She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting.
"And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital,"she went on. "But what a CARELESS creature he is! OTHER men don'thave all these accidents. Yes, he WOULD want to put all the burdenon me. Eh, dear, just as we WERE getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away, there's no time to be painting now. What timeis there a train? I know I s'll have to go trailing to Keston. I s'll have to leave that bedroom."
"I can finish it," said Paul.
"You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back,I should think. Oh, my blessed heart, the fuss and commotionhe'll make! And those granite setts at Tinder Hill--he mightwell call them kidney pebbles--they'll jolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can't mend them, the state they're in, an'all the men as go across in that ambulance. You'd think they'dhave a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs,there'd be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they musttrail them ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It's acrying shame! Oh, and the fuss he'll make! I know he will! I wonder who's with him. Barker, I s'd think. Poor beggar,he'll wish himself anywhere rather. But he'll look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'll be stuck in that hospital--andWON'T he hate it! But if it's only his leg it's not so bad."
All the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off herbodice, she crouched at the boilerwhile the water ran slowly into her lading-can.
"I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!" she exclaimed,wriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms,rather surprising on a smallish woman.
Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table.
"There isn't a train till four-twenty," he said. "You've time enough."
"Oh no, I haven't!" she cried, blinking at him over the towelas she wiped her face.
"Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I come with you to Keston?"
"Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what haveI to take him? Eh, dear! His clean shirt--and it's a blessing itIS clean. But it had better be aired. And stockings--he won't wantthem--and a towel, I suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?"
"A comb, a knife and fork and spoon," said Paul. His fatherhad been in the hospital before.
"Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,"continued Mrs. Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that wasfine as silk, and was touched now with grey. "He's very particularto wash himself to the waist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose they see plenty like it."
Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two piecesof very thin bread and butter.
"Here you are," he said, putting her cup of tea in her place.
"I can't be bothered!" she exclaimed crossly.
"Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out ready,"he insisted.
So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. She was thinking.
In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half milesto Keston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in herbulging string bag. Paul watched her go up the road between thehedges--a little, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her,that she was thrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she,tripping so quickly in her anxiety, felt at the back of her herson's heart waiting on her, felt him bearing what part of the burdenhe could, even supporting her. And when she was at the hospital,she thought: "It WILL upset that lad when I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful." And when she was trudging home again,she felt he was coming to share her burden.
"Is it bad?" asked Paul, as soon as she entered the house.
"It's bad enough," she replied.
"What?"
She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet-strings. Her sonwatched her face as it was lifted, and her small, work-hardened handsfingering at the bow under her chin.
"Well," she answered, "it's not really dangerous, but the nursesays it's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fellon his leg--here--and it's a compound fracture. There are piecesof bone sticking through---"
"Ugh--how horrid!" exclaimed the children.
"And," she continued, "of course he says he's going to die--itwouldn't be him if he didn't. 'I'm done for, my lass!' he said,looking at me. 'Don't be so silly,' I said to him. 'You're not goingto die of a broken leg, however badly it's smashed.' 'I s'll nivercome out of 'ere but in a wooden box,' he groaned. 'Well,' I said,'if you want them to carry you into the garden in a wooden box,when you're better, I've no doubt they will.' 'If we think it'sgood for him,' said the Sister. She's an awfully nice Sister,but rather strict."
Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence.
"Of course, he IS bad," she continued, "and he will be. It's a great shock, and he's lost a lot of blood; and, of course,it IS a very dangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mendso easily. And then there's the fever and the mortification--if it tookbad ways he'd quickly be gone. But there, he's a clean-blooded man,with wonderful healing flesh, and so I see no reason why it SHOULDtake bad ways. Of course there's a wound---"
She was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three childrenrealised that it was very bad for their father, and the housewas silent, anxious.
"But he always gets better," said Paul after a while.
"That's what I tell him," said the mother.
Everybody moved about in silence.
"And he really looked nearly done for," she said. "But theSister says that is the pain."
Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet.
"And he looked at me when I came away! I said: 'I s'llhave to go now, Walter, because of the train--and the children.' And he looked at me. It seems hard."
Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur wentoutside for some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel,in her little rocking-chair that her husband had made for herwhen the first baby was coming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterly sorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of hearts, where the love should have burned,there was a blank. Now, when all her woman's pity was roused to itsfull extent, when she would have slaved herself to death to nursehim and to save him, when she would have taken the pain herself,if she could, somewhere far away inside her, she felt indifferentto him and to his suffering. It hurt her most of all, this failureto love him, even when he roused her strong emotions. She broodeda while.
"And there," she said suddenly, "when I'd got halfway to Keston,I found I'd come out in my working boots--and LOOK at them." They were an old pair of Paul's, brown and rubbed through atthe toes. "I didn't know what to do with myself, for shame,"she added.
In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Moreltalked again to her son, who was helping her with her housework.
"I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad,poor little fellow! 'Well,' I said to him, 'what sort of ajourney did you have with him?' 'Dunna ax me, missis!' he said. 'Ay,' I said, 'I know what he'd be.' 'But it WOR bad for him,Mrs. Morel, it WOR that!' he said. 'I know,' I said. 'At ivry joltI thought my 'eart would ha' flown clean out o' my mouth,' he said. 'An' the scream 'e gives sometimes! Missis, not for a fortune wouldI go through wi' it again.' 'I can quite understand it,' I said. 'It's a nasty job, though,' he said, 'an' one as'll be a longwhile afore it's right again.' 'I'm afraid it will,' I said. I like Mr. Barker--I DO like him. There's something so manlyabout him."
Paul resumed his task silently.
"And of course," Mrs. Morel continued, "for a man like your father,the hospital IS hard. He CAN'T understand rules and regulations. And he won't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed the muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressedfour times a day, WOULD he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of course, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving him. I'm sure, when I kissed him an' came away,it seemed a shame."
So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinkingaloud to him, and he took it in as best he could, by sharing hertrouble to lighten it. And in the end she shared almost everythingwith him without knowing.
Morel had a very bad time. For a week he was in acritical condition. Then he began to mend. And then, knowing hewas going to get better, the whole family sighed with relief,and proceeded to live happily.
They were not badly off whilst Morel was in the hospital. There were fourteen shillings a week from the pit, ten shillingsfrom the sick club, and five shillings from the Disability Fund;and then every week the butties had something for Mrs. Morel--fiveor seven shillings--so that she was quite well to do. And whilstMorel was progressing favourably in the hospital, the family wasextraordinarily happy and peaceful. On Saturdays and WednesdaysMrs. Morel went to Nottingham to see her husband. Then she alwaysbrought back some little thing: a small tube of paints for Paul,or some thick paper; a couple of postcards for Annie, that the wholefamily rejoiced over for days before the girl was allowed to sendthem away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit of pretty wood. She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon the folk in the picture-shop knew her, and knew about Paul. The girl in the book-shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morelwas full of information when she got home from Nottingham. The threesat round till bed-time, listening, putting in, arguing. Then Pauloften raked the fire.
"I'm the man in the house now," he used to say to his motherwith joy. They learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be. And they almost regretted--though none of them would have owned tosuch callousness--that their father was soon coming back.
Paul was now fourteen, and was looking for work. He was arather small and rather finely-made boy, with dark brown hair andlight blue eyes. His face had already lost its youthful chubbiness,and was becoming somewhat like William's--rough-featured, almostrugged--and it was extraordinarily mobile. Usually he lookedas if he saw things, was full of life, and warm; then his smile,like his mother's, came suddenly and was very lovable; and then,when there was any clog in his soul's quick running, his face wentstupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that becomes a clownand a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels himselfheld cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch of warmth.
He suffered very much from the first contact with anything. When he was seven, the starting school had been a nightmare and atorture to him. But afterwards he liked it. And now that he felthe had to go out into life, he went through agonies of shrinkingself-consciousness. He was quite a clever painter for a boy of his years,and he knew some French and German and mathematics that Mr. Heatonhad taught him. But nothing he had was of any commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavy manual work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with his hands, preferred racing about,or making excursions into the country, or reading, or painting.
"What do you want to be?" his mother asked.
"Anything."
"That is no answer," said Mrs. Morel.
But it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His ambition, as far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earnhis thirty or thirty-five shillings a week somewhere near home,and then, when his father died, have a cottage with his mother,paint and go out as he liked, and live happy ever after. That was hisprogramme as far as doing things went. But he was proud within himself,measuring people against himself, and placing them, inexorably. And hethought that PERHAPS he might also make a painter, the real thing. But that he left alone.
"Then," said his mother, "you must look in the paperfor the advertisements."
He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter humiliationand an anguish to go through. But he said nothing. When he got upin the morning, his whole being was knotted up over this one thought:
"I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job."
It stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing alljoy and even life, for him. His heart felt like a tight knot.
And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to bea queer, quiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town,he felt as if all the folk he met said to themselves: "He's goingto the Co-op. reading-room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. I suppose he's living on his mother." Then hecrept up the stone stairs behind the drapery shop at the Co-op.,and peeped in the reading-room. Usually one or two men were there,either old, useless fellows, or colliers "on the club". So he entered,full of shrinking and suffering when they looked up, seated himself atthe table, and pretended to scan the news. He knew they would think: "What does a lad of thirteen want in a reading-room with a newspaper?"and he suffered.
Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he wasa prisoner of industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over theold red wall of the garden opposite, looking in their jolly waydown on the women who were hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn, brightening in the sun. Two collieries,among the fields, waved their small white plumes of steam. Far offon the hills were the woods of Annesley, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He was being taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley was going now.
