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

“Look here, mother,” said William, “that’s the fourth pair she’s lost since Christmas⁠—at five shillings a pair!”

“You only gave me two of them,” she remonstrated.

And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst she sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a book. After supper William wanted to write a letter.

“Here is your book, Lily,” said Mrs. Morel. “Would you care to go on with it for a few minutes?”

“No, thank you,” said the girl. “I will sit still.”

“But it is so dull.”

William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope he said:

“Read a book! Why, she’s never read a book in her life.”

“Oh, go along!” said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration,

“It’s true, mother⁠—she hasn’t,” he cried, jumping up and taking his old position on the hearthrug. “She’s never read a book in her life.”

“ ’Er’s like me,” chimed in Morel. “ ’Er canna see what there is i’ books, ter sit borin’ your nose in ’em for, nor more can I.”

“But you shouldn’t say these things,” said Mrs. Morel to her son.

“But it’s true, mother⁠—she can’t read. What did you give her?”

“Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan’s. Nobody wants to read dry stuff on Sunday afternoon.”

“Well, I’ll bet she didn’t read ten lines of it.”

“You are mistaken,” said his mother.

All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly.

“Did you read any?” he asked.

“Yes, I did,” she replied.

“How much?”

“I don’t know how many pages.”

“Tell me one thing you read.”

She could not.

She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but lovemaking and chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughts sifted through his mother’s mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and was asked in reply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed.

“You know, mother,” he said, when he was alone with her at night, “she’s no idea of money, she’s so wessel-brained. When she’s paid, she’ll suddenly buy such rot as marrons glacés, and then I have to buy her season ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to get married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year. But at this rate⁠—”

“A fine mess of a marriage it would be,” replied his mother. “I should consider it again, my boy.”

“Oh, well, I’ve gone too far to break off now,” he said, “and so I shall get married as soon as I can.”

“Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there’s no stopping you; but I tell you, I can’t sleep when I think about it.”

“Oh, she’ll be all right, mother. We shall manage.”

“And she lets you buy her underclothing?” asked the mother.

“Well,” he began apologetically, “she didn’t ask me; but one morning⁠—and it was cold⁠—I found her on the station shivering, not able to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: ‘I think so.’ So I said: ‘Have you got warm underthings on?’ And she said: ‘No, they were cotton.’ I asked her why on earth she hadn’t got something thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she had nothing. And there she is⁠—a bronchial subject! I had to take her and get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn’t mind the money if we had any. And, you know, she ought to keep enough to pay for her season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find the money.”

“It’s a poor lookout,” said Mrs. Morel bitterly.

He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly careless and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair.

“But I can’t give her up now; it’s gone too far,” he said. “And, besides, for some things I couldn’t do without her.”

“My boy, remember you’re taking your life in your hands,” said Mrs. Morel. “Nothing is as bad as a marriage that’s a hopeless failure. Mine was bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but it might have been worse by a long chalk.”

He leaned with his back against the side of the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets. He was a big, rawboned man, who looked as if he would go to the world’s end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on his face.

“I couldn’t give her up now,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an engagement.”

“I can’t give her up now,” he said.

The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflict between them; but he would say no more. At last she said:

“Well, go to bed, my son. You’ll feel better in the morning, and perhaps you’ll know better.”

He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy now as it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to be breaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. Now her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck.

And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railing against her.

“Well,” he said, “if you don’t believe me, what she’s like, would you believe she has been confirmed three times?”

“Nonsense!” laughed Mrs. Morel.

“Nonsense or not, she has! That’s what confirmation means for her⁠—a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.”

“I haven’t, Mrs. Morel!” cried the girl⁠—“I haven’t! it is not true!”

“What!” he cried, flashing round on her. “Once in Bromley, once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else.”

“Nowhere else!” she said, in tears⁠—“nowhere else!”

“It was! And if it wasn’t why were you confirmed twice?”

“Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,” she pleaded, tears in her eyes.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel; “I can quite