"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 consideredit a moment, said "H'm!" and proceeded with his dinner. Suddenly hisface 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-housethat 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 notlike the army. He did not. The discipline was intolerable to him.
"But the doctor," she said with some pride to Paul, "said hewas perfectly proportioned--almost exactly; all his measurementswere correct. He IS good-looking, you know."
"He's awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girlslike William, does he?"
"No; it's a different character. He's a good deal likehis father, irresponsible."
To console his mother, Paul did not go much to WilleyFarm at this time. And in the autumn exhibition of students'work in the Castle he had two studies, a landscape in water-colourand 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 broughther his sporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did notforgive his death. Arthur was handsome--at least, a good specimen--and warmand generous, and probably would do well in the end. But Paulwas going to distinguish himself. She had a great belief in him,the more because he was unaware of his own powers. There wasso much to come out of him. Life for her was rich with promise. She was to see herself fulfilled. Not for nothing had beenher struggle.
Several times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to theCastle unknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room lookingat the other exhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not inthem a certain something which she demanded for her satisfaction. Some made her jealous, they were so good. She looked at thema long time trying to find fault with them. Then suddenly shehad 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 theCastle gallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And she glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in frontof the same sketch.
But she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladiesgoing home to the Park, she thought to herself:
"Yes, you look very well--but I wonder if YOUR son has twofirst 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 hadseen her on the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in town. She was walking with a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullenexpression, and a defiant carriage. It was strange how Miriam,in her bowed, meditative bearing, looked dwarfed beside this womanwith the handsome shoulders. Miriam watched Paul searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, who ignored him. The girl saw hismasculine spirit rear its head.
"Hello!" he said, "you didn't tell me you were coming to town."
"No," replied Miriam, half apologetically. "I drovein 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 skinlike white honey, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upperlip that did not know whether it was raised in scorn of all menor 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 lookrather 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 oldfriend of Mrs. Leivers. Miriam had sought her out because shehad once been Spiral overseer at Jordan's, and because her husband,Baxter Dawes, was smith for the factory, making the irons forcripple instruments, and so on. Through her Miriam felt she gotinto direct contact with Jordan's, and could estimate betterPaul'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 manof thirty-one or thirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul'scorner--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 hairwas of soft brown, his moustache was golden. And he had a similardefiance 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 away that was half hate. His mouth, too, was sensual. His wholemanner was of cowed defiance, as if he were ready to knock anybodydown who disapproved of him--perhaps because he really disapprovedof 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 behindthe 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 hehad 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 insinuatingvoice which means, "He's only one of your good little sops who can'thelp it."
Since that time the boy used to look at the man every timehe came through with the same curious criticism, glancing awaybefore he met the smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hatedeach other in silence.
Clara Dawes had no children. When she had left her husband thehome 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, andsomehow Paul knew that this girl, Louie Travers, was now Dawes's woman. She was a handsome, insolent hussy, who mocked at the youth, and yetflushed 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 wason the mantelpiece. On the table and on the high oldrosewood piano were bowls of coloured leaves. He sat in the armchair,she crouched on the hearthrug near his feet. The glow was warmon 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 herfor 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 revulsionsso soon?"
"Ay, why did she!" repeated Miriam bitterly.
"And I should have thought she had enough fight in herto 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 setbackof 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'tknow--there's a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciateher 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 grudgeagainst men."
That was more probably one of his own reasons for likingMrs. Dawes, but this did not occur to him. They were silent. There had come into his forehead a knitting of the brows which wasbecoming habitual with him, particularly when he was with Miriam. She longed to smooth it away, and she was afraid of it. It seemedthe 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 wouldyou 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 italmost 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--justfor one minute. I feel as if it would set something free."
"But"--and she looked up at him with eyes frightenedand struggling--"I do laugh at you--I DO."
"Never! There's always a kind of intensity. When you laughI 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 tearhim in two.
"But, there, it's autumn," he said, "and everybody feelslike a disembodied spirit then."
There was still another silence. This peculiar sadnessbetween them thrilled her soul. He seemed so beautiful with hiseyes gone dark, and looking as if they were deep as the deepest well.
"You make me so spiritual!" he lamented. "And I don't wantto be spiritual."
She took her finger from her mouth with a little pop, and lookedup at him almost challenging. But still her soul was naked in hergreat 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 handslooked so pitiful, he was mad to comfort her and kiss her. But thenbe dared not--or could not. There was something prevented him. His kisses were wrong for her. They continued the reading till teno'clock, when they went into the kitchen, and Paul was natural and jollyagain with the father and mother. His eyes were dark and shining;there was a kind of fascination about him.
