“Don’t touch my clothes, mummy,” I said sharply, as she moved towards
them. “I’m still equal to a clothes-brush.”
And then, as she turned away, I astonished her by saying, “You dear
mother, you! A little—I understand. Only—now—dear mother; oh! let me
be! Let me be!”
And, with the docility of a good servant, she went from me. Dear heart
of submission that the world and I had used so ill!
It seemed to me that morning that I could never give way to a gust of
passion again. A sorrowful firmness of the mind possessed me. My
purpose seemed now as inflexible as iron; there was neither love nor
hate nor fear left in me—only I pitied my mother greatly for all that
was still to come. I ate my breakfast slowly, and thought where I could
find out about Shaphambury, and how I might hope to get there. I had
not five shillings in the world.
I dressed methodically, choosing the least frayed of my collars, and
shaving much more carefully than was my wont; then I went down to the
Public Library to consult a map.
Shaphambury was on the coast of Essex, a long and complicated journey
from Clayton. I went to the railway-station and made some memoranda
from the time-tables. The porters I asked were not very clear about
Shaphambury, but the booking-office clerk was helpful, and we puzzled
out all I wanted to know. Then I came out into the coaly street again.
At the least I ought to have two pounds.
I went back to the Public Library and into the newspaper room to think
over this problem.
A fact intruded itself upon me. People seemed in an altogether
exceptional stir about the morning journals, there was something
unusual in the air of the room, more people and more talking than
usual, and for a moment I was puzzled. Then I bethought me: “This war
with Germany, of course!” A naval battle was supposed to be in progress
in the North Sea. Let them! I returned to the consideration of my own
affairs.
Parload?
Could I go and make it up with him, and then borrow? I weighed the
chances of that. Then I thought of selling or pawning something, but
that seemed difficult. My winter overcoat had not cost a pound when it
was new, my watch was not likely to fetch many shillings. Still, both
these things might be factors. I thought with a certain repugnance of
the little store my mother was probably making for the rent. She was
very secretive about that, and it was locked in an old tea-caddy in her
bedroom. I knew it would be almost impossible to get any of that money
from her willingly, and though I told myself that in this issue of
passion and death no detail mattered, I could not get rid of tormenting
scruples whenever I thought of that tea-caddy. Was there no other
course? Perhaps after every other source had been tapped I might
supplement with a few shillings frankly begged from her. “These
others,” I said to myself, thinking without passion for once of the
sons of the Secure, “would find it difficult to run their romances on a
pawnshop basis. However, we must manage it.”
I felt the day was passing on, but I did not get excited about that.
“Slow is swiftest,” Parload used to say, and I meant to get everything
thought out completely, to take a long aim and then to act as a bullet
flies.
I hesitated at a pawnshop on my way home to my midday meal, but I
determined not to pledge my watch until I could bring my overcoat also.