Sons and Lovers. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

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      “Eh, bless you, it’ll be hours late on the Midland,” she said indifferently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring him early. Morel went down the entry to look for him. Then he came back.

      “Goodness, man!” she said. “You’re like an ill-sitting hen.”

      “Hadna you better be gettin’ him summat t’ eat ready?” asked the father.

      “There’s plenty of time,” she answered.

      “There’s not so much as I can see on,” he answered, turning crossly in his chair. She began to clear her table. The kettle was singing. They waited and waited.

      Meantime the three children were on the platform at Sethley Bridge, on the Midland main line, two miles from ​home. They waited one hour. A train came—he was not there. Down the line the red and green lights shone. It was very dark and very cold.

      “Ask him if the London train’s come,” said Paul to Annie, when they saw a man in a tip cap.

      “I’m not,” said Annie. “You be quiet—he might send us off.”

      But Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting someone by the London train: it sounded so grand. Yet he was much too much scared of broaching any man, let alone one in a peaked cap, to dare to ask. The three children could scarcely go into the waiting-room for fear of being sent away, and for fear something should happen whilst they were off the platform. Still they waited in the dark and cold.

      “It’s an hour an’ a half late,” said Arthur pathetically.

      “Well,” said Annie, “it’s Christmas Eve.”

      They all grew silent. He wasn’t coming. They looked down the darkness of the railway. There was London! It seemed the uttermost of distance. They thought anything might happen if one came from London. They were all too troubled to talk. Cold, and unhappy, and silent, they huddled together on the platform.

      At last, after more than two hours, they saw the lights of an engine peering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran out. The children drew back with beating hearts. A great train, bound for Manchester, drew up. Two doors opened, and from one of them, William. They flew to him. He handed parcels to them cheerily, and immediately began to explain that this great train had stopped for his sake at such a small station as Sethley Bridge: it was not booked to stop.

      Meanwhile the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, the chop was cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel put on her black apron. She was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to read. The minutes were a torture to her.

      “H’m!” said Morel. “It’s an hour an’ a ha’ef.”

      “And those children waiting!” she said.

      “Th’ train canna ha’ come in yit,” he said.

      “I tell you, on Christmas Eve they’re hours wrong.”

      They were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with anxiety. The ash-tree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And a that space of night from London home! Mrs. Morel ​suffered. The slight click of the works inside the clock irritated her. It was getting so late; it was getting unbearable.

      At last there was a sound of voices, and a footstep in the entry.

      “Ha’s here!” cried Morel, jumping up.

      Then he stood back. The mother ran a few steps towards the door and waited. There was a rush and a patter of feet, the door burst open. William was there. He dropped his Gladstone bag and took his mother in his arms.

      “Mater!” he said.

      “My boy!” she cried.

      And for two seconds, no longer, she clasped him and kissed him. Then she withdrew and said, trying to be quite normal:

      “But how late you are!”

      “Aren’t I!” he cried, turning to his father. “Well, dad!”

      The two men shook hands.

      “Well, my lad!”

      Morel’s eyes were wet.

      “We thought tha’d niver be commin’,” he said.

      “Oh, I’d come!” exclaimed William.

      Then the son turned round to his mother.

      “But you look well,” she said proudly, laughing.

      “Well!” he exclaimed. “I should think so—coming home!”

      He was a fine fellow, big, straight, and fearless-looking. He looked round at the evergreens and the kissing bunch, and the little tarts that lay in their tins on the hearth.

      “By jove! mother, it’s not different!” he said, as if in relief.

      Everybody was still for a second. Then he suddenly sprang forward, picked a tart from the hearth, and pushed it whole into his mouth.

      “Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!” the father exclaimed.

      He had brought them endless presents. Every penny he had he had spent on them. There was a sense of luxury overflowing in the house. For his mother there was an umbrella with gold on the pale handle. She kept it to her dying day, and would have lost anything rather than that. Everybody had something gorgeous, and besides, there were pounds of unknown sweets: Turkish delight, crystallized pineapple, and such-like things which, the children thought, only the splendour of London could provide. And Paul boasted of these sweets among his friends.

      ​“Real pineapple, cut off in slices, and then turned into crystal—fair grand!”

      Everybody was mad with happiness in the family. Home was home, and they loved it with a passion of love, whatever the suffering had been. There were parties, there were rejoicings. People came in to see William, to see what difference London had made to him. And they all found him “such a gentleman, and such a fine fellow, my word!”

      When he went away again the children retired to various places to weep alone. Morel went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Morel felt as if she were numbed by some drug, as if her feelings were paralyzed. She loved him passionately.

      He was in the office of a lawyer connected with a large shipping firm, and at the midsummer his chief offered him a trip in the Mediterranean on one of the boats, for quite a small cost. Mrs. Morel wrote: “Go, go, my boy. You may never have a chance again, and I should love to think of you cruising there in the Mediterranean almost better than to have you at home.” But William came home for his fortnight’s holiday. Not even the Mediterranean, which pulled at all his young man’s desire to travel, and at his poor man’s wonder at the glamorous south, could take him away when he might come home. That compensated his mother for much.

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