Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence (best short novels .txt) 📕

said, ‘it’s been there a long time.’ I thought I should have died, our Paul, I did. She’s been having these pains for months at home, and nobody looking after her.”

The tears came to his eyes, then dried suddenly.

“But she’s been attending the doctor in Nottingham⁠—and she never told me,” he said.

“If I’d have been at home,” said Annie, “I should have seen for myself.”

He felt like a man walking in unrealities. In the afternoon he went to see the doctor. The latter was a shrewd, lovable man.

“But what is it?” he said.

The doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers.

“It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane,” he said slowly, “and which we may be able to make go away.”

“Can’t you operate?” asked Paul.

“Not there,” replied the doctor.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite!”

Paul meditated a while.

“Are you sure it’s a tumour?” he asked. “Why did Dr. Jameson in Nottingham never find out anything about it? She’s been going to him for weeks, and he’s treated her for heart and indigestion.”

“Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump,” said the doctor.

“And do you know it’s a tumour?”

“No, I am not sure.”

“What else might it be? You asked my sister if there was cancer in the family. Might it be cancer?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what shall you do?”

“I should like an examination, with Dr. Jameson.”

“Then have one.”

“You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn’t be less than ten guineas to come here from Nottingham.”

“When would you like him to come?”

“I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over.”

Paul went away, biting his lip.

His mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her son went upstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressing-gown that Leonard had given Annie, and, with a little colour in her face, was quite young again.

“But you look quite pretty in that,” he said.

“Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself,” she answered.

But when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped her, half-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He lifted her up and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the couch. She was light and frail. Her face looked as if she were dead, with blue lips shut tight. Her eyes opened⁠—her blue, unfailing eyes⁠—and she looked at him pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive her. He held brandy to her lips, but her mouth would not open. All the time she watched him lovingly. She was only sorry for him. The tears ran down his face without ceasing, but not a muscle moved. He was intent on getting a little brandy between her lips. Soon she was able to swallow a teaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. The tears continued to run down his face.

“But,” she panted, “it’ll go off. Don’t cry!”

“I’m not doing,” he said.

After a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the couch. They looked into each other’s eyes.

“I don’t want you to make a trouble of it,” she said.

“No, mother. You’ll have to be quite still, and then you’ll get better soon.”

But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at each other understood. Her eyes were so blue⁠—such a wonderful forget-me-not blue! He felt if only they had been of a different colour he could have borne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping slowly in his breast. He kneeled there, holding her hand, and neither said anything. Then Annie came in.

“Are you all right?” she murmured timidly to her mother.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Morel.

Paul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious.

A day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham, to arrange for a consultation. Paul had practically no money in the world. But he could borrow.

His mother had been used to go to the public consultation on Saturday morning, when she could see the doctor for only a nominal sum. Her son went on the same day. The waiting-room was full of poor women, who sat patiently on a bench around the wall. Paul thought of his mother, in her little black costume, sitting waiting likewise. The doctor was late. The women all looked rather frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendance if he could see the doctor immediately he came. It was arranged so. The women sitting patiently round the walls of the room eyed the young man curiously.

At last the doctor came. He was about forty, good-looking, brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he, who had loved her, had specialised on women’s ailments. Paul told his name and his mother’s. The doctor did not remember.

“Number forty-six M.,” said the nurse; and the doctor looked up the case in his book.

“There is a big lump that may be a tumour,” said Paul. “But Dr. Ansell was going to write you a letter.”

“Ah, yes!” replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. He was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Sheffield the next day.

“What is your father?” he asked.

“He is a coal-miner,” replied Paul.

“Not very well off, I suppose?”

“This⁠—I see after this,” said Paul.

“And you?” smiled the doctor.

“I am a clerk in Jordan’s Appliance Factory.”

The doctor smiled at him.

“Er⁠—to go to Sheffield!” he said, putting the tips of his fingers together, and smiling with his eyes. “Eight guineas?”

“Thank you!” said Paul, flushing and rising. “And you’ll come tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow⁠—Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time there is a train in the afternoon?”

“There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen.”

“And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to walk?” The doctor smiled.

“There is the tram,” said Paul; “the Western Park tram.”

The doctor made a note of it.

“Thank you!” he said, and shook hands.

Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the charge of Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging in the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with