LITMIR.BIZ

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to dress, Mrs. Morel put on her coat and bonnet.

      “Aren’t you going to stop and see me mother?” he asked.

      “No; I don’t want to see you,” she replied.

      She was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid of her son’s going the same way as his father. He hesitated a moment, and his heart stood still with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highland bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her. She went out.

      When he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a situation in Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty shillings a week instead of eighteen. This was indeed a rise. His mother and his father were brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he was going to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her younger sons. Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very clever, was getting on well, having lessons in French and German from his godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and very good-looking boy, was at the Board-school, but there was talk of him trying to get a scholarship for the High School in Nottingham.

      William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. He was studying hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Still he went out to the dances and the river parties. He did not drink. The children were all rabid teetotallers. He came home very late at night, and sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him to take more care, to do one thing or another.

      “Dance, if you want to dance, my son; but don’t think you can work in the office, and then amuse yourself, and then study on top of all. You can’t; the human frame won’t stand it. Do one thing or the other—amuse yourself or learn Latin; but don’t try to do both.”

      Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year. This seemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted almost whether to rejoice or to grieve.

      “They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother,” he cried, his eyes blazing as he read the letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silent inside her. He read the letter: “‘And will you reply by Thursday whether you accept. Yours faithfully—’ They want me, mother, at a hundred and twenty a year, and don’t even ask to see me. Didn’t I tell you I could do it! Think of me in London! And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater. We s’ll all be rolling in money.”

      “We shall, my son,” she answered sadly.

      It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going away than glad of his success. Indeed, as the days drew near for his departure, her heart began to close and grow dreary with despair. She loved him so much! More than that, she hoped in him so much. Almost she lived by him. She liked to do things for him: she liked to put a cup for his tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so proud. It was a joy to her to have him proud of his collars. There was no laundry. So she used to rub away at them with her little convex iron, to polish them, till they shone from the sheer pressure of her arm. Now she would not do it for him. Now he was going away. She felt almost as if he were going as well out of her heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with himself. That was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all himself away.

      A few days before his departure—he was just twenty—he burned his love-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen cupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. Some of them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most were too trivial.

      Now, on the Saturday morning he said:

      “Come on, Postle, let’s go through my letters, and you can have the birds and flowers.”

      Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday’s work on the Friday, because he was having a last day’s holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which he loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so miserable.

      He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had purple and green thistles. William sniffed the page.

      “Nice scent! Smell.”

      And he thrust the sheet under Paul’s nose.

      “Um!” said Paul, breathing in. “What d’you call it? Smell, mother.”

      His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper.

      “I don’t want to smell their rubbish,” she said, sniffing.

      “This girl’s father,” said William, “is as rich as Croesus. He owns property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French. ‘You will see, I’ve forgiven you’—I like her forgiving me. ‘I told mother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you come to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father’s consent also. I sincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If, however, you—’”

      “‘Let you know how it’ what?” interrupted Mrs. Morel.

      “‘Transpires’—oh yes!”

      “‘Transpires!’” repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. “I thought she was so well educated!”

      William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her and made her anxious for him.

      “My lad,” she said, “they’re very wise. They know they’ve only got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched.”

      “Well, they can’t go on scratching for ever,” he replied. “And when they’ve done, I trot away.”

      “But one day you’ll find a string round your neck that you can’t pull off,” she answered.

      “Not me! I’m equal to any of‘em, mater, they needn’t flatter themselves.”

      “You flatter yourself” she said quietly.

      Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from the corners of the note-paper—swallows and forget-me-nots and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new file.

       CHAPTER 4 The Young Life of Paul

      Paul would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small. His fair hair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. He was a pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and with a full, dropping underlip.

      As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious of what other people felt, particularly his mother. When she fretted he understood, and could have no peace. His soul seemed always attentive to her.

      As he grew older he became stronger. William was too far removed from him to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boy belonged at first almost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a “flybie-skybie,” as her mother called her. But she was intensely fond of her second brother. So Paul was towed round at the heels of Annie, sharing her game. She raced wildly at lerky with the other young wild-cats of the Bottoms. And always Paul flew beside her, living her share of the game, having as yet no part of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister adored him. He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to.

      She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not so fond. So she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with an antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meanwhile Paul must practise jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face of her hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul remained quite still.

      “You couldn’t tell it was there, mother; you couldn’t tell it was there,” he repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept for the doll he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She forgave her brother—he was so much upset. But

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