Complete Works. D. H. Lawrence

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      “Oh, Chubby!” Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel. “Don't you think he's always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?”

      “Is he?” said Mrs. Morel. “That's not very nice of him.”

      “It isn't, really!”

      “You are cold,” said the mother. “Won't you come near the fire?”

      Morel jumped out of his armchair.

      “Come and sit you here!” he cried. “Come and sit you here!”

      “No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp,” said William.

      “No, no!” cried Morel. “This cheer's warmest. Come and sit here, Miss Wesson.”

      “Thank you so much,” said the girl, seating herself in the collier's armchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of the kitchen penetrate her.

      “Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!” she said, putting up her mouth to him, and using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made the rest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The young lady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures to her for the present. William winced.

      In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a lady condescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainly clownish—in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself?

      “I'll go,” said Annie.

      Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when the girl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: “Oh, thank you!” in a gracious way.

      She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been so poor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, and chattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twist tobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as he puffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answered quietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence and admiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best was got out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth, the best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand. She felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how to treat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable.

      At about ten o'clock he said to her:

      “Aren't you tired, Gyp?”

      “Rather, Chubby,” she answered, at once in the intimate tones and putting her head slightly on one side.

      “I'll light her the candle, mother,” he said.

      “Very well,” replied the mother.

      Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel.

      “Good-night, Mrs. Morel,” she said.

      Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stone beer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet, and kissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the lady, because the house was full.

      “You wait a minute,” said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursing the hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to everybody's discomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In five minutes he was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did not know why. He talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but himself and his mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old attitude on the hearthrug, and said hesitatingly:

      “Well, mother?”

      “Well, my son?”

      She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, for his sake.

      “Do you like her?”

      “Yes,” came the slow answer.

      “She's shy yet, mother. She's not used to it. It's different from her aunt's house, you know.”

      “Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult.”

      “She does.” Then he frowned swiftly. “If only she wouldn't put on her BLESSED airs!”

      “It's only her first awkwardness, my boy. She'll be all right.”

      “That's it, mother,” he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy. “You know, she's not like you, mother. She's not serious, and she can't think.”

      “She's young, my boy.”

      “Yes; and she's had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a child. Since then she's lived with her aunt, whom she can't bear. And her father was a rake. She's had no love.”

      “No! Well, you must make up to her.”

      “And so—you have to forgive her a lot of things.”

      “WHAT do you have to forgive her, my boy?”

      “I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she's never had anybody to bring her deeper side out. And she's FEARFULLY fond of me.”

      “Anybody can see that.”

      “But you know, mother—she's—she's different from us. Those sort of people, like those she lives amongst, they don't seem to have the same principles.”

      “You mustn't judge too hastily,” said Mrs. Morel.

      But he seemed uneasy within himself.

      In the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house.

      “Hello!” he called, sitting on the stairs. “Are you getting up?”

      “Yes,” her voice called faintly.

      “Merry Christmas!” he shouted to her.

      Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did not come down in half an hour.

      “Was she REALLY getting up when she said she was?” he asked of Annie.

      “Yes, she was,” replied Annie.

      He waited a while, then went to the stairs again.

      “Happy New Year,” he called.

      “Thank you, Chubby dear!” came the laughing voice, far away.

      “Buck up!” he implored.

      It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, who always rose before six, looked at the clock.

      “Well, it's a winder!” he exclaimed.

      The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of the stairs.

      “Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?” he called, rather crossly. She only laughed. The СКАЧАТЬ