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"'I
have taken the King's shilling, but perhaps if you came for me they would
let me go back with you. I was
a fool when I did it. I don't
want to be in the army. My dear
mother, I am nothing but a trouble to you.
But if you get me out of this, I promise I will have more sense and
consideration. . . .'"
Mrs.
Morel sat down in her rocking-chair.
"Well,
NOW," she cried, "let him stop!"
"Yes,"
said Paul, "let him stop."
There
was silence. The mother sat
with her hands folded in her apron, her face set, thinking.
"If
I'm not SICK!" she cried suddenly.
"Sick!"
"Now,"
said Paul, beginning to frown, "you're not going to worry your soul out
about this, do you hear."
"I
suppose I'm to take it as a blessing," she flashed, turning on her son.
"You're
not going to mount it up to a tragedy, so there," he retorted.
"The
FOOL!--the young fool!" she cried.
"He'll
look well in uniform," said Paul irritatingly.
His
mother turned on him like a fury.
"Oh,
will he!" she cried. "Not
in my eyes!"
"He
should get in a cavalry regiment; he'll have the time of his life, and will
look an awful swell."
"Swell!--SWELL!--a
mighty swell idea indeed!--a common soldier!"
"Well,"
said Paul, "what am I but a common clerk?"
"A
good deal, my boy!" cried his mother, stung.
"What?"
"At
any rate, a MAN, and not a thing in a red coat."
"I
shouldn't mind being in a red coat--or dark blue, that would suit me
better--if they didn't boss me about too much."
But
his mother had ceased to listen.
"Just
as he was getting on, or might have been getting on, at his job--a young
nuisance--here he goes and ruins himself for life. What good will he be, do you think, after THIS?"
"It
may lick him into shape beautifully," said Paul.
"Lick
him into shape!--lick what marrow there WAS out of his bones.
A SOLDIER!--a common SOLDIER!--nothing but a body that makes
movements when it hears a shout! It's a fine thing!"
"I
can't understand why it upsets you," said Paul.
"No,
perhaps you can't. But I understand"; and she sat back in her chair,
her chin in one hand, holding her elbow with the other, brimmed up with
wrath and chagrin.
"And
shall you go to Derby?" asked Paul.
"Yes."
"It's
no good."
"I'll
see for myself."
"And
why on earth don't you let him stop. It's
just what he wants."
"Of
course," cried the mother, "YOU know what he wants!"
She
got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where she saw her son and
the sergeant. It was, however,
no good.
When
Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she said suddenly:
"I've
had to go to Derby to-day."
The
miner turned up his eyes, showing the whites in his black face.
"Has
ter, lass. What took thee
there?"
"That
Arthur!"
"Oh--an'
what's agate now?"
"He's
only enlisted."
Morel
put down his knife and leaned back in his chair.
"Nay,"
he said, "that he niver 'as!"
"And
is going down to Aldershot tomorrow."
"Well!"
exclaimed the miner. "That's
a winder." He considered
it a moment, said "H'm!" and proceeded with his dinner.
Suddenly his face contracted with wrath.
"I hope he may never set foot i' my house again," he said.
"The
idea!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Saying
such a thing!"
"I
do," repeated Morel. "A
fool as runs away for a soldier, let 'im look after 'issen; I s'll do no
more for 'im."
"A
fat sight you have done as it is," she said.
And
Morel was almost ashamed to go to his public-house that evening.
"Well,
did you go?" said Paul to his mother when he came home.
"I
did."
"And
could you see him?"
"Yes."
"And
what did he say?"
"He
blubbered when I came away."
"H'm!"
"And
so did I, so you needn't 'h'm'!"
Mrs.
Morel fretted after her son. She
knew he would not like the army. He
did not. The discipline was
intolerable to him.
"But
the doctor," she said with some pride to Paul, "said he was
perfectly proportioned--almost exactly; all his measurements were correct.
He IS good-looking, you know."
"He's
awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girls like William, does
he?"
"No;
it's a different character. He's
a good deal like his father, irresponsible."
To
console his mother, Paul did not go much to Willey Farm at this time.
And in the autumn exhibition of students' work in the Castle he had
two studies, a landscape in water-colour and a still life in oil, both of
which had first-prize awards. He
was highly excited.
"What
do you think I've got for my pictures, mother?" he asked, coming home
one evening. She saw by his
eyes he was glad. Her face
flushed.
"Now,
how should I know, my boy!"
"A
first prize for those glass jars---"
"H'm!"
"And
a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm."
"Both
first?"
"Yes."
"H'm!"
There
was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said nothing.
"It's
nice," he said, "isn't it?"
"It
is."
"Why
don't you praise me up to the skies?"
She
laughed.
"I
should have the trouble of dragging you down again," she said.
But
she was full of joy, nevertheless. William
had brought her his sporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive his death.
Arthur was handsome--at least, a good specimen--and warm and
generous, and probably would do well in the end.
But Paul was going to distinguish himself.
She had a great belief in him, the more because he was unaware of his
own powers. There was so much
to come out of him. Life for
her was rich with promise. She
was to see herself fulfilled. Not
for nothing had been her struggle.
Several
times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the Castle unknown to Paul.
She wandered down the long room looking at the other exhibits.
Yes, they were good. But
they had not in them a certain something which she demanded for her
satisfaction. Some made her
jealous, they were so good. She
looked at them a long time trying to find fault with them.
Then suddenly she had a shock that made her heart beat. There hung Paul's picture!
She knew it as if it were printed on her heart.
"Name--Paul
Morel--First Prize."
It
looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castle gallery,
where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures.
And she glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front
of the same sketch.
But
she felt a proud woman. When
she met well-dressed ladies going home to the Park, she thought to herself:
"Yes,
you look very well--but I wonder if YOUR son has two first prizes in the
Castle."
And
she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Nottingham.
And Paul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle.
All his work was hers.
One
day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He had seen her on the Sunday, and had not expected to meet
her in town. She was walking
with a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullen expression, and a
defiant carriage. It was
strange how Miriam, in her bowed, meditative bearing, looked dwarfed beside
this woman with the handsome shoulders.
Miriam watched Paul searchingly.
His gaze was on the stranger, who ignored him.
The girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head.
"Hello!"
he said, "you didn't tell me you were coming to town."
"No,"
replied Miriam, half apologetically. "I
drove in to Cattle Market with father."
He
looked at her companion.
"I've
told you about Mrs. Dawes," said Miriam huskily; she was nervous.
"Clara, do you know Paul?"
"I
think I've seen him before," replied Mrs. Dawes indifferently, as she
shook hands with him. She had
scornful grey eyes, a skin like white honey, and a full mouth, with a
slightly lifted upper lip that did not know whether it was raised in scorn
of all men or out of eagerness to be kissed, but which believed the former.
She carried her head back, as if she had drawn away in contempt,
perhaps from men also. She wore
a large, dowdy hat of black beaver, and a sort of slightly affected simple
dress that made her look rather sack-like.
She was evidently poor, and had not much taste.
Miriam usually looked nice.
"Where
have you seen me?" Paul
asked of the woman.
She
looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then:
"Walking
with Louie Travers," she said.
Louie
was one of the "Spiral" girls.
"Why,
do you know her?" he asked.
She
did not answer. He turned to
Miriam.
"Where
are you going?" he asked.
"To
the Castle."
"What
train are you going home by?"
"I
am driving with father. I wish
you could come too. What time
are you free?"
"You
know not till eight to-night, damn it!"
And
directly the two women moved on.
Paul
remembered that Clara Dawes was the daughter of an old friend of Mrs.
Leivers. Miriam had sought her
out because she had once been Spiral overseer at Jordan's, and because her
husband, Baxter Dawes, was smith for the factory, making the irons for
cripple instruments, and so on. Through
her Miriam felt she got into direct contact with Jordan's, and could
estimate better Paul's position. But
Mrs. Dawes was separated from her husband, and had taken up Women's Rights. She was supposed to be clever.
It interested Paul.
Baxter
Dawes he knew and disliked. The
smith was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two. He came occasionally through
Paul's corner--a big, well-set man, also striking to look at, and handsome.
There was a peculiar similarity between himself and his wife.
He had the same white skin, with a clear, golden tinge.
His hair was of soft brown, his moustache was golden.
And he had a similar defiance in his bearing and manner.
But then came the difference. His
eyes, dark brown and quick-shifting, were dissolute.
They protruded very slightly, and his eyelids hung over them in a way
that was half hate. His mouth,
too, was sensual. His whole
manner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybody down who
disapproved of him--perhaps because he really disapproved of himself.
From
the first day he had hated Paul. Finding
the lad's impersonal, deliberate gaze of an artist on his face, he got into
a fury.
"What
are yer lookin' at?" he sneered, bullying.
The
boy glanced away. But the smith
used to stand behind the counter and talk to Mr. Pappleworth. His speech was dirty, with a kind of rottenness.
Again he found the youth with his cool, critical gaze fixed on his
face. The smith started round
as if he had been stung.
"What'r
yer lookin' at, three hap'orth o' pap?" he snarled.
The
boy shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"Why
yer---!" shouted Dawes.
"Leave
him alone," said Mr. Pappleworth, in that insinuating voice which
means, "He's only one of your good little sops who can't help it."
Since
that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came through with
the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the smith's eye.
It made Dawes furious. They
hated each other in silence.
Clara
Dawes had no children. When she
had left her husband the home had been broken up, and she had gone to live
with her mother. Dawes lodged
with his sister. In the same
house was a sister-in-law, and somehow Paul knew that this girl, Louie
Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She
was a handsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yet flushed if
he walked along to the station with her as she went home.
The
next time he went to see Miriam it was Saturday evening.
She had a fire in the parlour, and was waiting for him.
The others, except her father and mother and the young children, had
gone out, so the two had the parlour together.
It was a long, low, warm room. There
were three of Paul's small sketches on the wall, and his photo was on the
mantelpiece. On the table and
on the high old rosewood piano were bowls of coloured leaves.
He sat in the armchair, she crouched on the hearthrug near his feet.
The glow was warm on her handsome, pensive face as she kneeled there
like a devotee.
"What
did you think of Mrs. Dawes?" she asked quietly.
"She
doesn't look very amiable," he replied.
"No,
but don't you think she's a fine woman?" she said, in a deep tone,
"Yes--in
stature. But without a grain of
taste. I like her for some
things. IS she
disagreeable?"
"I
don't think so. I think she's
dissatisfied."
"What
with?"
"Well--how
would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?"
"Why
did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?"
"Ay,
why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly.
"And
I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him," he
said.
Miriam
bowed her head.
"Ay?"
she queried satirically. "What
makes you think so?"
"Look
at her mouth--made for passion--and the very setback of her throat---"
He threw his head back in Clara's defiant manner.
Miriam
bowed a little lower.
"Yes,"
she said.
There
was a silence for some moments, while he thought of Clara.
"And
what were the things you liked about her?" she asked.
"I
don't know--her skin and the texture of her--and her--I don't know--there's
a sort of fierceness somewhere in her.
I appreciate her as an artist, that's all."
"Yes."
He
wondered why Miriam crouched there brooding in that strange way.
It irritated him.
"You
don't really like her, do you?" he asked the girl.
She
looked at him with her great, dazzled dark eyes.
"I
do," she said.
"You
don't--you can't--not really."
"Then
what?" she asked slowly.
"Eh,
I don't know--perhaps you like her because she's got a grudge against
men."
That
was more probably one of his own reasons for liking Mrs. Dawes, but this did
not occur to him. They were
silent. There had come into his
forehead a knitting of the brows which was becoming habitual with him,
particularly when he was with Miriam. She
longed to smooth it away, and she was afraid of it.
It seemed the stamp of a man who was not her man in Paul Morel.
There
were some crimson berries among the leaves in the bowl.
He reached over and pulled out a bunch.
"If
you put red berries in your hair," he said, "why would you look
like some witch or priestess, and never like a reveller?"
She
laughed with a naked, painful sound.
"I
don't know," she said.
His
vigorous warm hands were playing excitedly with the berries.
"Why
can't you laugh?" he said. "You
never laugh laughter. You only
laugh when something is odd or incongruous, and then it almost seems to hurt
you."
She
bowed her head as if he were scolding her.
"I
wish you could laugh at me just for one minute--just for one minute.
I feel as if it would set something free."
"But"--and
she looked up at him with eyes frightened and struggling--"I do laugh
at you--I DO."
"Never!
There's always a kind of intensity.
When you laugh I could always cry; it seems as if it shows up your
suffering. Oh, you make me knit
the brows of my very soul and cogitate."
Slowly
she shook her head despairingly.
"I'm
sure I don't want to," she said.
"I'm
so damned spiritual with YOU always!" he cried.
She
remained silent, thinking, "Then why don't you be otherwise."
But he saw her crouching, brooding figure, and it seemed to tear him
in two.
"But,
there, it's autumn," he said, "and everybody feels like a
disembodied spirit then."
There
was still another silence. This
peculiar sadness between them thrilled her soul. He seemed so beautiful with his eyes gone dark, and looking
as if they were deep as the deepest well.
"You
make me so spiritual!" he lamented.
"And I don't want to be spiritual."
She
took her finger from her mouth with a little pop, and looked up at him
almost challenging. But still
her soul was naked in her great dark eyes, and there was the same yearning
appeal upon her. If he could
have kissed her in abstract purity he would have done so.
But he could not kiss her thus--and she seemed to leave no other way.
And she yearned to him.
He
gave a brief laugh.
"Well,"
he said, "get that French and we'll do some--some Verlaine."
"Yes,"
she said in a deep tone, almost of resignation. And she rose and got the books.
And her rather red, nervous hands looked so pitiful, he was mad to
comfort her and kiss her. But
then be dared not--or could not. There
was something prevented him. His
kisses were wrong for her. They
continued the reading till ten o'clock, when they went into the kitchen, and
Paul was natural and jolly again with the father and mother.
His eyes were dark and shining; there was a kind of fascination about
him.
When
he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the front wheel punctured.
"Fetch
me a drop of water in a bowl," he said to her. "I shall be late, and then I s'll catch it."
He
lighted the hurricane lamp, took off his coat, turned up the bicycle, and
set speedily to work. Miriam
came with the bowl of water and stood close to him, watching. She loved to see his hands doing things.
He was slim and vigorous, with a kind of easiness even in his most
hasty movements. And busy at
his work he seemed to forget her. She loved him absorbedly.
She wanted to run her hands down his sides. She always wanted to embrace him, so long as he did not want
her.
"There!"
he said, rising suddenly. "Now,
could you have done it quicker?"
"No!"
she laughed.
He
straightened himself. His back
was towards her. She put her
two hands on his sides, and ran them quickly down.
"You
are so FINE!" she said.
He
laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a wave of flame by her
hands. She did not seem to
realise HIM in all this. He
might have been an object. She
never realised the male he was.
He
lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the barn floor to see that
the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat.
"That's
all right!" he said.
She
was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken.
"Did
you have them mended?" she asked.
"No!"
"But
why didn't you?"
"The
back one goes on a bit."
"But
it's not safe."
"I
can use my toe."
"I
wish you'd had them mended," she murmured.
"Don't
worry--come to tea tomorrow, with Edgar."
"Shall
we?"
"Do--about
four. I'll come to meet
you."
"Very
well."
She
was pleased. They went across
the dark yard to the gate. Looking
across, he saw through the uncurtained window of the kitchen the heads of
Mr. and Mrs. Leivers in the warm glow.
It looked very cosy. The
road, with pine trees, was quite black in front.
"Till
tomorrow," he said, jumping on his bicycle.
"You'll
take care, won't you?" she pleaded.
"Yes."
His
voice already came out of the darkness.
She stood a moment watching the light from his lamp race into
obscurity along the ground. She
turned very slowly indoors. Orion
was wheeling up over the wood, his dog twinkling after him, half smothered.
For the rest the world was full of darkness, and silent, save for the
breathing of cattle in their stalls. She
prayed earnestly for his safety that night.
When he left her, she often lay in anxiety, wondering if he had got
home safely.
He
dropped down the hills on his bicycle.
The roads were greasy, so he had to let it go. He felt a pleasure as the machine plunged over the second,
steeper drop in the hill. "Here
goes!" he said. It was
risky, because of the curve in the darkness at the bottom, and because of
the brewers' waggons with drunken waggoners asleep.
His bicycle seemed to fall beneath him, and he loved it.
Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman.
He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself to
deprive her altogether.
The
stars on the lake seemed to leap like grasshoppers, silver upon the
blackness, as he spun past. Then
there was the long climb home.
"See,
mother!" he said, as he threw her the berries and leaves on to the
table.
"H'm!"
she said, glancing at them, then away again.
She sat reading, alone, as she always did.
"Aren't
they pretty?"
"Yes."
He
knew she was cross with him. After
a few minutes he said:
"Edgar
and Miriam are coming to tea tomorrow."
She
did not answer.
"You
don't mind?"
Still
she did not answer.
"Do
you?" he asked.
"You
know whether I mind or not."
"I
don't see why you should. I
have plenty of meals there."
"You
do."
"Then
why do you begrudge them tea?"
"I
begrudge whom tea?"
"What
are you so horrid for?"
"Oh,
say no more! You've asked her
to tea, it's quite sufficient. She'll
come."
He
was very angry with his mother. He
knew it was merely Miriam she objected to.
He flung off his boots and went to bed.
Paul
went to meet his friends the next afternoon.
He was glad to see them coming.
They arrived home at about four o'clock. Everywhere was clean and
still for Sunday afternoon. Mrs.
Morel sat in her black dress and black apron.
She rose to meet the visitors. With
Edgar she was cordial, but with Miriam cold and rather grudging.
Yet Paul thought the girl looked so nice in her brown cashmere frock.
He
helped his mother to get the tea ready.
Miriam would have gladly proffered, but was afraid.
He was rather proud of his home.
There was about it now, he thought, a certain distinction.
The chairs were only wooden, and the sofa was old.
But the hearthrug and cushions were cosy; the pictures were prints in
good taste; there was a simplicity in everything, and plenty of books.
He was never ashamed in the least of his home, nor was Miriam of
hers, because both were what they should be, and warm.
And then he was proud of the table; the china was pretty, the cloth
was fine. It did not matter that the spoons were not silver nor the
knives ivory-handled; everything looked nice.
Mrs. Morel had managed wonderfully while her children were growing
up, so that nothing was out of place.
Miriam
talked books a little. That was
her unfailing topic. But Mrs.
Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar.
At
first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew.
Morel never went to chapel, preferring the public-house.
Mrs. Morel, like a little champion, sat at the head of her pew, Paul
at the other end; and at first Miriam sat next to him.
Then the chapel was like home. It
was a pretty place, with dark pews and slim, elegant pillars, and flowers.
And the same people had sat in the same places ever since he was a
boy. It was wonderfully sweet
and soothing to sit there for an hour and a half, next to Miriam, and near
to his mother, uniting his two loves under the spell of the place of
worship. Then he felt warm and
happy and religious at once. And
after chapel he walked home with Miriam, whilst Mrs. Morel spent the rest of
the evening with her old friend, Mrs. Burns.
He was keenly alive on his walks on Sunday nights with Edgar and
Miriam. He never went past the
pits at night, by the lighted lamp-house, the tall black headstocks and
lines of trucks, past the fans spinning slowly like shadows, without the
feeling of Miriam returning to him, keen and almost unbearable.
She
did not very long occupy the Morels' pew.
Her father took one for themselves once more. It was under the little gallery, opposite the Morels'.
When Paul and his mother came in the chapel the Leivers's pew was
always empty. He was anxious
for fear she would not come: it
was so far, and there were so many rainy Sundays.
Then, often very late indeed, she came in, with her long stride, her
head bowed, her face hidden under her bat of dark green velvet.
Her face, as she sat opposite, was always in shadow.
But it gave him a very keen feeling, as if all his soul stirred
within him, to see her there. It
was not the same glow, happiness, and pride, that he felt in having his
mother in charge: something
more wonderful, less human, and tinged to intensity by a pain, as if there
were something he could not get to.
At
this time he was beginning to question the orthodox creed.
He was twenty-one, and she was twenty.
She was beginning to dread the spring:
he became so wild, and hurt her so much.
All the way he went cruelly smashing her beliefs.
Edgar enjoyed it. He was
by nature critical and rather dispassionate.
But Miriam suffered exquisite pain, as, with an intellect like a
knife, the man she loved examined her religion in which she lived and moved
and had her being. But he did
not spare her. He was cruel. And when they went alone he was even more fierce, as if he
would kill her soul. He bled
her beliefs till she almost lost consciousness.
"She
exults--she exults as she carries him off from me," Mrs. Morel cried in
her heart when Paul had gone. "She's
not like an ordinary woman, who can leave me my share in him.
She wants to absorb him. She
wants to draw him out and absorb him till there is nothing left of him, even
for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet--she will suck him
up." So the mother sat,
and battled and brooded bitterly.
And
he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wild with torture.
He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists, going at a great
rate. Then, brought up against
a stile, he stood for some minutes, and did not move.
There was a great hollow of darkness fronting him, and on the black
upslopes patches of tiny lights, and in the lowest trough of the night, a
flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful.
Why was he torn so, almost bewildered, and unable to move?
Why did his mother sit at home and suffer?
He knew she suffered badly. But
why should she? And why did he
hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thought of his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then he hated her--and
he easily hated her. Why did
she make him feel as if he were uncertain of himself, insecure, an
indefinite thing, as if he had not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night
and the space breaking into him? How
he hated her! And then, what a
rush of tenderness and humility!
Suddenly
he plunged on again, running home. His
mother saw on him the marks of some agony, and she said nothing.
But he had to make her talk to him.
Then she was angry with him for going so far with Miriam.
"Why
don't you like her, mother?" he cried in despair.
"I
don't know, my boy," she replied piteously. "I'm sure I've tried to like her. I've tried and tried, but I can't--I can't!"
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