The Boy in the Bush by David Herbert Lawrence

Author:David Herbert Lawrence [Lawrence, David Herbert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Anncona Media AB
Published: 1924-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II

Thank goodness, Dr. Rackett was upstairs. They fetched him, and Timothy and Tom, and carried Mr. Ellis into the dying room.

"Better leave me alone with him now," said Rackett.

After ten minutes he came out of the dying room and closed the door behind him. Tom was standing there. He looked at Rackett enquiringly. Rackett shook his head.

"Dad's not dead?" said Tom.

Rackett nodded.

Tom's face went to pieces for a moment. Then he composed it, and that Australian mouth of his, almost like a scar, shut close. He went into the dying room.

Someone had to fetch the Methodist son-in-law from York. Jack went in the sulky. Better die in the cart than stop in that house. And he could drive the sulky quietly.

The Methodist son-in-law, though he was stout and wore black, and Jack objected to him on principle, wasn't really so bad, in his own home. His wife Ruth of course burst into tears and ran upstairs. Her husband kept his face straight, brought out the whiskey tantalus, and poured some for Jack and himself. This they both drank with befitting gravity.

"I must be in chapel in fifteen minutes; that will be five minutes late," said the parson. "But they can't complain, under the circumstances. Mrs. Blogg of course will stay at home. Er—is anyone making arrangements out at Wandoo?"

"What arrangements?"

"Oh, seeing to things . the personal property, too."

"I was sent for you," said Jack. "I suppose they thought you'd see to things."

"Yes! Certainly! Certainly! I'll be out with Mrs. Blogg directly after Meeting. Let me see."

He went to a table and laboriously wrote two notes. Twisting them into cocked hats, he handed them one after the other to Jack, saying:

"This is to the Church of England parson. Leave it at his house. I've made it Toosday, Toosday at half-past ten. I suppose that'll do. And this—this is to the joiner."

He looked at Jack meaningly, and Jack looked vague.

"Joshua Jenkins, at the joiner's shop. Third house from the end of the road. And you'll find him in the loft over the stable, Sunday or not, if he isn't in the house."

It was sunset, and the single bells of the church and chapel were sounding their last ping! Ping! ping-ping! as Jack drove slowly down the straggling street of York. People were going to church, the women in their best shawls and bonnets, hurrying a little along the muddy road, where already the cows were lying down to sleep, and the loose horses straggled uncomfortably. Occasionally a muddy buggy rattled up to the brick Church of England, people passed shadow-shape into the wooden Presbyterian Church, or waited outside the slab Meeting House of the Methodists. The choir band was already scraping fiddles and tooting cornets in the church. Lamps were lighted within and one feeble lamp at the church gate. It was a cloudy evening. Odd horsemen went trotting through the mud, going out into the country again as night fell, rather forlorn.

Jack always felt queer, in York on Sundays. The attempt at Sunday seemed to him like children's make-believe.

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