Sons and Lovers. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс
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the children included the father in her heart.
Meanwhile William grew bigger and stronger and more active, while Paul, always rather delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and trotted after his mother like her shadow. He was usually active and interested, but sometimes he would have fits of depression. Then the mother would find the boy of three or four crying on the sofa.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, and got no answer.
“What’s the matter?” she insisted, getting cross.
“I don’t know,” sobbed the child.
So she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but without effect. It made her feel beside herself. Then the father, always impatient, would jump from his chair and shout:
“If he doesn’t stop, I’ll smack him till he does.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the mother coldly. And then she carried the child into the yard, plumped him into his little chair, and said: “Now cry there, Misery!”
And then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves perhaps caught his eye, or at last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, but they caused a shadow in Mrs. Morel’s heart, and her treatment of Paul was different from that of the other children.
Suddenly one morning as she was looking down the alley of the Bottoms for the barm-man, she heard a voice calling her. It was the thin little Mrs. Anthony in brown velvet.
“Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie.”
“Oh, do you?” replied Mrs. Morel. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“A lad as gets ’old of another an’ rips his clothes off’n ’is back,” Mrs. Anthony said, “wants showing something.”
“Your Alfred’s as old as my William,” said Mrs. Morel.
“ ’Appen ’e is, but that doesn’t give him a right to get hold of the boy’s collar, an’ fair rip it clean off his back.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Morel, “I don’t thrash my children, and even if I did, I should want to hear their side of the tale.”
“They’d happen be a bit better if they did get a good hiding,” retorted Mrs. Anthony. “When it comes ter rippin’ a lad’s clean collar off’n ’is back a purpose——”
“I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose,” said Mrs. Morel.
“Make me a liar!” shouted Mrs. Anthony.
Mrs. Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her hand trembled as she held her mug of barm.
“But I s’ll let your mester know,” Mrs. Anthony cried after her.
At dinner-time, when William had finished his meal and wanted to be off again—he was then eleven years old—his mother said to him:
“What did you tear Alfred Anthony’s collar for?”
“When did I tear his collar?”
“I don’t know when, but his mother says you did.”
“Why—it was yesterday—an’ it was torn a’ready.”
“But you tore it more.”
“Well, I’d got a cobbler as ’ad licked seventeen—an’ Alfy Ant’ny ’e says:
‘Adam an’ Eve an’ pinch-me,
Went down to a river to bade.
Adam an’ Eve got drownded,
Who do yer think got saved?’
An’ so I says, ‘Oh, Pinch-you,’ an’ so I pinched ’im, an’ ’e was mad, an’ so he snatched my cobbler an’ run off with it. An’ so I run after ’im, an’ when I was gettin’ hold of him, ’e dodged, an’ it ripped ’is collar. But I got my cobbler——”
He pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hanging on a string. This old cobbler had “cobbled”—hit and smashed—seventeen other cobblers on similar strings. So the boy was proud of his veteran.
“Well,” said Mrs. Morel, “you know you’ve got no right to rip his collar.”
“Well, our mother!” he answered. “I never meant tr’a done it—an’ it was on’y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a’ready.”
“Next time,” said his mother, “you be more careful. I shouldn’t like it if you came home with your collar torn off.”
“I don’t care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose.”
The boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded.
“No—well, you be more careful.”
William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, who hated any bother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over.
But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. Then:
“Wheer’s that Willy?” he asked.
“What do you want him for?” asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.
“I’ll let ’im know when I get him,” said Morel, banging his pit-bottle on to the dresser.
“I suppose Mrs. Anthony’s got hold of you and been yarning to you about their Alfy’s collar,” said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.
“Niver mind who’s got hold of me,” said Morel. “When I get hold of ’im I’ll make his bones rattle.”
“It’s a poor tale,” said Mrs. Morel, “that you’re so ready to side with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own children.”
“I’ll learn ’im!” said Morel. “It none matters to me whose lad ’e is; ’e’s none goin’ rippin’ an’ tearin’ about just as he’s a mind.”
“ ‘Ripping and tearing about’!” repeated Mrs. Morel. “He was running after that Alfy, who’d taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold of his collar, because the other dodged—as an Anthony would.”
“I know!” shouted Morel threateningly.
“You would, before you’re told,” replied his wife bitingly.
“Niver you mind,” stormed Morel. “I know my business.”
“That’s more than doubtful,” said Mrs. Morel, “supposing some loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.”
“I know,” repeated Morel.
And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying:
“Can I have my tea, mother?”
“Tha can ha’e more than that!” shouted Morel.
“Hold your noise, man,” said Mrs. Morel; “and don’t look so ridiculous.”
“He’ll look ridiculous before I’ve done wi’ him!” shouted Morel, rising from his chair and glaring at his son.
William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone pale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father.
“Go out!” Mrs. Morel commanded her son.
William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, and crouched.
“I’ll gi’e him ‘go out’!” he shouted like an insane thing.
“What!”