The brewers' waggons came rolling up from Keston with enormousbarrels, four a side, like beans in a burst bean-pod. The waggoner,throned aloft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so muchbelow Paul's eye. The man's hair, on his small, bullet head,was bleached almost white by the sun, and on his thick red arms,rocking idly on his sack apron, the white hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep with sunshine. The horses,handsome and brown, went on by themselves, looking by far the mastersof the show.
Paul wished he were stupid. "I wish," he thought to himself,"I was fat like him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pigand a brewer's waggoner."
Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copyan advertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slipout in immense relief. His mother would scan over his copies.
"Yes," she said, "you may try."
William had written out a letter of application, couched inadmirable business language, which Paul copied, with variations. The boy's handwriting was execrable, so that William, who did allthings well, got into a fever of impatience.
The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he foundthat he could associate with men far above his Bestwood friendsin station. Some of the clerks in the office had studied for the law,and were more or less going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friends among men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon visiting and staying in houses of men who,in Bestwood, would have looked down on the unapproachable bank manager,and would merely have called indifferently on the Rector. So he beganto fancy himself as a great gun. He was, indeed, rather surprisedat the ease with which he became a gentleman.
His mother was glad, he seemed so pleased. And his lodgingin Walthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kindof fever into the young man's letters. He was unsettled by allthe change, he did not stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spinrather giddily on the quick current of the new life. His mother wasanxious for him. She could feel him losing himself. He had dancedand gone to the theatre, boated on the river, been out with friends;and she knew he sat up afterwards in his cold bedroom grinding awayat Latin, because he intended to get on in his office, and in thelaw as much as he could. He never sent his mother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own life. And shedid not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a tight corner,and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. She stilldreamed of William, and of what he would do, with herself behind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy and anxiousher heart was because of him.
Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance,a handsome brunette, quite young, and a lady, after whom the menwere running thick and fast.
"I wonder if you would run, my boy," his mother wroteto him, "unless you saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vain enough in a crowd. But take care,and see how you feel when you find yourself alone, and in triumph." William resented these things, and continued the chase. He hadtaken the girl on the river. "If you saw her, mother, you wouldknow how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the clearest of clear,transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, and suchgrey eyes--bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It is all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dresses as well as any woman in London. I tell you,your son doesn't half put his head up when she goes walking downPiccadilly with him."
Mrs. Morel wondered, in her heart, if her son did not gowalking down Piccadilly with an elegant figure and fine clothes,rather than with a woman who was near to him. But she congratulatedhim in her doubtful fashion. And, as she stood over the washing-tub,the mother brooded over her son. She saw him saddled with anelegant and expensive wife, earning little money, dragging alongand getting draggled in some small, ugly house in a suburb. "But there," she told herself, "I am very likely a silly--meetingtrouble halfway." Nevertheless, the load of anxiety scarcely everleft her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by himself.
Presently, Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan,Manufacturer of Surgical Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row, Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was all joy.
"There, you see!" she cried, her eyes shining. "You've onlywritten four letters, and the third is answered. You're lucky,my boy, as I always said you were."
Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elasticstockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's notepaper,and he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed. And he seemed to feel the business world, with its regulated systemof values, and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemedmonstrous also that a business could be run on wooden legs.
Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August and blazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed uptight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain ratherthan this unreasonable suffering at being exposed to strangers,to be accepted or rejected. Yet he chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to her how he suffered over these things,and she only partly guessed. She was gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-office at Bestwood, and Paul watchedher take from her purse the money for the tickets.As he saw her hands in their old black kid gloves gettingthe silver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with painof love of her.
She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because sheWOULD talk aloud in presence of the other travellers.
"Now look at that silly cow!" she said, "careering roundas if it thought it was a circus."
"It's most likely a bottfly," he said very low.
"A what?" she asked brightly and unashamed.
They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of havingher opposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled tohim--a rare, intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out of the window.
The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The motherand son walked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovershaving an adventure together. In Carrington Street they stoppedto hang over the parapet and look at the barges on the canal below.
"It's just like Venice," he said, seeing the sunshineon the water that lay between high factory walls.
"Perhaps," she answered, smiling.
They enjoyed the shops immensely.
"Now you see that blouse," she would say, "wouldn't that justsuit our Annie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn't that cheap?"
"And made of needlework as well," he said.
"Yes."
They had plenty of time, so they did not hurry. The townwas strange and delightful to them. But the boy was tied up insidein a knot of apprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan.
It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a narrow street that led to the Castle. It wasgloomy and old-fashioned, having low dark shops and dark green housedoors with brass knockers, and yellow-ochred doorsteps projectingon to the pavement; then another old shop whose small window lookedlike a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother and son went cautiously,looking everywhere for "Thomas Jordan and Son". It was like huntingin some wild place. They were on tiptoe of excitement.
Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in which were namesof various firms, Thomas Jordan among them.
"Here it is!" said Mrs. Morel. "But now WHERE is it?"
They looked round. On one side was a queer, dark, cardboard factory,on the other a Commercial Hotel.
"It's up the entry," said Paul.
And they ventured under the archway, as into the jawsof the dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well,with buildings all round. It was littered with straw and boxes,and cardboard. The sunshine actually caught one crate whose strawwas streaming on to the yard like gold. But elsewhere the placewas like a pit. There were several doors, and two flights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of a staircase,loomed the ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son--Surgical Appliances." Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I mounted hisscaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he followed hismother up the dirty steps to the dirty door.
She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In frontof her was a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere,and clerks, with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going aboutin an at-home sort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy creamparcels seemed luminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very homely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward,then waited. Paul stood behind her. She had on her Sundaybonnet and a black veil; he wore a boy's broad white collar and aNorfolk suit.
One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with asmall face. His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced roundto the other end of the room, where was a glass office. And thenhe came forward. He did not say anything, but leaned in a gentle,inquiring fashion towards Mrs. Morel.
"Can I see Mr. Jordan?" she asked.
"I'll fetch him," answered the young man.
CHAPTER V
PAUL LAUNCHES INTO LIFE （II）
He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskeredold man looked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little man came up the room. He had short legs,was rather stout, and wore an alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up,as it were, he came stoutly and inquiringly down the room.
"Good-morning!" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel,in doubt as to whether she were a customer or not.
"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked himto call this morning."
"Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy littlemanner intended to be businesslike.
They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room,upholstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing ofmany customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leatherhoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed theodour of new wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By thistime he was so much stunned that he only noticed the outside things.
"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morelto a horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the little old man fidgeted and found a paper.
"Did you write this letter?" he snapped, thrusting what Paulrecognised as his own notepaper in front of him.
"Yes," he answered.
At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feelingguilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter;second, in wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different,in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it layon the kitchen table. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the man held it.
"Where did you learn to write?" said the old man crossly.
Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer.
"He IS a bad writer," put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouderwith this common little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil.
"And you say you know French?" inquired the little man,still sharply.
"Yes," said Paul.
"What school did you go to?"
"The Board-school."
"And did you learn it there?"
"No--I---" The boy went crimson and got no farther.
"His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs. Morel, half pleadingand rather distant.
Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he alwaysseemed to keep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet ofpaper from his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it to Paul.
"Read that," he said.
It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwritingthat the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.
"'Monsieur,'" he began; then he looked in great confusionat Mr. Jordan. "It's the--it's the---"
He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer workeven sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool,and hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again.
"'Sir,--Please send me'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'twopairs--gris fil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can't tell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the---"
He wanted to say "handwriting", but the word still refusedto come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him.
"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockingswithout TOES.'"
"Well," flashed Paul, "'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--asa rule---"
The little man looked at him. He did not know whether "doigts"meant "fingers"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant "toes".
"Fingers to stockings!" he snapped.
"Well, it DOES mean fingers," the boy persisted.
He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother,who sat quiet and with that peculiar shut-off look of the poorwho have to depend on the favour of others.
"And when could he come?" he asked.
"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finishedschool now."
"He would live in Bestwood?"
"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight."
"H'm!"
It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eightshillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say anotherword, after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". Hefollowed his mother down the stairs. She looked at him with herbright blue eyes full of love and joy.
"I think you'll like it," she said.
"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. I couldn't read the writing."
