Sons & Lovers. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
It moved the man so that he forgot everything.
“No, I won't dance,” she said softly. Her words came clean and ringing.
Not knowing what he was doing—he often did the right thing by instinct—he sat beside her, inclining reverentially.
“But you mustn't miss your dance,” she reproved.
“Nay, I don't want to dance that—it's not one as I care about.”
“Yet you invited me to it.”
He laughed very heartily at this.
“I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in taking the curl out of me.”
It was her turn to laugh quickly.
“You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled,” she said.
“I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it,” he laughed, rather boisterously.
“And you are a miner!” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes. I went down when I was ten.”
She looked at him in wondering dismay.
“When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?” she asked.
“You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop out at night to see what's going on.”
“It makes me feel blind,” she frowned.
“Like a moudiwarp!” he laughed. “Yi, an' there's some chaps as does go round like moudiwarps.” He thrust his face forward in the blind, snout-like way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer for direction. “They dun though!” he protested naively. “Tha niver seed such a way they get in. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time, an' tha can see for thysen.”
She looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenly opened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds of them toiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed to her noble. He risked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked at him, with a touch of appeal in her pure humility.
“Shouldn't ter like it?” he asked tenderly. “'Appen not, it 'ud dirty thee.”
She had never been “thee'd” and “thou'd” before.
The next Christmas they were married, and for three months she was perfectly happy: for six months she was very happy.
He had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: he was nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his own house. It was small, but convenient enough, and quite nicely furnished, with solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest soul. The women, her neighbours, were rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother and sisters were apt to sneer at her ladylike ways. But she could perfectly well live by herself, so long as she had her husband close.
Sometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to open her heart seriously to him. She saw him listen deferentially, but without understanding. This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and she had flashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of an evening: it was not enough for him just to be near her, she realised. She was glad when he set himself to little jobs.
He was a remarkably handy man—could make or mend anything. So she would say:
“I do like that coal-rake of your mother's—it is small and natty.”
“Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee one!”
“What! why, it's a steel one!”
“An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactly same.”
She did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy and happy.
But in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, she felt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity, took them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was married in: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning the papers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid.
“Look here,” she said at night, after he was washed and had had his dinner. “I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. Haven't you settled the bills yet?”
“No. I haven't had a chance.”
“But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottingham on Saturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's chairs and eating from an unpaid table.”
He did not answer.
“I can have your bank-book, can't I?”
“Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee.”
“I thought—” she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money left over. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigid with bitterness and indignation.
The next day she went down to see his mother.
“Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?” she asked.
“Yes, I did,” tartly retorted the elder woman.
“And how much did he give you to pay for it?”
The elder woman was stung with fine indignation.
“Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin',” she replied.
“Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!”
“I can't help that.”
“But where has it all gone?”
“You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look—beside ten pound as he owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down here.”
“Six pounds!” echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that, after her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six pounds more should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter's parents' house, at his expense.
“And how much has he sunk in his houses?” she asked.
“His houses—which houses?”
Gertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house he lived in, and the next one, was his own.
“I thought the house we live in—” she began.
“They're my houses, those two,” said the mother-in-law. “And not clear either. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid.”
Gertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now.
“Then we ought to be paying you rent,” she said coldly.
“Walter is paying me rent,” replied the mother.
“And what rent?” asked Gertrude.
“Six and six a week,” retorted the mother.
It was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect, looked straight before her.
“It is lucky to be you,” said the elder woman, bitingly, “to have a husband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free hand.”
The young wife was silent.
She said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towards him. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard as rock.
When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, at Christmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This Christmas she would bear him a child.
“You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?” asked her nearest neighbour, in October, when there was great talk of opening a dancing-class over the Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood.
“No—I never had the least inclination to,” Mrs. Morel replied.
“Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha'