DEATH IN THE FAMILY
Arthur Morel was growing up. He was a quick, careless, impulsive boy, a
good deal like his father. He hated study, made a great moan if he had
to work, and escaped as soon as possible to his sport again.
In appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well made,
graceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh colouring,
and his exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with
his generous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite. But as he
grew older his temper became uncertain. He flew into rages over
nothing, seemed unbearably raw and irritable.
His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He thought only of
himself. When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way he hated,
even if it were she. When he was in trouble he moaned to her
ceaselessly.
“Goodness, boy!” she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said,
hated him, “if you don’t like it, alter it, and if you can’t alter it,
put up with it.”
And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he came
to detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body,
which had been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem
to ripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable. There
came over him a look of meanness and of paltriness. And when the
mean-looking elderly man bullied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was
furious. Moreover, Morel’s manners got worse and worse, his habits
somewhat disgusting. When the children were growing up and in the
crucial stage of adolescence, the father was like some ugly irritant to
their souls. His manners in the house were the same as he used among
the colliers down pit.
“Dirty nuisance!” Arthur would cry, jumping up and going straight out
of the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel persisted the
more because his children hated it. He seemed to take a kind of
satisfaction in disgusting them, and driving them nearly mad, while
they were so irritably sensitive at the age of fourteen or fifteen. So
that Arthur, who was growing up when his father was degenerate and
elderly, hated him worst of all.
Then, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptuous hatred
of his children.
“There’s not a man tries harder for his family!” he would shout. “He
does his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I’m not
going to stand it, I tell you!”
But for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as he
imagined, they would have felt sorry. As it was, the battle now went on
nearly all between father and children, he persisting in his dirty and
disgusting ways, just to assert his independence. They loathed him.
Arthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won a
scholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother decided to
let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only come home at
week-ends.
Annie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning about
four shillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since
she had passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in
the house.
Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But still
he stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everything
he did was for her. She waited for his coming home in the evening, and
then she unburdened herself of all she had pondered, or of all that had
occurred to her during the day. He sat and listened with his
earnestness. The two shared lives.
William was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her an
engagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped at such a
fabulous price.
“Eight guineas!” said Morel. “More fool him! If he’d gen me some on’t,
it ’ud ha’ looked better on ’im.”
“Given _you_ some of it!” cried Mrs. Morel. “Why give _you_ some of
it!”
She remembered _he_ had bought no engagement ring at all, and she
preferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But now the
young man talked only of the dances to which he went with his
betrothed, and the different resplendent clothes she wore; or he told
his mother with glee how they went to the theatre like great swells.
He wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should come at
the Christmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but with no
presents. Mrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing footsteps, she rose
and went to the door. William entered.
“Hello, mother!” He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to present a
tall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black-and-white
check, and furs.
“Here’s Gyp!”
Miss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a small smile.
“Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!” she exclaimed.
“I am afraid you will be hungry,” said Mrs. Morel.
“Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?”
William Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly.
“How should I?” he said.
“Then I’ve lost them. Don’t be cross with me.”
A frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced round the
kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glittering
kissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden chairs
and little deal table. At that moment Morel came in.
“Hello, dad!”
“Hello, my son! Tha’s let on me!”
The two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She gave the same
smile that showed her teeth.
“How do you do, Mr. Morel?”
Morel bowed obsequiously.
“I’m very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself very
welcome.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, rather amused.
“You will like to go upstairs,” said Mrs. Morel.
“If you don’t mind; but not if it is any trouble to you.”
“It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box.”
“And don’t be an hour dressing yourself up,” said William to his
betrothed.
Annie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, preceded
the young lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. and Mrs. Morel had
vacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by candlelight. The
colliers’ wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case of extreme illness.
“Shall I unstrap the box?” asked Annie.
“Oh, thank you very much!”
Annie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot water.
“I think she’s rather tired, mother,” said William. “It’s a beastly
journey, and we had such a rush.”
“Is there anything I can give her?” asked Mrs. Morel.
“Oh no, she’ll be all right.”
But there was a chill in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss
Western came down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, very fine
for the collier’s kitchen.
“I told you you’d no need to change,” said William to her.
“Oh, Chubby!” Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel.
“Don’t you think he’s always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?”
“Is he?” said Mrs. Morel. “That’s not very nice of him.”
“It isn’t, really!”
“You are cold,” said the mother. “Won’t you come near the fire?”
Morel jumped out of his armchair.
“Come and sit you here!” he cried. “Come and sit you here!”
“No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp,” said William.
“No, no!” cried Morel. “This cheer’s warmest. Come and sit here, Miss
Wesson.”
“Thank you _so_ much,” said the girl, seating herself in the collier’s
armchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of the
kitchen penetrate her.
“Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!” she said, putting up her mouth to him,
and using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made the
rest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The young
lady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures to
her for the present. William winced.
In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a lady
condescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainly
clownish—in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself?
“I’ll go,” said Annie.
Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when the
girl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: “Oh, thank
you!” in a gracious way.
She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been so
poor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, and
chattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twist
tobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as he
puffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answered
quietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence and
admiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best was
got out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth,
the best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand.
She felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how to
treat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable.
At about ten o’clock he said to her:
“Aren’t you tired, Gyp?”
“Rather, Chubby,” she answered, at once in the intimate tones and
putting her head slightly on one side.
“I’ll light her the candle, mother,” he said.
“Very well,” replied the mother.
Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel.
“Good-night, Mrs. Morel,” she said.
Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stone
beer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet,
and kissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the
lady, because the house was full.
“You wait a minute,” said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursing
the hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to
everybody’s discomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In
five minutes he was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did
not know why. He talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but
himself and his mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old
attitude on the hearthrug, and said hesitatingly:
“Well, mother?”
“Well, my son?”
She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, for
his sake.
“Do you like her?”
“Yes,” came the slow answer.
“She’s shy yet, mother. She’s not used to it. It’s different from her
aunt’s house, you know.”
“Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult.”
“She does.” Then he frowned swiftly. “If only she wouldn’t put on her
_blessed_ airs!”
“It’s only her first awkwardness, my boy. She’ll be all right.”
“That’s it, mother,” he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy.
“You know, she’s not like you, mother. She’s not serious, and she can’t
think.”
“She’s young, my boy.”
“Yes; and she’s had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a
child. Since then she’s lived with her aunt, whom she can’t bear. And
her father was a rake. She’s had no love.”
“No! Well, you must make up to her.”
“And so—you have to forgive her a lot of things.”
“_What_ do you have to forgive her, my boy?”
“I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she’s never had
anybody to bring her deeper side out. And she’s _fearfully_ fond of
me.”
“Anybody can see that.”
“But you know, mother—she’s—she’s different from us. Those sort of
people, like those she lives amongst, they don’t seem to have the same
principles.”
“You mustn’t judge too hastily,” said Mrs. Morel.
But he seemed uneasy within himself.
In the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house.
“Hello!” he called, sitting on the stairs. “Are you getting up?”
“Yes,” her voice called faintly.
“Merry Christmas!” he shouted to her.
Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did not
come down in half an hour.
“Was she _really_ getting up when she said she was?” he asked of Annie.
“Yes, she was,” replied Annie.
He waited a while, then went to the stairs again.
“Happy New Year,” he called.
“Thank you, Chubby dear!” came the laughing voice, far away.
“Buck up!” he implored.
It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, who
always rose before six, looked at the clock.
“Well, it’s a winder!” he exclaimed.
The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of the
stairs.
“Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?” he called, rather
crossly. She only laughed. The family expected, after that time of
preparation, something like magic. At last she came, looking very nice
in a blouse and skirt.
“Have you _really_ been all this time getting ready?” he asked.
“Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. Morel?”
She played the grand lady at first. When she went with William to
chapel, he in his frock-coat and silk hat, she in her furs and
London-made costume, Paul and Arthur and Annie expected everybody to
bow to the ground in admiration. And Morel, standing in his Sunday suit
at the end of the road, watching the gallant pair go, felt he was the
father of princes and princesses.
And yet she was not so grand. For a year now she had been a sort of
secretary or clerk in a London office. But while she was with the
Morels she queened it. She sat and let Annie or Paul wait on her as if
they were her servants. She treated Mrs. Morel with a certain glibness
and Morel with patronage. But after a day or so she began to change her
tune.
William always wanted Paul or Annie to go along with them on their
walks. It was so much more interesting. And Paul really _did_ admire
“Gipsy” wholeheartedly; in fact, his mother scarcely forgave the boy
for the adulation with which he treated the girl.
On the second day, when Lily said: “Oh, Annie, do you know where I left
my muff?” William replied:
“You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie?”
And Lily went upstairs with a cross, shut mouth. But it angered the
young man that she made a servant of his sister.
On the third evening William and Lily were sitting together in the
parlour by the fire in the dark. At a quarter to eleven Mrs. Morel was
heard raking the fire. William came out to the kitchen, followed by his
beloved.
“Is it as late as that, mother?” he said. She had been sitting alone.
“It is not _late_, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up.”
“Won’t you go to bed, then?” he asked.
“And leave you two? No, my boy, I don’t believe in it.”
“Can’t you trust us, mother?”
“Whether I can or not, I won’t do it. You can stay till eleven if you
like, and I can read.”
“Go to bed, Gyp,” he said to his girl. “We won’t keep mater waiting.”
“Annie has left the candle burning, Lily,” said Mrs. Morel; “I think
you will see.”
“Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel.”
William kissed his sweetheart at the foot of the stairs, and she went.
He returned to the kitchen.
“Can’t you trust us, mother?” he repeated, rather offended.
“My boy, I tell you I don’t _believe_ in leaving two young things like
you alone downstairs when everyone else is in bed.”
And he was forced to take this answer. He kissed his mother good-night.
At Easter he came over alone. And then he discussed his sweetheart
endlessly with his mother.
“You know, mother, when I’m away from her I don’t care for her a bit. I
shouldn’t care if I never saw her again. But, then, when I’m with her
in the evenings I am awfully fond of her.”
“It’s a queer sort of love to marry on,” said Mrs. Morel, “if she holds
you no more than that!”
“It _is_ funny!” he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him. “But
yet—there’s so much between us now I couldn’t give her up.”
“You know best,” said Mrs. Morel. “But if it is as you say, I wouldn’t
call it _love_—at any rate, it doesn’t look much like it.”
“Oh, I don’t know, mother. She’s an orphan, and—”
They never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled and rather
fretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength and money went in
keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford to take his mother to
Nottingham when he came over.
Paul’s wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings, to his
great joy. He was quite happy at Jordan’s, but his health suffered from
the long hours and the confinement. His mother, to whom he became more
and more significant, thought how to help.
His half-day holiday was on Monday afternoon. On a Monday morning in
May, as the two sat alone at breakfast, she said:
“I think it will be a fine day.”
He looked up in surprise. This meant something.
“You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, he asked me
last week if I wouldn’t go and see Mrs. Leivers, and I promised to
bring you on Monday if it’s fine. Shall we go?”
“I say, little woman, how lovely!” he cried. “And we’ll go this
afternoon?”
Paul hurried off to the station jubilant. Down Derby Road was a
cherry-tree that glistened. The old brick wall by the Statutes ground
burned scarlet, spring was a very flame of green. And the steep swoop
of highroad lay, in its cool morning dust, splendid with patterns of
sunshine and shadow, perfectly still. The trees sloped their great
green shoulders proudly; and inside the warehouse all the morning, the
boy had a vision of spring outside.
When he came home at dinner-time his mother was rather excited.
“Are we going?” he asked.
“When I’m ready,” she replied.
Presently he got up.
“Go and get dressed while I wash up,” he said.
She did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took her boots.
They were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those naturally exquisite
people who can walk in mud without dirtying their shoes. But Paul had
to clean them for her. They were kid boots at eight shillings a pair.
He, however, thought them the most dainty boots in the world, and he
cleaned them with as much reverence as if they had been flowers.
Suddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She had got a
new cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward.
“Oh, my stars!” he exclaimed. “What a bobby-dazzler!”
She sniffed in a little haughty way, and put her head up.
“It’s not a bobby-dazzler at all!” she replied. “It’s very quiet.”
She walked forward, whilst he hovered round her.
“Well,” she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and mighty, “do
you like it?”
“Awfully! You _are_ a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!”
He went and surveyed her from the back.
“Well,” he said, “if I was walking down the street behind you, I should
say: ‘Doesn’t _that_ little person fancy herself!”’
“Well, she doesn’t,” replied Mrs. Morel. “She’s not sure it suits her.”
“Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped
in burnt paper. It _does_ suit you, and _I_ say you look nice.”
She sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know better.
“Well,” she said, “it’s cost me just three shillings. You couldn’t have
got it ready-made for that price, could you?”
“I should think you couldn’t,” he replied.
“And, you know, it’s good stuff.”
“Awfully pretty,” he said.
The blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black.
“Too young for me, though, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Too young for you!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Why don’t you buy some
false white hair and stick it on your head.”
“I s’ll soon have no need,” she replied. “I’m going white fast enough.”
“Well, you’ve no business to,” he said. “What do I want with a
white-haired mother?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one, my lad,” she said rather
strangely.
They set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William had
given her, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller than she,
though he was not big. He fancied himself.
On the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit waved its
plumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely.
“Now look at that!” said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood on the road
to watch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hill crawled a little group
in silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small truck, and a man. They
climbed the incline against the heavens. At the end the man tipped the
wagon. There was an undue rattle as the waste fell down the sheer slope
of the enormous bank.
“You sit a minute, mother,” he said, and she took a seat on a bank,
whilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, looking
round at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among their greenness.
“The world is a wonderful place,” she said, “and wonderfully
beautiful.”
“And so’s the pit,” he said. “Look how it heaps together, like
something alive almost—a big creature that you don’t know.”
“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps!”
“And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to be
fed,” he said.
“And very thankful I am they _are_ standing,” she said, “for that means
they’ll turn middling time this week.”
“But I like the feel of _men_ on things, while they’re alive. There’s a
feel of men about trucks, because they’ve been handled with men’s
hands, all of them.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel.
They went along under the trees of the highroad. He was constantly
informing her, but she was interested. They passed the end of
Nethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly in its
lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepidation
approached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman came out to see.
“Is this the way to Willey Farm?” Mrs. Morel asked.
Paul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman was
amiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through the wheat
and oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Peewits, with their
white breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed about them. The lake was
still and blue. High overhead a heron floated. Opposite, the wood
heaped on the hill, green and still.
“It’s a wild road, mother,” said Paul. “Just like Canada.”
“Isn’t it beautiful!” said Mrs. Morel, looking round.
“See that heron—see—see her legs?”
He directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And she was
quite content.
“But now,” she said, “which way? He told me through the wood.”
The wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left.
“I can feel a bit of a path this road,” said Paul. “You’ve got town
feet, somehow or other, you have.”
They found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley of the
wood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an old oak glade
dipping down on the other. And among the oaks the bluebells stood in
pools of azure, under the new green hazels, upon a pale fawn floor of
oak-leaves. He found flowers for her.
“Here’s a bit of new-mown hay,” he said; then, again, he brought her
forget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand,
used with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She
was perfectly happy.
But at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in a
second.
“Come,” he said, “let me help you.”
“No, go away. I will do it in my own way.”
He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbed
cautiously.
“What a way to climb!” he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely to
earth again.
“Hateful stiles!” she cried.
“Duffer of a little woman,” he replied, “who can’t get over ’em.”
In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farm
buildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the apple
orchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deep
under a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade.
The farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced the
sunshine towards the wood. It was very still.
Mother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scent of
red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out to
cool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenly
appeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, had
a rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, and
dark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, she
disappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman,
rosy, with great dark brown eyes.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, “you’ve come, then. I
_am_ glad to see you.” Her voice was intimate and rather sad.
The two women shook hands.
“Now are you sure we’re not a bother to you?” said Mrs. Morel. “I know
what a farming life is.”
“Oh no! We’re only too thankful to see a new face, it’s so lost up
here.”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Morel.
They were taken through into the parlour—a long, low room, with a great
bunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilst
Paul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling the
gillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly to
the heap of coal which stood by the fence.
“I suppose these are cabbage-roses?” he said to her, pointing to the
bushes along the fence.
She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes.
“I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she faltered. “They’re white with pink middles.”
“Then they’re maiden-blush.”
Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t have _much_ in your garden,” he said.
“This is our first year here,” she answered, in a distant, rather
superior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, but
went his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and they
went through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted.
“And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?”
said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers.
“No,” replied the little woman. “I can’t find time to look after
cattle, and I’m not used to it. It’s as much as I can do to keep going
in the house.”
“Well, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Morel.
Presently the girl came out.
“Tea is ready, mother,” she said in a musical, quiet voice.
“Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we’ll come,” replied her mother, almost
ingratiatingly. “Would you _care_ to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Morel. “Whenever it’s ready.”
Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then they went
out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while fumy
forget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were in ecstasy
together.
When they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the eldest son,
were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then Geoffrey and
Maurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in from school. Mr.
Leivers was a good-looking man in the prime of life, with a
golden-brown moustache, and blue eyes screwed up against the weather.
The boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. They went
round for eggs, scrambling into all sorts of places. As they were
feeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no notice of her. One
hen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. Maurice took his hand
full of corn and let the hen peck from it.
“Durst you do it?” he asked of Paul.
“Let’s see,” said Paul.
He had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam watched.
He held the corn to the hen. The bird eyed it with her hard, bright
eye, and suddenly made a peck into his hand. He started, and laughed.
“Rap, rap, rap!” went the bird’s beak in his palm. He laughed again,
and the other boys joined.
“She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts,” said Paul, when
the last corn had gone. “Now, Miriam,” said Maurice, “you come an ’ave
a go.”
“No,” she cried, shrinking back.
“Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!” said her brothers.
“It doesn’t hurt a bit,” said Paul. “It only just nips rather nicely.”
“No,” she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking.
“She dursn’t,” said Geoffrey. “She niver durst do anything except
recite poitry.”
“Dursn’t jump off a gate, dursn’t tweedle, dursn’t go on a slide,
dursn’t stop a girl hittin’ her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin’
herself somebody. ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ Yah!” cried Maurice.
Miriam was crimson with shame and misery.
“I dare do more than you,” she cried. “You’re never anything but
cowards and bullies.”
“Oh, cowards and bullies!” they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech.
“Not such a clown shall anger me,
A boor is answered silently”
he quoted against her, shouting with laughter.
She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where they
had rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was more
agile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossom
that hung low on a swinging bough.
“I wouldn’t get the apple-blossom,” said Edgar, the eldest brother.
“There’ll be no apples next year.”
“I wasn’t going to get it,” replied Paul, going away.
The boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their own
pursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his mother. As he
went round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in front of the hen-coop,
some maize in her hand, biting her lip, and crouching in an intense
attitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. Very gingerly she put
forward her hand. The hen bobbed for her. She drew back quickly with a
cry, half of fear, half of chagrin.
“It won’t hurt you,” said Paul.
She flushed crimson and started up.
“I only wanted to try,” she said in a low voice.
“See, it doesn’t hurt,” he said, and, putting only two corns in his
palm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. “It only makes
you laugh,” he said.
She put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and started
back with a cry. He frowned.
“Why, I’d let her take corn from my face,” said Paul, “only she bumps a
bit. She’s ever so neat. If she wasn’t, look how much ground she’d peck
up every day.”
He waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird peck from
her hand. She gave a little cry—fear, and pain because of fear—rather
pathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again.
“There, you see,” said the boy. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
She looked at him with dilated dark eyes.
“No,” she laughed, trembling.
Then she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some way resentful
of the boy.
“He thinks I’m only a common girl,” she thought, and she wanted to
prove she was a grand person like the “Lady of the Lake”.
Paul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her son. He took
the great bunch of flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Leivers walked down the fields
with them. The hills were golden with evening; deep in the woods showed
the darkening purple of bluebells. It was everywhere perfectly stiff,
save for the rustling of leaves and birds.
“But it is a beautiful place,” said Mrs. Morel.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Leivers; “it’s a nice little place, if only it
weren’t for the rabbits. The pasture’s bitten down to nothing. I dunno
if ever I s’ll get the rent off it.”
He clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near the woods,
brown rabbits hopping everywhere.
“Would you believe it!” exclaimed Mrs. Morel.
She and Paul went on alone together.
“Wasn’t it lovely, mother?” he said quietly.
A thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness till it
hurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted to cry with
happiness.
“Now _wouldn’t_ I help that man!” she said. “_Wouldn’t_ I see to the
fowls and the young stock! And _I’d_ learn to milk, and _I’d_ talk with
him, and _I’d_ plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the farm
would be run, I know! But there, she hasn’t the strength—she simply
hasn’t the strength. She ought never to have been burdened like it, you
know. I’m sorry for her, and I’m sorry for him too. My word, if _I’d_
had him, I shouldn’t have thought him a bad husband! Not that she does
either; and she’s very lovable.”
William came home again with his sweetheart at the Whitsuntide. He had
one week of his holidays then. It was beautiful weather. As a rule,
William and Lily and Paul went out in the morning together for a walk.
William did not talk to his beloved much, except to tell her things
from his boyhood. Paul talked endlessly to both of them. They lay down,
all three, in a meadow by Minton Church. On one side, by the Castle
Farm, was a beautiful quivering screen of poplars. Hawthorn was
dropping from the hedges; penny daisies and ragged robin were in the
field, like laughter. William, a big fellow of twenty-three, thinner
now and even a bit gaunt, lay back in the sunshine and dreamed, while
she fingered with his hair. Paul went gathering the big daisies. She
had taken off her hat; her hair was black as a horse’s mane. Paul came
back and threaded daisies in her jet-black hair—big spangles of white
and yellow, and just a pink touch of ragged robin.
“Now you look like a young witch-woman,” the boy said to her. “Doesn’t
she, William?”
Lily laughed. William opened his eyes and looked at her. In his gaze
was a certain baffled look of misery and fierce appreciation.
“Has he made a sight of me?” she asked, laughing down on her lover.
“That he has!” said William, smiling.
He looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glanced at her
flower-decked head and frowned.
“You look nice enough, if that’s what you want to know,” he said.
And she walked without her hat. In a little while William recovered,
and was rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he carved her
initials and his in a heart.
heart
She watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glistening hairs and
freckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it.
All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and a certain
tenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were at home. But
often he got irritable. She had brought, for an eight-days’ stay, five
dresses and six blouses.
“Oh, would you mind,” she said to Annie, “washing me these two blouses,
and these things?”
And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next
morning. Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching
a glimpse of his sweetheart’s attitude towards his sister, hated her.
On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard,
silky and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird’s feather, and in a large
cream hat covered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire
her enough. But in the evening, when she was going out, she asked
again:
“Chubby, have you got my gloves?”
“Which?” asked William.
“My new black _suède_.”
“No.”
There was a hunt. She had lost them.
“Look here, mother,” said William, “that’s the fourth pair she’s lost
since Christmas—at five shillings a pair!”
“You only gave me _two_ of them,” she remonstrated.
And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst she
sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had
left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at
a book. After supper William wanted to write a letter.
“Here is your book, Lily,” said Mrs. Morel. “Would you care to go on
with it for a few minutes?”
“No, thank you,” said the girl. “I will sit still.”
“But it is so dull.”
William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope
he said:
“Read a book! Why, she’s never read a book in her life.”
“Oh, go along!” said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration,
“It’s true, mother—she hasn’t,” he cried, jumping up and taking his old
position on the hearthrug. “She’s never read a book in her life.”
“’Er’s like me,” chimed in Morel. “’Er canna see what there is i’
books, ter sit borin’ your nose in ’em for, nor more can I.”
“But you shouldn’t say these things,” said Mrs. Morel to her son.
“But it’s true, mother—she _can’t_ read. What did you give her?”
“Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan’s. Nobody wants to read
dry stuff on Sunday afternoon.”
“Well, I’ll bet she didn’t read ten lines of it.”
“You are mistaken,” said his mother.
All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly.
“_Did_ you read any?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” she replied.
“How much?”
“I don’t know how many pages.”
“Tell me _one thing_ you read.”
She could not.
She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a
quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but
love-making and chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughts
sifted through his mother’s mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and
was asked in reply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his
betrothed.
“You know, mother,” he said, when he was alone with her at night,
“she’s no idea of money, she’s so wessel-brained. When she’s paid,
she’ll suddenly buy such rot as _marrons glacés_, and then _I_ have to
buy her season-ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she
wants to get married, and I think myself we might as well get married
next year. But at this rate—”
“A fine mess of a marriage it would be,” replied his mother. “I should
consider it again, my boy.”
“Oh, well, I’ve gone too far to break off now,” he said, “and so I
shall get married as soon as I can.”
“Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there’s no stopping you;
but I tell you, I can’t sleep when I think about it.”
“Oh, she’ll be all right, mother. We shall manage.”
“And she lets you buy her underclothing?” asked the mother.
“Well,” he began apologetically, “she didn’t ask me; but one
morning—and it _was_ cold—I found her on the station shivering, not
able to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She
said: ‘I think so.’ So I said: ‘Have you got warm underthings on?’ And
she said: ‘No, they were cotton.’ I asked her why on earth she hadn’t
got something thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she
_had_ nothing. And there she is—a bronchial subject! I _had_ to take
her and get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn’t mind the money
if we had any. And, you know, she _ought_ to keep enough to pay for her
season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find
the money.”
“It’s a poor lookout,” said Mrs. Morel bitterly.
He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly careless
and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair.
“But I can’t give her up now; it’s gone too far,” he said. “And,
besides, for _some_ things I couldn’t do without her.”
“My boy, remember you’re taking your life in your hands,” said Mrs.
Morel. “_Nothing_ is as bad as a marriage that’s a hopeless failure.
Mine was bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but
it might have been worse by a long chalk.”
He leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece, his
hands in his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who looked as if he
would go to the world’s end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on
his face.
“I couldn’t give her up now,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an
engagement.”
“I can’t give her up _now_,” he said.
The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflict
between them; but he would say no more. At last she said:
“Well, go to bed, my son. You’ll feel better in the morning, and
perhaps you’ll know better.”
He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy now as
it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to be
breaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. Now
her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck.
And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed.
On the last evening at home he was railing against her.
“Well,” he said, “if you don’t believe me, what she’s like, would you
believe she has been confirmed three times?”
“Nonsense!” laughed Mrs. Morel.
“Nonsense or not, she _has!_ That’s what confirmation means for her—a
bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.”
“I haven’t, Mrs. Morel!” cried the girl—“I haven’t! it is not true!”
“What!” he cried, flashing round on her. “Once in Bromley, once in
Beckenham, and once somewhere else.”
“Nowhere else!” she said, in tears—“nowhere else!”
“It _was!_ And if it wasn’t why were you confirmed _twice?_”
“Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,” she pleaded, tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morel; “I can quite understand it, child. Take no
notice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things.”
“But it’s true. She’s religious—she had blue velvet Prayer-Books—and
she’s not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that
table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off,
and that’s how she is in _everything_—_everything!_”
The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong.
“As for _love!_” he cried, “you might as well ask a fly to love you!
It’ll love settling on you—”
“Now, say no more,” commanded Mrs. Morel. “If you want to say these
things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you,
William! Why don’t you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with
a girl, and then pretend you’re engaged to her!”
Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation.
William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted the
girl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her.
When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as
Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station.
“You know, mother,” he said to her, “Gyp’s shallow. Nothing goes deep
with her.”
“William, I _wish_ you wouldn’t say these things,” said Mrs. Morel,
very uncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her.
“But it doesn’t, mother. She’s very much in love with me now, but if I
died she’d have forgotten me in three months.”
Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the quiet
bitterness of her son’s last speech.
“How do you know?” she replied. “You _don’t_ know, and therefore you’ve
no right to say such a thing.”
“He’s always saying these things!” cried the girl.
“In three months after I was buried you’d have somebody else, and I
should be forgotten,” he said. “And that’s your love!”
Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she returned
home.
“There’s one comfort,” she said to Paul—“he’ll never have any money to
marry on, that I _am_ sure of. And so she’ll save him that way.”
So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly
believed William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, and she kept
Paul near to her.
All summer long William’s letters had a feverish tone; he seemed
unnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly, usually he
was flat and bitter in his letter.
“Ay,” his mother said, “I’m afraid he’s ruining himself against that
creature, who isn’t worthy of his love—no, no more than a rag doll.”
He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; it was a long
while to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, saying he could come
for Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the first week in October.
“You are not well, my boy,” said his mother, when she saw him. She was
almost in tears at having him to herself again.
“No, I’ve not been well,” he said. “I’ve seemed to have a dragging cold
all the last month, but it’s going, I think.”
It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboy
escaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than
ever, and there was a haggard look in his eyes.
“You are doing too much,” said his mother to him.
He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on, he
said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night; then he
was sad and tender about his beloved.
“And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she’d be
broken-hearted for two months, and then she’d start to forget me. You’d
see, she’d never come home here to look at my grave, not even once.”
“Why, William,” said his mother, “you’re not going to die, so why talk
about it?”
“But whether or not—” he replied.
“And she can’t help it. She is like that, and if you choose her—well,
you can’t grumble,” said his mother.
On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:
“Look,” he said to his mother, holding up his chin, “what a rash my
collar’s made under my chin!”
Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation.
“It ought not to do that,” said his mother. “Here, put a bit of this
soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars.”
He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solid for his
two days at home.
On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs.
Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram,
called a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign, put
on her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught an express
for London in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottingham nearly an hour.
A small figure in her black bonnet, she was anxiously asking the
porters if they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three
hours. She sat in her corner in a kind of stupor, never moving. At
King’s Cross still no one could tell her how to get to Elmers End.
Carrying her string bag, that contained her nightdress, a comb and
brush, she went from person to person. At last they sent her
underground to Cannon Street.
It was six o’clock when she arrived at William’s lodging. The blinds
were not down.
“How is he?” she asked.
“No better,” said the landlady.
She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with bloodshot
eyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were tossed about, there
was no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood on the stand at his
bedside. No one had been with him.
“Why, my son!” said the mother bravely.
He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then he began
to say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dictation:
“Owing to a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and
become converted into rock. It needed hacking—”
He was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine some such
cargo of sugar in the Port of London.
“How long has he been like this?” the mother asked the landlady.
“He got home at six o’clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleep
all day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning he
asked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor.”
“Will you have a fire made?”
Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still.
The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar erysipelas,
which had started under the chin where the collar chafed, and was
spreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain.
Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, prayed that
he would recognise her. But the young man’s face grew more discoloured.
In the night she struggled with him. He raved, and raved, and would not
come to consciousness. At two o’clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died.
Mrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom; then
she roused the household.
At six o’clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; then
she went round the dreary London village to the registrar and the
doctor.
At nine o’clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire:
“William died last night. Let father come, bring money.”
Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone to work. The
three children said not a word. Annie began to whimper with fear; Paul
set off for his father.
It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly
in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks
twinkled high up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made
a busy noise.
“I want my father; he’s got to go to London,” said the boy to the first
man he met on the bank.
“Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an’ tell Joe Ward.”
Paul went into the little top office.
“I want my father; he’s got to go to London.”
“Thy feyther? Is he down? What’s his name?”
“Mr. Morel.”
“What, Walter? Is owt amiss?”
“He’s got to go to London.”
The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office.
“Walter Morel’s wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat’s amiss; there’s his
lad here.”
Then he turned round to Paul.
“He’ll be up in a few minutes,” he said.
Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up, with
its wagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest, a full
carfle was hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, a bell
ting’ed somewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone.
Paul did not realise William was dead; it was impossible, with such a
bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to the
turn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curving
lines.
“And William is dead, and my mother’s in London, and what will she be
doing?” the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum.
He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last,
standing beside a wagon, a man’s form! the chair sank on its rests,
Morel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident.
“Is it thee, Paul? Is ’e worse?”
“You’ve got to go to London.”
The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. As
they came out and went along the railway, with the sunny autumn field
on one side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a
frightened voice:
“’E’s niver gone, child?”
“Yes.”
“When wor’t?”
“Last night. We had a telegram from my mother.”
Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a truck-side, his
hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round,
waiting. On the weighing machine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saw
everything, except his father leaning against the truck as if he were
tired.
Morel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared and
peaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children were left
alone in the house. Paul went to work, Arthur went to school, and Annie
had in a friend to be with her.
On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, coming home from
Keston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to Sethley Bridge
Station. They were walking in silence in the dark, tired, straggling
apart. The boy waited.
“Mother!” he said, in the darkness.
Mrs. Morel’s small figure seemed not to observe. He spoke again.
“Paul!” she said, uninterestedly.
She let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him.
In the house she was the same—small, white, and mute. She noticed
nothing, she said nothing, only:
“The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You’d better see about some
help.” Then, turning to the children: “We’re bringing him home.”
Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space, her hands
folded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he could not breathe. The
house was dead silent.
“I went to work, mother,” he said plaintively.
“Did you?” she answered, dully.
After half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again.
“Wheer s’ll we ha’e him when he _does_ come?” he asked his wife.
“In the front-room.”
“Then I’d better shift th’ table?”
“Yes.”
“An’ ha’e him across th’ chairs?”
“You know there—Yes, I suppose so.”
Morel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There was no gas
there. The father unscrewed the top of the big mahogany oval table, and
cleared the middle of the room; then he arranged six chairs opposite
each other, so that the coffin could stand on their beds.
“You niver seed such a length as he is!” said the miner, and watching
anxiously as he worked.
Paul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-tree stood
monstrous and black in front of the wide darkness. It was a faintly
luminous night. Paul went back to his mother.
At ten o’clock Morel called:
“He’s here!”
Everyone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlocking the
front door, which opened straight from the night into the room.
“Bring another candle,” called Morel.
Annie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He stood with his
arm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down the middle of the
cleared room waited six chairs, face to face. In the window, against
the lace curtains, Arthur held up one candle, and by the open door,
against the night, Annie stood leaning forward, her brass candlestick
glittering.
There was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of the street
below Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, and a few
pale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves, seemed
to struggle in the obscurity. Presently two men appeared, bowed beneath
a great weight. It was Morel and his neighbour.
“Steady!” called Morel, out of breath.
He and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved into the
candlelight with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other men were
seen struggling behind. Morel and Burns, in front, staggered; the great
dark weight swayed.
“Steady, steady!” cried Morel, as if in pain.
All the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding the great
coffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door. The yellow lamp
of the carriage shone alone down the black road.
“Now then!” said Morel.
The coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with their
load. Annie’s candle flickered, and she whimpered as the first men
appeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men struggled to climb
into the room, bearing the coffin that rode like sorrow on their living
flesh.
“Oh, my son—my son!” Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each time the coffin
swung to the unequal climbing of the men: “Oh, my son—my son—my son!”
“Mother!” Paul whimpered, his hand round her waist.
She did not hear.
“Oh, my son—my son!” she repeated.
Paul saw drops of sweat fall from his father’s brow. Six men were in
the room—six coatless men, with yielding, struggling limbs, filling the
room and knocking against the furniture. The coffin veered, and was
gently lowered on to the chairs. The sweat fell from Morel’s face on
its boards.
“My word, he’s a weight!” said a man, and the five miners sighed,
bowed, and, trembling with the struggle, descended the steps again,
closing the door behind them.
The family was alone in the parlour with the great polished box.
William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like a monument
lay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought it would never be
got out of the room again. His mother was stroking the polished wood.
They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the hillside
that looks over the fields at the big church and the houses. It was
sunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves in the warmth.
Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take her old
bright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way home in the
train she had said to herself: “If only it could have been me!”
When Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting, her day’s
work done, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse apron. She
always used to have changed her dress and put on a black apron, before.
Now Annie set his supper, and his mother sat looking blankly in front
of her, her mouth shut tight. Then he beat his brains for news to tell
her.
“Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of a
colliery at work was beautiful.”
But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself to
tell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost
insane to have her thus. At last:
“What’s a-matter, mother?” he asked.
She did not hear.
“What’s a-matter?” he persisted. “Mother, what’s a-matter?”
“You know what’s the matter,” she said irritably, turning away.
The lad—he was sixteen years old—went to bed drearily. He was cut off
and wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried,
but she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son;
he had been let to die so cruelly.
At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in his
pocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and her
heart stood still.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I’m badly, mother!” he replied. “Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for
a Christmas-box!”
He handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the table.
“You aren’t glad!” he reproached her; but he trembled violently.
“Where hurts you?” she said, unbuttoning his overcoat.
It was the old question.
“I feel badly, mother.”
She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, the
doctor said.
“Might he never have had it if I’d kept him at home, not let him go to
Nottingham?” was one of the first things she asked.
“He might not have been so bad,” said the doctor.
Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground.
“I should have watched the living, not the dead,” she told herself.
Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they could
not afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One night
he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of
dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense
irritability to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare
of struggle, like madness.
“I s’ll die, mother!” he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow.
She lifted him up, crying in a small voice:
“Oh, my son—my son!”
That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up and
arrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for
love.
“For some things,” said his aunt, “it was a good thing Paul was ill
that Christmas. I believe it saved his mother.”
Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His
father had bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to
flame in the window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa
chattering to his mother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy.
Mrs. Morel’s life now rooted itself in Paul.
William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a
letter from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel’s sister had a letter at the
New Year.
“I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I
enjoyed myself thoroughly,” said the letter. “I had every dance—did not
sit out one.”
Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her.
Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after the
death of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyed
and blank across the room. Then he got up suddenly and hurried out to
the Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his life
would he go for a walk up Shepstone, past the office where his son had
worked, and he always avoided the cemetery.
PART TWO