Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ tea at any rate. Should I come with you to Keston?”

      “Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to take him? Eh, dear! His clean shirt—and it's a blessing it IS clean. But it had better be aired. And stockings—he won't want them—and a towel, I suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?”

      “A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,” said Paul. His father had been in the hospital before.

      “Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,” continued Mrs. Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, and was touched now with grey. “He's very particular to wash himself to the waist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose they see plenty like it.”

      Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very thin bread and butter.

      “Here you are,” he said, putting her cup of tea in her place.

      “I can't be bothered!” she exclaimed crossly.

      “Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready,” he insisted.

      So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. She was thinking.

      In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles to Keston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulging string bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges—a little, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her, that she was thrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quickly in her anxiety, felt at the back of her her son's heart waiting on her, felt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her. And when she was at the hospital, she thought: “It WILL upset that lad when I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful.” And when she was trudging home again, she felt he was coming to share her burden.

      “Is it bad?” asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house.

      “It's bad enough,” she replied.

      “What?”

      She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her son watched her face as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened hands fingering at the bow under her chin.

      “Well,” she answered, “it's not really dangerous, but the nurse says it's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on his leg—here—and it's a compound fracture. There are pieces of bone sticking through—”

      “Ugh—how horrid!” exclaimed the children.

      “And,” she continued, “of course he says he's going to die—it wouldn't be him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said, looking at me. 'Don't be so silly,' I said to him. 'You're not going to die of a broken leg, however badly it's smashed.' 'I s'll niver come out of 'ere but in a wooden box,' he groaned. 'Well,' I said, 'if you want them to carry you into the garden in a wooden box, when you're better, I've no doubt they will.' 'If we think it's good for him,' said the Sister. She's an awfully nice Sister, but rather strict.”

      Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence.

      “Of course, he IS bad,” she continued, “and he will be. It's a great shock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it IS a very dangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mend so easily. And then there's the fever and the mortification—if it took bad ways he'd quickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded man, with wonderful healing flesh, and so I see no reason why it SHOULD take bad ways. Of course there's a wound—”

      She was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children realised that it was very bad for their father, and the house was silent, anxious.

      “But he always gets better,” said Paul after a while.

      “That's what I tell him,” said the mother.

      Everybody moved about in silence.

      “And he really looked nearly done for,” she said. “But the Sister says that is the pain.”

      Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet.

      “And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'll have to go now, Walter, because of the train—and the children.' And he looked at me. It seems hard.”

      Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went outside for some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, in her little rocking-chair that her husband had made for her when the first baby was coming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterly sorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of hearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now, when all her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would have slaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she would have taken the pain herself, if she could, somewhere far away inside her, she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her most of all, this failure to love him, even when he roused her strong emotions. She brooded a while.

      “And there,” she said suddenly, “when I'd got halfway to Keston, I found I'd come out in my working boots—and LOOK at them.” They were an old pair of Paul's, brown and rubbed through at the toes. “I didn't know what to do with myself, for shame,” she added.

      In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Morel talked again to her son, who was helping her with her housework.

      “I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow! 'Well,' I said to him, 'what sort of a journey did you have with him?' 'Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay,' I said, 'I know what he'd be.' 'But it WOR bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it WOR that!' he said. 'I know,' I said. 'At ivry jolt I thought my 'eart would ha' flown clean out o' my mouth,' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives sometimes! Missis, not for a fortune would I go through wi' it again.' 'I can quite understand it,' I said. 'It's a nasty job, though,' he said, 'an' one as'll be a long while afore it's right again.' 'I'm afraid it will,' I said. I like Mr. Barker—I DO like him. There's something so manly about him.”

      Paul resumed his task silently.

      “And of course,” Mrs. Morel continued, “for a man like your father, the hospital IS hard. He CAN'T understand rules and regulations. And he won't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed the muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day, WOULD he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of course, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving him. I'm sure, when I kissed him an' came away, it seemed a shame.”

      So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud to him, and he took it in as best he could, by sharing her trouble to lighten it. And in the end she shared almost everything with him without knowing.

      Morel had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical condition. Then he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going to get better, the whole family sighed with relief, and proceeded to live happily.

      They were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There were fourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillings from the sick club, and five shillings from the Disability Fund; and then every week the butties had something for Mrs. Morel—five or seven shillings—so that she was quite well to do. And whilst Morel was progressing favourably in the hospital, the family was extraordinarily happy and peaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays Mrs. Morel went to Nottingham to see her husband. Then she always brought back some little thing: a small СКАЧАТЬ