LITMIR.BIZ

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it?” he asked.

      Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent.

      “Don't you think so?” he persisted.

      But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell by the way she moved, as if she didn't care, that she suffered.

      At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright and enthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railway carriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as if she were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, to fasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with his hand.

      They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for the cathedral.

      “There she is, mother!” he cried.

      They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain.

      “Ah!” she exclaimed. “So she is!”

      He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the cathedral quietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternal repose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, was reflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his young will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh and pink and downy, but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, sinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there was on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat against it with all the strength of his soul.

      “Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streets and streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether.”

      “So she does!” exclaimed his mother, breaking bright into life again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the window at the cathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the relentlessness of life. And the crow's-feet near her eyes, and her mouth shut so hard, made him feel he would go mad.

      They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant.

      “Don't imagine I like it,” she said, as she ate her cutlet. “I DON'T like it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!”

      “You never mind my money,” he said. “You forget I'm a fellow taking his girl for an outing.”

      And he bought her some blue violets.

      “Stop it at once, sir!” she commanded. “How can I do it?”

      “You've got nothing to do. Stand still!”

      And in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her coat.

      “An old thing like me!” she said, sniffing.

      “You see,” he said, “I want people to think we're awful swells. So look ikey.”

      “I'll jowl your head,” she laughed.

      “Strut!” he commanded. “Be a fantail pigeon.”

      It took him an hour to get her through the street. She stood above Glory Hole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood everywhere, and exclaimed.

      A man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her.

      “Can I show you the town, madam?”

      “No, thank you,” she answered. “I've got my son.”

      Then Paul was cross with her for not answering with more dignity.

      “You go away with you!” she exclaimed. “Ha! that's the Jew's House. Now, do you remember that lecture, Paul—?”

      But she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not notice. Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little public-house, where she rested.

      “It's nothing,” she said. “My heart is only a bit old; one must expect it.”

      He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart was crushed in a hot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash things in fury.

      They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And every step seemed like a weight on his chest. He felt as if his heart would burst. At last they came to the top. She stood enchanted, looking at the castle gate, looking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself.

      “Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!” she cried.

      But he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together in the cathedral. They attended a little service in the choir. She was timid.

      “I suppose it is open to anybody?” she asked him.

      “Yes,” he replied. “Do you think they'd have the damned cheek to send us away.”

      “Well, I'm sure,” she exclaimed, “they would if they heard your language.”

      Her face seemed to shine again with joy and peace during the service. And all the time he was wanting to rage and smash things and cry.

      Afterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking at the town below, he blurted suddenly:

      “Why can't a man have a YOUNG mother? What is she old for?”

      “Well,” his mother laughed, “she can scarcely help it.”

      “And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look—they say the young ones have the advantage—but look, THEY had the young mother. You should have had me for your eldest son.”

      “I didn't arrange it,” she remonstrated. “Come to consider, you're as much to blame as me.”

      He turned on her, white, his eyes furious.

      “What are you old for!” he said, mad with his impotence. “WHY can't you walk? WHY can't you come with me to places?”

      “At one time,” she replied, “I could have run up that hill a good deal better than you.”

      “What's the good of that to ME?” he cried, hitting his fist on the wall. Then he became plaintive. “It's too bad of you to be ill. Little, it is—”

      “Ill!” she cried. “I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it, that's all.”

      They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They got jolly again over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats, he told her about Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions.

      “Then who does she live with?”

      “With her mother, on Bluebell Hill.”

      “And have they enough to keep them?”

      “I don't think so. I think they do lace work.”

      “And wherein lies her charm, my boy?”

      “I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seems straight, you know—not a bit deep, not a bit.”

      “But she's a good deal older than you.”

      “She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three.”

      “You haven't told me what you like her for.”

      “Because I don't know—a sort of defiant way she's got—a sort of angry way.”

      Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her son to fall in love with some woman who would—she did not know what. But he fretted so, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished he knew some nice woman—She did not know what she wished, but left it vague. At any rate, she was not hostile to the idea of Clara.

      Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to work in Birmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him:

      “You don't look very well, my lad.”

      “I dunno,” he said. “I feel anyhow or nohow, ma.”

      He called her “ma” already in his boyish fashion.

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