Page 600 - sons-and-lovers

nie slept beside her. Paul would go in in the early morning,
when his sister got up. His mother was wasted and almost
ashen in the morning with the morphia. Darker and darker
grew her eyes, all pupil, with the torture. In the mornings
the weariness and ache were too much to bear. Yet she could
not—would not—weep, or even complain much.
‘You slept a bit later this morning, little one,’ he would
say to her.
‘Did I?’ she answered, with fretful weariness.
‘Yes; it’s nearly eight o’clock.’
He stood looking out of the window. The whole country
was bleak and pallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse.
There was a strong stroke and a weak one, like a sound and
its echo. That was supposed to betoken the end. She let him
feel her wrist, knowing what he wanted.
Sometimes they looked in each other’s eyes. Then they
almost seemed to make an agreement. It was almost as if he
were agreeing to die also. But she did not consent to die; she
would not. Her body was wasted to a fragment of ash. Her
eyes were dark and full of torture.
‘Can’t you give her something to put an end to it?’ he
asked the doctor at last.
But the doctor shook his head.
‘She can’t last many days now, Mr. Morel,’ he said.
Paul went indoors.
‘I can’t bear it much longer; we shall all go mad,’ said
Annie.
The two sat down to breakfast.
‘Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie,’