Sons and Lovers, D. H. Lawrence [best fiction books to read TXT] 📗

Annie wanted to get married for. He was fond of her, and she of him. Still, he hoped rather lugubriously that it would turn out all right. Arthur was astonishingly handsome in his scarlet and yellow, and he knew it well, but was secretly ashamed of the uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen, on leaving her mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on the back and said:

“But don’t cry, child, he’ll be good to you.”

Morel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonard looked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him:

“I s’ll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsible for her.”

“You can,” he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And it was all over.

When Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as he often did, with his mother.

“You’re not sorry she’s married, mother, are you?” he asked.

“I’m not sorry she’s married⁠—but⁠—it seems strange that she should go from me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer to go with her Leonard. That’s how mothers are⁠—I know it’s silly.”

“And shall you be miserable about her?”

“When I think of my own wedding day,” his mother answered, “I can only hope her life will be different.”

“But you can trust him to be good to her?”

“Yes, yes. They say he’s not good enough for her. But I say if a man is genuine, as he is, and a girl is fond of him⁠—then⁠—it should be all right. He’s as good as she.”

“So you don’t mind?”

“I would never have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn’t feel to be genuine through and through. And yet, there’s a gap now she’s gone.”

They were both miserable, and wanted her back again. It seemed to Paul his mother looked lonely, in her new black silk blouse with its bit of white trimming.

“At any rate, mother, I s’ll never marry,” he said.

“Ay, they all say that, my lad. You’ve not met the one yet. Only wait a year or two.”

“But I shan’t marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we’ll have a servant.”

“Ay, my lad, it’s easy to talk. We’ll see when the time comes.”

“What time? I’m nearly twenty-three.”

“Yes, you’re not one that would marry young. But in three years’ time⁠—”

“I shall be with you just the same.”

“We’ll see, my boy, we’ll see.”

“But you don’t want me to marry?”

“I shouldn’t like to think of you going through your life without anybody to care for you and do⁠—no.”

“And you think I ought to marry?”

“Sooner or later every man ought.”

“But you’d rather it were later.”

“It would be hard⁠—and very hard. It’s as they say:

“ ‘A son’s my son till he takes him a wife,
But my daughter’s my daughter the whole of her life.’ ”

“And you think I’d let a wife take me from you?”

“Well, you wouldn’t ask her to marry your mother as well as you,” Mrs. Morel smiled.

“She could do what she liked; she wouldn’t have to interfere.”

“She wouldn’t⁠—till she’d got you⁠—and then you’d see.”

“I never will see. I’ll never marry while I’ve got you⁠—I won’t.”

“But I shouldn’t like to leave you with nobody, my boy,” she cried.

“You’re not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I’ll give you till seventy-five. There you are, I’m fat and forty-four. Then I’ll marry a staid body. See!”

His mother sat and laughed.

“Go to bed,” she said⁠—“go to bed.”

“And we’ll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it’ll be just all right. I s’ll perhaps be rich with my painting.”

“Will you go to bed!”

“And then you s’ll have a pony-carriage. See yourself⁠—a little Queen Victoria trotting round.”

“I tell you to go to bed,” she laughed.

He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always the same.

Mrs. Morel sat brooding⁠—about her daughter, about Paul, about Arthur. She fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely bound. And she felt she must live now, to be with her children. Life was so rich for her. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply he loved her. He was a creature of the moment. Never yet had he been forced to realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. He was in perfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat close to his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose, something almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the fun red mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong. It was his father’s mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother’s people⁠—good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxious about him. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how far would he go?

The army had not really done him any good. He resented bitterly the authority of the officers. He hated having to obey as if he were an animal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attention to getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion. Often he got into scrapes, but they were the manly scrapes that are easily condoned. So he made a good time out of it, whilst his self-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks and handsome figure, his refinement, his decent education to get him most of what he wanted, and he was not disappointed. Yet he was restless. Something seemed to gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was never alone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and loved and despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despised him slightly.

Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and she decided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was like a lad taking a holiday.

He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough he