LITMIR.BIZ

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lay on her shoulders were filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift her eyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately. But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror. Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He stroked the hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumb and wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering to her:

      “Mother, mother!”

      He was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who had been to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet, businesslike fashion. They did not look at her. He watched jealously. He and Annie guarded her fiercely. They would not let anybody come to see her, and the neighbours were offended.

      After a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at a friend's. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from the couch as he entered, saying in a plaintive way:

      “I thought tha wor niver comin', lad.”

      “I didn't think you'd sit up,” said Paul.

      His father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without fear—simply nothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start that he had been afraid to go to bed, alone in the house with his dead. He was sorry.

      “I forgot you'd be alone, father,” he said.

      “Dost want owt to eat?” asked Morel.

      “No.”

      “Sithee—I made thee a drop o' hot milk. Get it down thee; it's cold enough for owt.”

      Paul drank it.

      After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, and left his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in to kiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they had kept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she would be cold.

      “My dear!” he whispered. “My dear!”

      And he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange to him. It eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her door softly, not to wake her, and went to bed.

      In the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie downstairs and Paul coughing in the room across the landing. He opened her door, and went into the darkened room. He saw the white uplifted form in the twilight, but her he dared not see. Bewildered, too frightened to possess any of his faculties, he got out of the room again and left her. He never looked at her again. He had not seen her for months, because he had not dared to look. And she looked like his young wife again.

      “Have you seen her?” Annie asked of him sharply after breakfast.

      “Yes,” he said.

      “And don't you think she looks nice?”

      “Yes.”

      He went out of the house soon after. And all the time he seemed to be creeping aside to avoid it.

      Paul went about from place to place, doing the business of the death. He met Clara in Nottingham, and they had tea together in a cafe, when they were quite jolly again. She was infinitely relieved to find he did not take it tragically.

      Later, when the relatives began to come for the funeral, the affair became public, and the children became social beings. They put themselves aside. They buried her in a furious storm of rain and wind. The wet clay glistened, all the white flowers were soaked. Annie gripped his arm and leaned forward. Down below she saw a dark corner of William's coffin. The oak box sank steadily. She was gone. The rain poured in the grave. The procession of black, with its umbrellas glistening, turned away. The cemetery was deserted under the drenching cold rain.

      Paul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with drinks. His father sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Morel's relatives, “superior” people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'd tried to do everything he could for her—everything. He had striven all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach himself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped his eyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for, he repeated. All his life he'd done his best for her.

      And that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought of her personally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated his father for sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would do it in the public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel in spite of himself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, white and cowering.

      “I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother,” he said in a small voice.

      “Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was when she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural, as if nothing had altered.”

      But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror.

      The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhaps a little relief, mostly a nuit blanche. Paul went restless from place to place. For some months, since his mother had been worse, he had not made love to Clara. She was, as it were, dumb to him, rather distant. Dawes saw her very occasionally, but the two could not get an inch across the great distance between them. The three of them were drifting forward.

      Dawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home at Skegness at Christmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the seaside for a few days. His father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes came to Paul's lodgings. His time in the home was up. The two men, between whom was such a big reserve, seemed faithful to each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. He knew Paul and Clara had practically separated.

      Two days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. The evening before he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire.

      “You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?” he said.

      The other man glanced at him.

      “Yes, you told me,” he replied.

      Paul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky.

      “I told the landlady your wife was coming,” he said.

      “Did you?” said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself in the other's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for Morel's glass.

      “Let me fill you up,” he said.

      Paul jumped up.

      “You sit still,” he said.

      But Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink.

      “Say when,” he said.

      “Thanks!” replied the other. “But you've no business to get up.”

      “It does me good, lad,” replied Dawes. “I begin to think I'm right again, then.”

      “You are about right, you know.”

      “I am, certainly I am,” said Dawes, nodding to him.

      “And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield.”

      Dawes glanced at him again, with dark eyes that agreed with everything the other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by him.

      “It's funny,” said Paul, “starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess than you.”

      “In what way, lad?”

      “I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort of hole, rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere.”

      “I know—I understand it,” Dawes said, nodding. “But you'll find it'll come all right.”

      He spoke caressingly.

      “I suppose so,” said Paul.

      Dawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion.

      “You've not done for yourself like I have,” he said.

      Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man

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