LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I'm not doing,” he said.

      After a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the couch. They looked into each other's eyes.

      “I don't want you to make a trouble of it,” she said.

      “No, mother. You'll have to be quite still, and then you'll get better soon.”

      But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at each other understood. Her eyes were so blue—such a wonderful forget-me-not blue! He felt if only they had been of a different colour he could have borne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping slowly in his breast. He kneeled there, holding her hand, and neither said anything. Then Annie came in.

      “Are you all right?” she murmured timidly to her mother.

      “Of course,” said Mrs. Morel.

      Paul sat down and told her about Blackpool. She was curious.

      A day or two after, he went to see Dr. Jameson in Nottingham, to arrange for a consultation. Paul had practically no money in the world. But he could borrow.

      His mother had been used to go to the public consultation on Saturday morning, when she could see the doctor for only a nominal sum. Her son went on the same day. The waiting-room was full of poor women, who sat patiently on a bench around the wall. Paul thought of his mother, in her little black costume, sitting waiting likewise. The doctor was late. The women all looked rather frightened. Paul asked the nurse in attendance if he could see the doctor immediately he came. It was arranged so. The women sitting patiently round the walls of the room eyed the young man curiously.

      At last the doctor came. He was about forty, good-looking, brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he, who had loved her, had specialised on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his mother's. The doctor did not remember.

      “Number forty-six M.,” said the nurse; and the doctor looked up the case in his book.

      “There is a big lump that may be a tumour,” said Paul. “But Dr. Ansell was going to write you a letter.”

      “Ah, yes!” replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. He was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Sheffield the next day.

      “What is your father?” he asked.

      “He is a coal-miner,” replied Paul.

      “Not very well off, I suppose?”

      “This—I see after this,” said Paul.

      “And you?” smiled the doctor.

      “I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory.”

      The doctor smiled at him.

      “Er—to go to Sheffield!” he said, putting the tips of his fingers together, and smiling with his eyes. “Eight guineas?”

      “Thank you!” said Paul, flushing and rising. “And you'll come to-morrow?”

      “To-morrow—Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time there is a train in the afternoon?”

      “There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen.”

      “And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to walk?” The doctor smiled.

      “There is the tram,” said Paul; “the Western Park tram.”

      The doctor made a note of it.

      “Thank you!” he said, and shook hands.

      Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the charge of Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging in the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with his father.

      “Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?” said the father.

      “Yes,” replied the son. “But I'm going back to-night.”

      “Are ter, beguy!” exclaimed the collier. “An' has ter eaten owt?”

      “No.”

      “That's just like thee,” said Morel. “Come thy ways in.”

      The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The two went indoors. Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands, and sleeves rolled up, sat in the arm-chair opposite and looked at him.

      “Well, an' how is she?” asked the miner at length, in a little voice.

      “She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea,” said Paul.

      “That's a blessin'!” exclaimed Morel. “I hope we s'll soon be havin' her whoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?”

      “He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her.”

      “Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!”

      “Eight guineas.”

      “Eight guineas!” the miner spoke breathlessly. “Well, we mun find it from somewhere.”

      “I can pay that,” said Paul.

      There was silence between them for some time.

      “She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie,” Paul said.

      “Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was,” answered Morel. “But Minnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!” He sat looking dismal.

      “I s'll have to be going at half-past three,” said Paul.

      “It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dost think she'll be able to get as far as this?”

      “We must see what the doctors say to-morrow,” Paul said.

      Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and Paul thought his father looked lost, forlorn, and old.

      “You'll have to go and see her next week, father,” he said.

      “I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time,” said Morel.

      “If she's not,” said Paul, “then you must come.”

      “I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money,” said Morel.

      “And I'll write to you what the doctor says,” said Paul.

      “But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out,” said Morel.

      “Well, I'll write plain.”

      It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do more than write his own name.

      The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard were waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself.

      “It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see,” said Dr. Jameson.

      “And if it is,” said Annie, “can you sweal it away?”

      “Probably,” said the doctor.

      Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down.

      “Thank you!” he said. “I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see what we can do.”

      “There can't be an operation?” said Paul.

      The doctor shook his head.

      “No,” he said; “and even if there could, her heart wouldn't stand it.”

      “Is her heart risky?” asked Paul.

      “Yes; you must be careful with her.”

      “Very risky?”

      “No—er—no, no! Just take care.”

      And

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