The Complete Novels. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
that came from Sheffield,” said Paul.
“Ay—do!” said Annie.
The next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to be asleep. He stepped softly backwards and forwards at his painting. Suddenly her small voice wailed:
“Don't walk about, Paul.”
He looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles in her face, were looking at him.
“No, my dear,” he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap in his heart.
That evening he got all the morphia pills there were, and took them downstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder.
“What are you doing?” said Annie.
“I s'll put 'em in her night milk.”
Then they both laughed together like two conspiring children. On top of all their horror flicked this little sanity.
Nurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul went up with the hot milk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock.
She was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between her lips that he would have died to save from any hurt. She took a sip, then put the spout of the cup away and looked at him with her dark, wondering eyes. He looked at her.
“Oh, it IS bitter, Paul!” she said, making a little grimace.
“It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you,” he said. “He thought it would leave you in such a state in the morning.”
“And I hope it won't,” she said, like a child.
She drank some more of the milk.
“But it IS horrid!” she said.
He saw her frail fingers over the cup, her lips making a little move.
“I know—I tasted it,” he said. “But I'll give you some clean milk afterwards.”
“I think so,” she said, and she went on with the draught. She was obedient to him like a child. He wondered if she knew. He saw her poor wasted throat moving as she drank with difficulty. Then he ran downstairs for more milk. There were no grains in the bottom of the cup.
“Has she had it?” whispered Annie.
“Yes—and she said it was bitter.”
“Oh!” laughed Annie, putting her under lip between her teeth.
“And I told her it was a new draught. Where's that milk?”
They both went upstairs.
“I wonder why nurse didn't come to settle me down?” complained the mother, like a child, wistfully.
“She said she was going to a concert, my love,” replied Annie.
“Did she?”
They were silent a minute. Mrs. Morel gulped the little clean milk.
“Annie, that draught WAS horrid!” she said plaintively.
“Was it, my love? Well, never mind.”
The mother sighed again with weariness. Her pulse was very irregular.
“Let US settle you down,” said Annie. “Perhaps nurse will be so late.”
“Ay,” said the mother—“try.”
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.