Page 330 - sons-and-lovers
P. 330

‘Faint!’ replied Paul.
            ‘H’m!’
            The elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled
         off to bed. His last fight was fought in that home.
            Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother’s hand.
            ‘Don’t be poorly, mother—don’t be poorly!’ he said time
         after time.
            ‘It’s nothing, my boy,’ she murmured.
            At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and raked
         the fire. Then he cleared the room, put everything straight,
         laid the things for breakfast, and brought his mother’s can-
         dle.
            ‘Can you go to bed, mother?’
            ‘Yes, I’ll come.’
            ‘Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him.’
            ‘No. I’ll sleep in my own bed.’
            ‘Don’t sleep with him, mother.’
            ‘I’ll sleep in my own bed.’
            She rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her
         closely  upstairs,  carrying  her  candle.  On  the  landing  he
         kissed her close.
            ‘Good-night, mother.’
            ‘Good-night!’ she said.
            He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery.
         And yet, somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he
         still loved his mother best. It was the bitter peace of resig-
         nation.
            The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a
         great humiliation to him.
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