Page 271 - sons-and-lovers

him. He believed himself.
‘And the people knew what that tune meant?’ said his
mother.
‘Yes—just like the Scotch when they heard ‘The Flowers
o’ the Forest’—and when they used to ring the bells back-
ward for alarm.’
‘How?’ said Annie. ‘A bell sounds the same whether it’s
rung backwards or forwards.’
‘But,’ he said, ‘if you start with the deep bell and ring up
to the high one—der—der—der—der—der—der—der—
der!’
He ran up the scale. Everybody thought it clever. He
thought so too. Then, waiting a minute, he continued the
poem.
‘Hm!’ said Mrs. Morel curiously, when he finished. ‘But I
wish everything that’s written weren’t so sad.’
‘I canna see what they want drownin’ theirselves for,’
said Morel.
There was a pause. Annie got up to clear the table.
Miriam rose to help with the pots.
‘Let ME help to wash up,’ she said.
‘Certainly not,’ cried Annie. ‘You sit down again. There
aren’t many.’
And Miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat
down again to look at the book with Paul.
He was master of the party; his father was no good. And
great tortures he suffered lest the tin box should be put out
at Firsby instead of at Mablethorpe. And he wasn’t equal to
getting a carriage. His bold little mother did that.

0 Sons and Lovers