it. The Guild was called by some hostile husbands, who found their wives getting too independent, the “clat-fart” shop—that is, the gossip-shop. It is true, from off the basis of the Guild, the women could look at their homes, at the conditions of their own lives, and find fault. So the colliers found their women had a new standard of their own, rather disconcerting. And also, Mrs. Morel always had a lot of news on Monday nights, so that the children liked William to be in when their mother came home, because she told him things.

      Then, when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the “Co-op.” office. He was a very clever boy, frank, with rather rough features and real viking blue eyes.

      “What dost want ter ma’e a stool-harsed Jack on ‘im for?” said Morel. “All he’ll do is to wear his britches behind out, an’ earn nowt. What’s ‘e startin’ wi’?”

      “It doesn’t matter what he’s starting with,” said Mrs. Morel.

      “It wouldna! Put ‘im i’ th’ pit wi’ me, an’ ‘e’ll earn a easy ten shillin’ a wik from th’ start. But six shillin’ wearin’ his truck-end out on a stool’s better than ten shillin’ i’ th’ pit wi’ me, I know.”

      “He СКАЧАТЬ