Sons and Lovers. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ sixteen he was the best shorthand clerk and book~keeper on the place, except one. Then he taught in the night-schools. But he was so fiery that only his good-nature and his size protected him.

      All the things that men do—the decent things—William did. He could run like the wind. When he was twelve he won a first prize in a race—an inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on the dresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen pleasure. The boy only ran for her. He flew home with his anvil, breathless, with a “Look, mother!” That was the first real tribute to herself. She took it like a queen.

      “How pretty!” she exclaimed.

      Then he began to get ambitious. He gave all his money to his mother. When he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him back two for himself, and, as he never drank, he felt himself rich. He went about with the bourgeois of Bestwood. The townlet contained nothing higher than the clergyman. Then came the bank manager, then the doctors, then the tradespeople, and after that the hosts of colliers. William began to consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and the tradesmen. He played billiards in the ​Mechanics Hall. Also he danced—this in spite of his mother. All the life that Bestwood offered he enjoyed, from the six-penny-hops down Church Street, to sports and billiards.

      Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William’s heart for a brief fortnight.

      Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed the air.

      “Is Mr. Morel in?” the damsel would ask appealingly.

      “My husband is at home,” Mrs. Morel replied.

      “I—I mean young Mr. Morel,” repeated the maiden painfully.

      “Which one? There are several.”

      Whereupon much bushing and stammering from the fair one.

      “I—I met Mr. Morel—at Ripley,” she explained.

      “Oh—at a dance!”

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is not at home.”

      Then he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl away so rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow, who walked with long strides, sometimes frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily to the back of his head. Now he came in frowning. He threw his cap on to the sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand, and glared down at his mother. She was small, with her hair taken straight back from her forehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly.

      “Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?” he asked.

      “I don’t know about a lady. There was a girl came.”

      “And why didn’t you tell me?”

      “Because I forgot, simply.”

      He fumed a little.

      “A good-looking girl—seemed a lady?”

      “I didn’t look at her.”

      “Big brown eyes?”

      “I did not look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they’re running after you, they’re not to corne and ask your mother for you. Tell them that—brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes.”

      “I’m sure she was a nice girl.”

      “And I’m sure she wasn’t.”

      ​There ended the altercation. Over the dancing there was a great strife between the mother and the son. The grievance reached its height when William said he was going to Hucknall Torkard—considered a low town—to a fancy-dress ball. He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress he could hire, which one of his friends had had, and which fitted him perfectly. The Highland suit came home. Mrs. Morel received it coldly and would not unpack it.

      “My suit come?” cried William.

      “There’s a parcel in the front-room.”

      He rushed in and cut the string.

      “How do you fancy your son in this!” he said, enraptured, showing her the suit.

      “You know I don’t want to fancy you in it.”

      On the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morel put on her coat and bonnet.

      “Aren’t you going to stop and see me, mother?” he asked.

      “No; I don’t want to see you,” she replied.

      She was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid of her son’s going the same way as his father. He hesitated a moment, and his heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highland bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her. She went out.

      When he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a situation in Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty shillings a week instead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His mother and his father were brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he was going to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her younger sons. Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very clever, was getting on well, having lessons in French and German from his godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board-school, but there was talk of his trying to get a scholarship for the High School in Nottingham.

      William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was studying hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Still he went out to the dances and the river parties. He did not drink. The children were all rabid teetotallers. He came home very late at night, and sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him to take more care, to do one thing or another.

      “Dance, if you want to dance, my son: but don’t think you ​can work in the office, and then amuse yourself, and then study on top of all. You can’t; the human frame won’t stand it. Do one thing or the other—amuse yourself or learn Latin; but don’t try to do both.”

      Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. This seemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether to rejoice or to grieve.

      “They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother,” he cried, his eyes blazing as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silent inside her. He read the letter: “ ‘And will you reply by Thursday whether you accept. Yours faithfully——’ They want me, mother, at a hundred and twenty a year, and don’t even ask to see me. Didn’t I tell you I could do it! Think of me in London! And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater. We s’ll all be rolling in money.”

      “We shall, my son,” she answered sadly.

      It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going away than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for СКАЧАТЬ