Sons and Lovers
They turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl curled up
in her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half of the bed, moved
her, made the other, straightened her nightgown over her small feet,
and covered her up.
“There,” said Paul, stroking her softly. “There!—now you’ll sleep.”
“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t think you could do the bed so nicely,” she
added, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her hand,
her head snugged between her shoulders. Paul put the long thin plait of
grey hair over her shoulder and kissed her.
“You’ll sleep, my love,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered trustfully. “Good-night.”
They put out the light, and it was still.
Morel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came to look at
her at about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual after her
draught. Her mouth had come a bit open.
“Shall we sit up?” said Paul.
“I s’ll lie with her as I always do,” said Annie. “She might wake up.”
“All right. And call me if you see any difference.”
“Yes.”
They lingered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big and black
and snowy outside, their two selves alone in the world. At last he went
into the next room and went to bed.
He slept almost immediately, but kept waking every now and again. Then
he went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie’s whispered, “Paul,
Paul!” He saw his sister in her white nightdress, with her long plait
of hair down her back, standing in the darkness.
“Yes?” he whispered, sitting up.
“Come and look at her.”
He slipped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick chamber.
His mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up as she had gone to
sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she breathed with great,
hoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were long intervals between.
“She’s going!” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Annie.
“How long has she been like it?”
“I only just woke up.”
Annie huddled into the dressing-gown, Paul wrapped himself in a brown
blanket. It was three o’clock. He mended the fire. Then the two sat
waiting. The great, snoring breath was taken—held awhile—then given
back. There was a space—a long space. Then they started. The great,
snoring breath was taken again. He bent close down and looked at her.
“Isn’t it awful!” whispered Annie.
He nodded. They sat down again helplessly. Again came the great,
snoring breath. Again they hung suspended. Again it was given back,
long and harsh. The sound, so irregular, at such wide intervals,
sounded through the house. Morel, in his room, slept on. Paul and Annie
sat crouched, huddled, motionless. The great snoring sound began
again—there was a painful pause while the breath was held—back came the
rasping breath. Minute after minute passed. Paul looked at her again,
bending low over her.
“She may last like this,” he said.
They were both silent. He looked out of the window, and could faintly
discern the snow on the garden.
“You go to my bed,” he said to Annie. “I’ll sit up.”
“No,” she said, “I’ll stop with you.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said.
At last Annie crept out of the room, and he was alone. He hugged
himself in his brown blanket, crouched in front of his mother,
watching. She looked dreadful, with the bottom jaw fallen back. He
watched. Sometimes he thought the great breath would never begin again.
He could not bear it—the waiting. Then suddenly, startling him, came
the great harsh sound. He mended the fire again, noiselessly. She must
not be disturbed. The minutes went by. The night was going, breath by
breath. Each time the sound came he felt it wring him, till at last he
could not feel so much.
His father got up. Paul heard the miner drawing his stockings on,
yawning. Then Morel, in shirt and stockings, entered.
“Hush!” said Paul.
Morel stood watching. Then he looked at his son, helplessly, and in
horror.
“Had I better stop a-whoam?” he whispered.
“No. Go to work. She’ll last through to-morrow.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes. Go to work.”
The miner looked at her again, in fear, and went obediently out of the
room. Paul saw the tape of his garters swinging against his legs.
After another half-hour Paul went downstairs and drank a cup of tea,
then returned. Morel, dressed for the pit, came upstairs again.
“Am I to go?” he said.
“Yes.”
And in a few minutes Paul heard his father’s heavy steps go thudding
over the deadening snow. Miners called in the streets as they tramped
in gangs to work. The terrible, long-drawn breaths
continued—heave—heave—heave; then a long pause—then—ah-h-h-h-h! as it
came back. Far away over the snow sounded the hooters of the ironworks.
One after another they crowed and boomed, some small and far away, some
near, the blowers of the collieries and the other works. Then there was
silence. He mended the fire. The great breaths broke the silence—she
looked just the same. He put back the blind and peered out. Still it
was dark. Perhaps there was a lighter tinge. Perhaps the snow was
bluer. He drew up the blind and got dressed. Then, shuddering, he drank
brandy from the bottle on the wash-stand. The snow _was_ growing blue.
He heard a cart clanking down the street. Yes, 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 sick-room 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 owt.”
Paul drank it.
After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, and
left his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in to
kiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they had
kept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she would
be cold.
“My dear!” he whispered. “My dear!”
And he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange to
him. It eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her door softly,
not to wake her, and went to bed.
In the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie downstairs and
Paul coughing in the room across the landing. He opened her door, and
went into the darkened room. He saw the white uplifted form in the
twilight, but her he dared not see. Bewildered, too frightened to