"Now you look like a young witch-woman," the boy said to her. "Doesn't she, William?"
Lily laughed. William opened his eyes and looked at her. In his gaze was a certain baffled look of misery and fierce appreciation.
"Has he made a sight of me?" she asked, laughing down onher lover.
"That he has!" said William, smiling.
He looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glancedat her flower-decked head and frowned.
"You look nice enough, if that's what you want to know,"he said.
And she walked without her hat. In a little while Williamrecovered, and was rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge,he carved her initials and his in a heart.
L. L. W. W. M.
She watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glisteninghairs and freckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it.
All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth,and a certain tenderness in the house, whilst William and Lilywere at home. But often he got irritable. She had brought,for an eight-days' stay, five dresses and six blouses.
"Oh, would you mind," she said to Annie, "washing me thesetwo blouses, and these things?"
And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out thenext morning. Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man,catching a glimpse of his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister,hated her.
On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dressof foulard, silky and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather,and in a large cream hat covered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough. But in the evening, when she wasgoing out, she asked again:
"Chubby, have you got my gloves?"
"Which?" asked William.
"My new black SUEDE."
"No."
There was a hunt. She had lost them.
"Look here, mother," said William, "that's the fourth pairshe's lost since Christmas--at five shillings a pair!"
"You only gave me TWO of them," she remonstrated.
And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrugwhilst she sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In theafternoon he had left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a book. After supper William wanted to writea letter.
"Here is your book, Lily," said Mrs. Morel. "Would you careto go on with it for a few minutes?"
"No, thank you," said the girl. "I will sit still."
"But it is so dull."
William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealedthe envelope he said:
"Read a book! Why, she's never read a book in her life."
"Oh, go along!" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration,
"It's true, mother--she hasn't," he cried, jumping up and takinghis old position on the hearthrug. "She's never read a book in her life."
"'Er's like me," chimed in Morel. "'Er canna see what thereis i' books, ter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I."
"But you shouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel to her son.
"But it's true, mother--she CAN'T read. What did you give her?"
"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wantsto read dry stuff on Sunday afternoon."
"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it."
"You are mistaken," said his mother.
All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turnedto her swiftly.
"DID you ready any?" he asked.
"Yes, I did," she replied.
"How much?"
"l don't know how many pages."
"Tell me ONE THING you read."
She could not.
CHAPTER VI
DEATH IN THE FAMILY （III）
She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal,and had a quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing butlove-making and chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughtssifted through his mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship,and was asked in reply to be the billing and twittering lover,he hated his betrothed.
"You know, mother," he said, when he was alone with her at night,"she's no idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When she's paid,she'll suddenly buy such rot as marrons glaces, and then I haveto buy her season ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to get married, and I think myself we might as well getmarried next year. But at this rate---"
"A fine mess of a marriage it would be," replied his mother. "I should consider it again, my boy."
"Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now," he said,"and so I shall get married as soon as I can."
"Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there's nostopping you; but I tell you, I can't sleep when I think about it."
"Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage."
"And she lets you buy her underclothing?" asked the mother.
"Well," he began apologetically, "she didn't ask me; but onemorning--and it WAS cold--I found her on the station shivering, not ableto keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: 'I think so.' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings on?' And she said: 'No, they were cotton.' I asked her why on earth shehadn't got something thicker on in weather like that, and she saidbecause she HAD nothing. And there she is--a bronchial subject! I HAD to take her and get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn'tmind the money if we had any. And, you know, she OUGHT to keep enoughto pay for her season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that,and I have to find the money."
"It's a poor lookout," said Mrs. Morel bitterly.
He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectlycareless and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair.
"But I can't give her up now; it's gone too far," he said. "And, besides, for SOME things I couldn't do without her."
"My boy, remember you're taking your life in your hands,"said Mrs. Morel. "NOTHING is as bad as a marriage that'sa hopeless failure. Mine was bad enough, God knows, and oughtto teach you something; but it might have been worse by a long chalk."
He leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece,his hands in his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who lookedas if he would go to the world's end if he wanted to. But she sawthe despair on his face.
"I couldn't give her up now," he said.
"Well," she said, "remember there are worse wrongs than breakingoff an engagement."
"I can't give her up NOW," he said.
The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence,a conflict between them; but he would say no more. At last she said:
"Well, go to bed, my son. You'll feel better in the morning,and perhaps you'll know better."
He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heartwas heavy now as it had never been. Before, with her husband,things had seemed to be breaking down in her, but they did notdestroy her power to live. Now her soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck.
And so often William manifested the same hatred towardshis betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railing against her.
"Well," he said, "if you don't believe me, what she's like,would you believe she has been confirmed three times?"
"Nonsense!" laughed Mrs. Morel.
"Nonsense or not, she HAS! That's what confirmation meansfor her--a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure."
"I haven't, Mrs. Morel!" cried the girl--"I haven't! itis not true!"
"What!" he cried, flashing round on her. "Once in Bromley,once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else."
"Nowhere else!" she said, in tears--"nowhere else!"
"It WAS! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed TWICE?"
"Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel," she pleaded,tears in her eyes.
"Yes," said Mrs. Morel; "I can quite understand it, child. Take nonotice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things."
"But it's true. She's religious--she had blue velvetPrayer-Books--and she's not as much religion, or anything else,in her than that table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show,to show herself off, and that's how she is in EVERYTHING--EVERYTHING!"
The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong.
"As for LOVE!" he cried, "you might as well ask a fly to love you! It'll love settling on you---"
"Now, say no more," commanded Mrs. Morel. "If you wantto say these things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, William! Why don't you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with a girl, and then pretend you'reengaged to her! "
Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation.
William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comfortedthe girl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her.
When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as faras Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station.
"You know, mother," he said to her, "Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deep with her."
"William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel,very uncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her.
"But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now,but if I died she'd have forgotten me in three months."
Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing thequiet bitterness of her son's last speech.
"How do you know?" she replied. "You DON'T know, and thereforeyou've no right to say such a thing."
"He's always saying these things!" cried the girl.
"In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else,and I should be forgotten," he said. "And that's your love!"
Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then shereturned home.
"There's one comfort," she said to Paul--"he'll never have anymoney to marry on, that I AM sure of. And so she'll save him that way."
So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly believed William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited,and she kept Paul near to her.
All summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemedunnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly,usually he was flat and bitter in his letter.
"Ah," his mother said, "I'm afraid he's ruining himselfagainst that creature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no morethan a rag doll."
He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone;it was a long while to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement,saying he could come for Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the firstweek in October.
"You are not well, my boy," said his mother, when she saw him. She was almost in tears at having him to herself again.
"No, I've not been well," he said. "I've seemed to havea dragging cold all the last month, but it's going, I think."
It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy,like a schoolboy escaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than ever, and there was a haggard look in his eyes.
"You are doing too much," said his mother to him.
He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on,he said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night;then he was sad and tender about his beloved.
"And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd bebroken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. You'd see, she'd never come home here to look at my grave,not even once."
"Why, William," said his mother, "you're not going to die,so why talk about it?"
"But whether or not---" he replied.
"And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you chooseher--well, you can't grumble," said his mother.
On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:
"Look," he said to his mother, holding up his chin, "what arash my collar's made under my chin!"
Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation.
"It ought not to do that," said his mother. "Here, put a bitof this soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars."
He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solidfor his two days at home.
On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs. Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram,called a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign,put on her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught anexpress for London in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottinghamnearly an hour. A small figure in her black bonnet, she wasanxiously asking the porters if they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She sat in her corner in a kind of stupor,never moving. At King's Cross still no one could tell her howto get to Elmers End. Carrying her string bag, that containedher nightdress, a comb and brush, she went from person to person. At last they sent her underground to Cannon Street.
It was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The blinds were not down.
"How is he?" she asked.
"No better," said the landlady.
She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed,with bloodshot eyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes weretossed about, there was no fire in the room, a glass of milk stoodon the stand at his bedside. No one had been with him.
"Why, my son!" said the mother bravely.
He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then he began to say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letterfrom dictation: "Owing to a leakage in the hold of this vessel,the sugar had set, and become converted into rock. It needed hacking---"
