
 
CHAPTER XIII 

BAXTER DAWESIV 
Annie began to cry again.
"The pain she had yesterday--I never saw anybody suffer like it!"she cried. "Leonard ran like a madman for Dr. Ansell, and when she'dgot to bed she said to me: 'Annie, look at this lump on my side. I wonder what it is?' And there I looked, and I thought I shouldhave dropped. Paul, as true as I'm here, it's a lump as big as mydouble fist. I said: 'Good gracious, mother, whenever did that come?' 'Why, child,' she said, 'it's been there a long time.' I thought Ishould have died, our Paul, I did. She's been having these painsfor months at home, and nobody looking after her."
The tears came to his eyes, then dried suddenly.
"But she's been attending the doctor in Nottingham--and shenever told me," he said.
"If I'd have been at home," said Annie, "I should have seenfor myself."
He felt like a man walking in unrealities. In the afternoonhe went to see the doctor. The latter was a shrewd, lovable man.
"But what is it?" he said.
The doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers.
"It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane,"he said slowly, "and which we MAY be able to make go away."
"Can't you operate?" asked Paul.
"Not there," replied the doctor.
"Are you sure?"
"QUITE!"
Paul meditated a while.
"Are you sure it's a tumour?" he asked. "Why did Dr. Jamesonin Nottingham never find out anything about it? She's been goingto him for weeks, and he's treated her for heart and indigestion."
"Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump," said the doctor.
"And do you KNOW it's a tumour?"
"No, I am not sure."
"What else MIGHT it be? You asked my sister if there wascancer in the family. Might it be cancer?"
"I don't know."
"And what shall you do?"
"I should like an examination, with Dr. Jameson."
"Then have one."
"You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn't be less thanten guineas to come here from Nottingham."
"When would you like him to come?"
"I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over."
Paul went away, biting his lip.
His mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her son went upstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressing-gownthat Leonard had given Annie, and, with a little colour in her face,was quite young again.
"But you look quite pretty in that," he said.
"Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself," she answered.
But when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped her,half-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He liftedher up and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the couch. She was light and frail. Her face looked as if she were dead,with blue lips shut tight. Her eyes opened--her blue, unfailing eyes--and she looked at him pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive her. He held brandy to her lips, but her mouth would not open. All the time she watched him lovingly. She was only sorry for him. The tears ran down his face without ceasing, but not a muscle moved. He was intent on getting a little brandy between her lips.Soon she was able to swallow a teaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. The tears continued to run down his face.
"But," she panted, "it'll go off. Don't cry!"
"I'm not doing," he said.
After a while she was better again. He was kneeling besidethe couch. They looked into each other's eyes.
"I don't want you to make a trouble of it," she said.
"No, mother. You'll have to be quite still, and then you'llget better soon."
But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they lookedat each other understood. Her eyes were so blue--such a wonderfulforget-me-not blue! He felt if only they had been of a differentcolour he could have borne it better. His heart seemed to beripping slowly in his breast. He kneeled there, holding her hand,and neither said anything. Then Annie came in.
"Are you all right?" she murmured timidly to her mother.
"Of course," said Mrs. Morel.
Paul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious.
A day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham,to arrange for a consultation. Paul had practically no money inthe world. But he could borrow.
His mother had been used to go to the public consultation onSaturday morning, when she could see the doctor for only a nominal sum. Her son went on the same day. The waiting-room was full of poor women,who sat patiently on a bench around the wall. Paul thought ofhis mother, in her little black costume, sitting waiting likewise. The doctor was late. The women all looked rather frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendance if he could see the doctorimmediately he came. It was arranged so. The women sittingpatiently round the walls of the room eyed the young man curiously.
At last the doctor came. He was about forty,good-looking, brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he,who had loved her, had specialised on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his mother's. The doctor did not remember.
"Number forty-six M.," said the nurse; and the doctor lookedup the case in his book.
"There is a big lump that may be a tumour," said Paul. "But Dr. Ansell was going to write you a letter."
"Ah, yes!" replied the doctor, drawing the letter fromhis pocket. He was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He wouldcome to Sheffield the next day.
"What is your father?" he asked.
"He is a coal-miner," replied Paul.
"Not very well off, I suppose?"
"This--I see after this," said Paul.
"And you?" smiled the doctor.
"I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory."
The doctor smiled at him.
"Er--to go to Sheffield!" he said, putting the tips of hisfingers together, and smiling with his eyes. "Eight guineas?"
"Thank you!" said Paul, flushing and rising. "And you'llcome to-morrow?"
"To-morrow--Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time thereis a train in the afternoon?"
"There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen."
"And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to walk?" The doctor smiled.
"There is the tram," said Paul; "the Western Park tram."
The doctor made a note of it.
"Thank you!" he said, and shook hands.
Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left inthe charge of Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging in the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with his father.
"Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?" said the father.
"Yes," replied the son. "But I'm going back to-night."
"Are ter, beguy!" exclaimed the collier. "An' has ter eaten owt?"
"No."
"That's just like thee," said Morel. "Come thy ways in."
The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The twowent indoors. Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands,and sleeves rolled up, sat in the arm-chair opposite and lookedat him.
"Well, an' how is she?" asked the miner at length, in a little voice.
"She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea," said Paul.
"That's a blessin'!" exclaimed Morel. "I hope we s'll soonbe havin' her whoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?"
"He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her."
"Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!"
"Eight guineas."
"Eight guineas!" the miner spoke breathlessly. "Well, we munfind it from somewhere."
"I can pay that," said Paul.
There was silence between them for some time.
"She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie,"Paul said.
"Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was," answered Morel. "But Minnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!" He satlooking dismal.
"I s'll have to be going at half-past three," said Paul.
"It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dostthink she'll be able to get as far as this?"
"We must see what the doctors say to-morrow," Paul said.
Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty,and Paul thought his father looked lost, forlorn, and old.
"You'll have to go and see her next week, father," he said.
"I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time," said Morel.
"If she's not," said Paul, "then you must come."
"I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money," said Morel.
"And I'll write to you what the doctor says," said Paul.
"But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out,"said Morel.
"Well, I'll write plain."
It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcelydo more than write his own name.
The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonardwere waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except when he haddeceived himself.
"It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see," said Dr. Jameson.
"And if it is," said Annie, "can you sweal it away?"
"Probably," said the doctor.
Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and putthat down.
"Thank you!" he said. "I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see what we can do."
"There can't be an operation?" said Paul.
The doctor shook his head.
"No," he said; "and even if there could, her heart wouldn'tstand it."
"Is her heart risky?" asked Paul.
"Yes; you must be careful with her."
"Very risky?"
"No--er--no, no! Just take care."
And the doctor was gone.
Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply,like a child. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms roundhis neck, clinging.
"I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs," she said.
And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do itanother time. He felt he could not carry her.
"He thinks it's only a tumour!" cried Annie to her mother. "And he can sweal it away."
"I KNEW he could," protested Mrs. Morel scornfully.
She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ashoff his coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It was so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The long grey hair floated and was gone in the blacknessof the chimney.
The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early in the morning, and they were alone.
"You won't fret, my boy!" she said.
"No, mother."
"No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself."
"Yes," he answered. Then, after a while: "And I shall comenext Saturday, and shall bring my father?"
"I suppose he wants to come," she replied. "At any rate,if he does you'll have to let him."
He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples,gently, tenderly, as if she were a lover.
"Shan't you be late?" she murmured.
"I'm going," he said, very low.
Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hairfrom her temples.
"And you won't be any worse, mother?"
"No, my son."
"You promise me?"
"Yes; I won't be any worse."
He kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. In the early sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way;he did not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and staringas she thought of him.
In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They satin the little wood where bluebells were standing. He took her hand.
"You'll see," he said to Clara, "she'll never be better."
"Oh, you don't know!" replied the other.
"I do," he said.
She caught him impulsively to her breast.
"Try and forget it, dear," she said; "try and forget it."
"I will," he answered.
Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. It was comforting, and he held his arms round her. But he didnot forget. He only talked to Clara of something else. And itwas always so. When she felt it coming, the agony, she criedto him:
"Don't think of it, Paul! Don't think of it, my darling!"
And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed himlike a child. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take itup again immediately he was alone. All the time, as he went about,he cried mechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried,he did not know why. It was his blood weeping. He was just as muchalone whether he was with Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and this pressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read sometimes. He had to keep his mind occupied. And Clara was away of occupying his mind.
On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He wasa forlorn figure, looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs.
"My father's come," he said, kissing his mother.
"Has he?" she answered wearily.
The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom.
"How dun I find thee, lass?" he said, going forward and kissingher in a hasty, timid fashion.
"Well, I'm middlin'," she replied.
"I see tha art," he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as ifnobody owned him, he looked.
"Have you gone on all right?" asked the wife, rather wearily,as if it were an effort to talk to him.
"Yis," he answered. "'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, asyer might expect."
"Does she have your dinner ready?" asked Mrs. Morel.
"Well, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice," he said.
"And you MUST shout at her if she's not ready. She WILL leavethings to the last minute."
She gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her asif she were almost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkwardand humble, and also as if he had lost his presence of mind,and wanted to run. This feeling that he wanted to run away,that he was on thorns to be gone from so trying a situation, and yetmust linger because it looked better, made his presence so trying. He put up his eyebrows for misery, and clenched his fists on his knees,feeling so awkward in presence of big trouble.
Mrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed in Sheffieldfor two months. If anything, at the end she was rather worse. But she wanted to go home. Annie had her children. Mrs. Morelwanted to go home. So they got a motor-car from Nottingham--for shewas too ill to go by train--and she was driven through the sunshine. It was just August; everything was bright and warm. Under the bluesky they could all see she was dying. Yet she was jollier than shehad been for weeks. They all laughed and talked.
"Annie," she exclaimed, "I saw a lizard dart on that rock!"
Her eyes were so quick; she was still so full of life.
Morel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. Everybody was on tiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heardthe sound of the great motor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove homedown the street.
"And just look at them all come out to see me!" she said. "But there, I suppose I should have done the same. How do you do,Mrs. Mathews? How are you, Mrs. Harrison?"
They none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. And they all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great eventin the street.
Morel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur took her as if she were a child. They had set her a big,deep chair by the hearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she was unwrapped and seated, and had drunk a little brandy,she looked round the room.
"Don't think I don't like your house, Annie," she said;"but it's nice to be in my own home again."
And Morel answered huskily:
"It is, lass, it is."
And Minnie, the little quaint maid, said:
"An' we glad t' 'ave yer."
There was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. She looked out of the window.
"There are my sunflowers!" she said.



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? D. H. LAWRENCE

 
  