The Rainbow - D. H. Lawrence (e reader comics TXT) 📗

“Why does he do that when he walks?”

“ ’E canna ’elp ’isself, Duckie, it’s th’ make o’ th’ fellow.”

She thought about it, then she laughed nervously. And then she bethought herself, her cheeks flushed, and she cried:

“He’s a horrid man.”

“Nay, he’s non horrid; he canna help it if he wor struck that road.”

But when poor Nat came wambling in again, she slid away. And she would not eat his nuts, if the men bought them for her. And when the farmers gambled at dominoes for them, she was angry.

“They are dirty-man’s nuts,” she cried.

So a revulsion started against Nat, who had not long after to go to the workhouse.

There grew in Brangwen’s heart now a secret desire to make her a lady. His brother Alfred, in Nottingham, had caused a great scandal by becoming the lover of an educated woman, a lady, widow of a doctor. Very often, Alfred Brangwen went down as a friend to her cottage, which was in Derbyshire, leaving his wife and family for a day or two, then returning to them. And no one dared gainsay him, for he was a strong-willed, direct man, and he said he was a friend of this widow.

One day Brangwen met his brother on the station.

“Where are you going to, then?” asked the younger brother.

“I’m going down to Wirksworth.”

“You’ve got friends down there, I’m told.”

“Yes.”

“I s’ll have to be lookin’ in when I’m down that road.”

“You please yourself.”

Tom Brangwen was so curious about the woman that the next time he was in Wirksworth he asked for her house.

He found a beautiful cottage on the steep side of a hill, looking clean over the town, that lay in the bottom of the basin, and away at the old quarries on the opposite side of the space. Mrs. Forbes was in the garden. She was a tall woman with white hair. She came up the path taking off her thick gloves, laying down her shears. It was autumn. She wore a wide-brimmed hat.

Brangwen blushed to the roots of his hair, and did not know what to say.

“I thought I might look in,” he said, “knowing you were friends of my brother’s. I had to come to Wirksworth.”

She saw at once that he was a Brangwen.

“Will you come in?” she said. “My father is lying down.”

She took him into a drawing-room, full of books, with a piano and a violin-stand. And they talked, she simply and easily. She was full of dignity. The room was of a kind Brangwen had never known; the atmosphere seemed open and spacious, like a mountain-top to him.

“Does my brother like reading?” he asked.

“Some things. He has been reading Herbert Spencer. And we read Browning sometimes.”

Brangwen was full of admiration, deep thrilling, almost reverential admiration. He looked at her with lit-up eyes when she said, “we read.” At last he burst out, looking round the room:

“I didn’t know our Alfred was this way inclined.”

“He is quite an unusual man.”

He looked at her in amazement. She evidently had a new idea of his brother: she evidently appreciated him. He looked again at the woman. She was about forty, straight, rather hard, a curious, separate creature. Himself, he was not in love with her, there was something chilling about her. But he was filled with boundless admiration.

At teatime he was introduced to her father, an invalid who had to be helped about, but who was ruddy and well-favoured, with snowy hair and watery blue eyes, and a courtly naive manner that again was new and strange to Brangwen, so suave, so merry, so innocent.

His brother was this woman’s lover! It was too amazing. Brangwen went home despising himself for his own poor way of life. He was a clodhopper and a boor, dull, stuck in the mud. More than ever he wanted to clamber out, to this visionary polite world.

He was well off. He was as well off as Alfred, who could not have above six hundred a year, all told. He himself made about four hundred, and could make more. His investments got better every day. Why did he not do something? His wife was a lady also.

But when he got to the Marsh, he realized how fixed everything was, how the other form of life was beyond him, and he regretted for the first time that he had succeeded to the farm. He felt a prisoner, sitting safe and easy and unadventurous. He might, with risk, have done more with himself. He could neither read Browning nor Herbert Spencer, nor have access to such a room as Mrs. Forbes’s. All that form of life was outside him.

But then, he said he did not want it. The excitement of the visit began to pass off. The next day he was himself, and if he thought of the other woman, there was something about her and her place that he did not like, something cold something alien, as if she were not a woman, but an inhuman being who used up human life for cold, unliving purposes.

The evening came on, he played with Anna, and then sat alone with his own wife. She was sewing. He sat very still, smoking, perturbed. He was aware of his wife’s quiet figure, and quiet dark head bent over her needle. It was too quiet for him. It was too peaceful. He wanted to smash the walls down, and let the night in, so that his wife should not be so secure and quiet, sitting there. He wished the air were not so close and narrow. His wife was obliterated from him, she was in her own world, quiet, secure, unnoticed, unnoticing. He was shut down by her.

He rose to go out. He could not sit still any longer. He must get out of this oppressive, shutdown, woman-haunt.

His wife lifted her head and looked at him.

“Are you going out?” she asked.

He looked down and met her eyes. They were darker than darkness, and gave deeper space. He felt himself retreating before