LITMIR.BIZ

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      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.

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