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

it was seven o’clock, and it was coming a little bit light. He heard some people calling. The world was waking. A grey, deathly dawn crept over the snow. Yes, he could see the houses. He put out the gas. It seemed very dark. The breathing came still, but he was almost used to it. He could see her. She was just the same. He wondered if he piled heavy clothes on top of her it would stop. He looked at her. That was not her⁠—not her a bit. If he piled the blanket and heavy coats on her⁠—

Suddenly the door opened, and Annie entered. She looked at him questioningly.

“Just the same,” he said calmly.

They whispered together a minute, then he went downstairs to get breakfast. It was twenty to eight. Soon Annie came down.

“Isn’t it awful! Doesn’t she look awful!” she whispered, dazed with horror.

He nodded.

“If she looks like that!” said Annie.

“Drink some tea,” he said.

They went upstairs again. Soon the neighbours came with their frightened question:

“How is she?”

It went on just the same. She lay with her cheek in her hand, her mouth fallen open, and the great, ghastly snores came and went.

At ten o’clock nurse came. She looked strange and woebegone.

“Nurse,” cried Paul, “she’ll last like this for days?”

“She can’t, Mr. Morel,” said nurse. “She can’t.”

There was a silence.

“Isn’t it dreadful!” wailed the nurse. “Who would have thought she could stand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down.”

At last, at about eleven o’clock, he went downstairs and sat in the neighbour’s house. Annie was downstairs also. Nurse and Arthur were upstairs. Paul sat with his head in his hand. Suddenly Annie came flying across the yard crying, half mad:

“Paul⁠—Paul⁠—she’s gone!”

In a second he was back in his own house and upstairs. She lay curled up and still, with her face on her hand, and nurse was wiping her mouth. They all stood back. He kneeled down, and put his face to hers and his arms round her:

“My love⁠—my love⁠—oh, my love!” he whispered again and again. “My love⁠—oh, my love!”

Then he heard the nurse behind him, crying, saying:

“She’s better, Mr. Morel, she’s better.”

When he took his face up from his warm, dead mother he went straight downstairs and began blacking his boots.

There was a good deal to do, letters to write, and so on. The doctor came and glanced at her, and sighed.

“Ay⁠—poor thing!” he said, then turned away. “Well, call at the surgery about six for the certificate.”

The father came home from work at about four o’clock. He dragged silently into the house and sat down. Minnie bustled to give him his dinner. Tired, he laid his black arms on the table. There were swede turnips for his dinner, which he liked. Paul wondered if he knew. It was some time, and nobody had spoken. At last the son said:

“You noticed the blinds were down?”

Morel looked up.

“No,” he said. “Why⁠—has she gone?”

“Yes.”

“When wor that?”

“About twelve this morning.”

“H’m!”

The miner sat still for a moment, then began his dinner. It was as if nothing had happened. He ate his turnips in silence. Afterwards he washed and went upstairs to dress. The door of her room was shut.

“Have you seen her?” Annie asked of him when he came down.

“No,” he said.

In a little while he went out. Annie went away, and Paul called on the undertaker, the clergyman, the doctor, the registrar. It was a long business. He got back at nearly eight o’clock. The undertaker was coming soon to measure for the coffin. The house was empty except for her. He took a candle and went upstairs.

The room was cold, that had been warm for so long. Flowers, bottles, plates, all sickroom litter was taken away; everything was harsh and austere. She lay raised on the bed, the sweep of the sheet from the raised feet was like a clean curve of snow, so silent. She lay like a maiden asleep. With his candle in his hand, he bent over her. She lay like a girl asleep and dreaming of her love. The mouth was a little open as if wondering from the suffering, but her face was young, her brow clear and white as if life had never touched it. He looked again at the eyebrows, at the small, winsome nose a bit on one side. She was young again. Only the hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples was mixed with silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulders were filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift her eyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately. But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror. Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He stroked the hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumb and wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering to her:

“Mother, mother!”

He was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who had been to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet, businesslike fashion. They did not look at her. He watched jealously. He and Annie guarded her fiercely. They would not let anybody come to see her, and the neighbours were offended.

After a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at a friend’s. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from the couch as he entered, saying in a plaintive way:

“I thought tha wor niver comin’, lad.”

“I didn’t think you’d sit up,” said Paul.

His father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without fear⁠—simply nothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start that he had been afraid to go to bed, alone in the house with his dead. He was sorry.

“I forgot you’d be alone, father,” he said.

“Dost want owt to eat?” asked Morel.

“No.”

“Sithee⁠—I made thee a drop o’ hot milk. Get it down thee; it’s cold enough for