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

“The green on their buds⁠—” and he faltered into silence timidly.

“Let me take the rug,” said Miriam over-gently.

“I can carry it,” he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it to her.

Then Mrs. Leivers appeared.

“I’m sure you’re tired and cold,” she said. “Let me take your coat. It is heavy. You mustn’t walk far in it.”

She helped him off with his coat. He was quite unused to such attention. She was almost smothered under its weight.

“Why, mother,” laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen, swinging the great milk-churns, “you’ve got almost more than you can manage there.”

She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth.

The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originally a labourer’s cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paul loved it⁠—loved the sack-bag that formed the hearthrug, and the funny little corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner, through which, bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the back garden and the lovely round hills beyond.

“Won’t you lie down?” said Mrs. Leivers.

“Oh no; I’m not tired,” he said. “Isn’t it lovely coming out, don’t you think? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I’m glad it’s sunny.”

“Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“How’s your mother?”

“I think she’s tired now. I think she’s had too much to do. Perhaps in a little while she’ll go to Skegness with me. Then she’ll be able to rest. I s’ll be glad if she can.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Leivers. “It’s a wonder she isn’t ill herself.”

Miriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched everything that happened. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were quick and bright with life as ever. He watched the strange, almost rhapsodic way in which the girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or looking in the saucepan. The atmosphere was different from that of his own home, where everything seemed so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudly outside to the horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rosebushes in the garden, the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as if something had come breaking in on her world. There was a sense of silence inside the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, a maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical. And her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots seemed only like the romantic rags of King Cophetua’s beggar-maid.

She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her all in. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. She resented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was not pulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwards her hands trembled slightly at her work. She nearly dropped all she handled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered with trepidation. She resented that he saw so much.

Mrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she was needed at her work. She was too polite to leave him. Presently she excused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tin saucepan.

“Oh dear, Miriam,” she cried, “these potatoes have boiled dry!”

Miriam started as if she had been stung.

“Have they, mother?” she cried.

“I shouldn’t care, Miriam,” said the mother, “if I hadn’t trusted them to you.” She peered into the pan.

The girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; she remained standing in the same spot.

“Well,” she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, “I’m sure I looked at them five minutes since.”

“Yes,” said the mother, “I know it’s easily done.”

“They’re not much burned,” said Paul. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Mrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes.

“It wouldn’t matter but for the boys,” she said to him. “Only Miriam knows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are ‘caught.’ ”

“Then,” thought Paul to himself, “you shouldn’t let them make a trouble.”

After a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots were covered with earth. He was rather small, rather formal, for a farmer. He glanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said:

“Dinner ready?”

“Nearly, Edgar,” replied the mother apologetically.

“I’m ready for mine,” said the young man, taking up the newspaper and reading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. Dinner was served. The meal went rather brutally. The over-gentleness and apologetic tone of the mother brought out all the brutality of manners in the sons. Edgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouth quickly like a rabbit, looked indignantly at his mother, and said:

“These potatoes are burnt, mother.”

“Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you’ll have bread if you can’t eat them.”

Edgar looked in anger across at Miriam.

“What was Miriam doing that she couldn’t attend to them?” he said.

Miriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and winced, but she said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her shame, bowing her dark head.

“I’m sure she was trying hard,” said the mother.

“She hasn’t got sense even to boil the potatoes,” said Edgar. “What is she kept at home for?”

“On’y for eating everything that’s left in th’ pantry,” said Maurice.

“They don’t forget that potato-pie against our Miriam,” laughed the father.

She was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, like some saint out of place at the brutal board.

It puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feeling went running because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother exalted everything⁠—even a bit of housework⁠—to the plane of a religious trust. The sons resented this; they felt themselves cut away underneath, and they answered with brutality and also with a sneering superciliousness.

Paul was just opening out from childhood into manhood. This atmosphere, where everything took a religious value, came with a subtle fascination to him. There was something in the air. His own mother was logical. Here there was