"Mother, I want an evening suit."
"Yes, I was afraid you would," she said. She was glad. There was a moment or two of silence. "There's that one of William's,"she continued, "that I know cost four pounds tenand which he'd only worn three times."
"Should you like me to wear it, mother?" he asked.
"Yes. I think it would fit you--at least the coat. The trouserswould want shortening."
He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down,he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front,with an evening coat and vest. It was rather large.
"The tailor can make it right," she said, smoothing her handover his shoulder. "It's beautiful stuff. I never could findin my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very gladI am now."
And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thoughtof her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The other was dead.
He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that hadbeen William's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with prideand joy. He was started now. The studs she and the children hadbought for William were in his shirt-front; he wore one of William'sdress shirts. But he had an elegant figure. His face was rough,but warm-looking and rather pleasing. He did not look particularlya gentleman, but she thought he looked quite a man.
He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce herto these new friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening.
"Go along with you!" she said. "What do they want to knowme for?"
"They do!" he cried indignantly. "If they want to know me--andthey say they do--then they want to know you, because you are quiteas clever as I am. "
"Go along with you, child! " she laughed.
But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regrettedwhat they had been--so small and exquisite. And when Annie insistedon her having more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even went so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placedon her hair. Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and wassure she looked a sight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared,as much as Mrs. Major Moreton, and far, far nicer. The familywas coming on. Only Morel remained unchanged, or rather,lapsed slowly.
Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was fading into the background. He had shovelled awayan the beliefs that would hamper him, had cleared the ground,and come more or less to the bedrock of belief that one should feelinside oneself for right and wrong, and should have the patience togradually realise one's God. Now life interested him more.
"You know," he said to his mother, "I don't want to belongto the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the common people."
"But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn't you be in a tear. YOU know you consider yourself equal to any gentleman."
"In myself," he answered, "not in my class or my educationor my manners. But in myself I am."
"Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?"
"Because--the difference between people isn't in their class,but in themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas,and from the common people--life itself, warmth. You feel their hatesand loves."
"It's all very well, my boy. But, then, why don't you goand talk to your father's pals?"
"But they're rather different."
"Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do youmix with now--among the common people? Those that exchange ideas,like the middle classes. The rest don't interest you."
"But--there's the life---"
"I don't believe there's a jot more life from Miriam than youcould get from any educated girl--say Miss Moreton. It is YOUwho are snobbish about class."
She frankly WANTED him to climb into the middle classes,a thing not very difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the endto marry a lady.
Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up his connection with Miriam, could neither breakfree nor go the whole length of engagement. And this indecisionseemed to bleed him of his energy. Moreover, his mother suspectedhim of an unrecognised leaning towards Clara, and, since the latterwas a married woman, she wished he would fall in love with oneof the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid,and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl much, just becauseshe was his social superior.
"My boy," said his mother to him, "all your cleverness,your breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands,doesn't seem to bring you much happiness."
"What is happiness!" he cried. "It's nothing to me! How AM I to be happy?"
The plump question disturbed her.
"That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meetsome GOOD woman who would MAKE you happy--and you began to thinkof settling your life--when you have the means--so that you couldwork without all this fretting--it would be much better for you."
He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his woundof Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyesfull of pain and fire.
"You mean easy, mother," he cried. "That's a woman's whole doctrinefor life--ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it."
"Oh, do you!" replied his mother. "And do you call yoursa divine discontent?"
"Yes. I don't care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So long as life's full, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. I'm afraid your happiness would bore me."
"You never give it a chance," she said. Then suddenly allher passion of grief over him broke out. "But it does matter!"she cried. "And you OUGHT to be happy, you ought to try to be happy,to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn'tbe a happy one!"
"Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left youso much worse off than the folk who've been happier. I reckonyou've done well. And I am the same. Aren't I well enough off?"
"You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's aboutall you do, as far as I can see."
"But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best---"
"It isn't. And one OUGHT to be happy, one OUGHT."
By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles ofthis kind often took place between her and her son, when sheseemed to fight for his very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She was ill and pitiful.
"Never mind, Little," he murmured. "So long as you don't feellife's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter,happiness or unhappiness."
She pressed him to her.
"But I want you to be happy," she said pathetically.
"Eh, my dear--say rather you want me to live."
Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate she knew he would not live. He had that poignantcarelessness about himself, his own suffering, his own life,which is a form of slow suicide. It almost broke her heart. With all the passion of her strong nature she hated Miriam for havingin this subtle way undermined his joy. It did not matter to herthat Miriam could not help it. Miriam did it, and she hated her.
She wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equalto be his mate--educated and strong. But he would not look atanybody above him in station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate that feeling was wholesome. His mother prayed and prayedfor him, that he might not be wasted. That was all her prayer--notfor his soul or his righteousness, but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours she thought and prayedfor him.
He drifted away from Miriam imperceptibly, without knowing hewas going. Arthur only left the army to be married. The baby wasborn six months after his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job underthe firm again, at twenty-one shillings a week. She furnished for him,with the help of Beatrice's mother, a little cottage of two rooms. He was caught now. It did not matter how he kicked and struggled,he was fast. For a time he chafed, was irritable with hisyoung wife, who loved him; he went almost distracted when the baby,which was delicate, cried or gave trouble. He grumbled for hoursto his mother. She only said: "Well, my lad, you did it yourself,now you must make the best of it." And then the grit came out in him. He buckled to work, undertook his responsibilities, acknowledged thathe belonged to his wife and child, and did make a good best of it. He had never been very closely inbound into the family. Now he wasgone altogether.
The months went slowly along. Paul had more or less got intoconnection with the Socialist, Suffragette, Unitarian people inNottingham, owing to his acquaintance with Clara. One daya friend of his and of Clara's, in Bestwood, asked him to takea message to Mrs. Dawes. He went in the evening across SneintonMarket to Bluebell Hill. He found the house in a mean little streetpaved with granite cobbles and having causeways of dark blue,grooved bricks. The front door went up a step from off thisrough pavement, where the feet of the passersby rasped and clattered. The brown paint on the door was so old that the naked wood showedbetween the rents. He stood on the street below and knocked. There came a heavy footstep; a large, stout woman of about sixtytowered above him. He looked up at her from the pavement. She had a rather severe face.
She admitted him into the parlour, which opened on to the street. It was a small, stuffy, defunct room, of mahogany, and deathlyenlargements of photographs of departed people done in carbon. Mrs. Radford left him. She was stately, almost martial. In a moment Clara appeared. She flushed deeply, and he was coveredwith confusion. It seemed as if she did not like being discoveredin her home circumstances.
"I thought it couldn't be your voice," she said.
But she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She invited him out of the mausoleum of a parlour into the kitchen.
That was a little, darkish room too, but it was smotheredin white lace. The mother had seated herself again by the cupboard,and was drawing thread from a vast web of lace. A clump of fluff andravelled cotton was at her right hand, a heap of three-quarter-inch lacelay on her left, whilst in front of her was the mountain of lace web,piling the hearthrug. Threads of curly cotton, pulled out from betweenthe lengths of lace, strewed over the fender and the fireplace. Paul dared not go forward, for fear of treading on piles of white stuff.
On the table was a jenny for carding the lace. There wasa pack of brown cardboard squares, a pack of cards of lace,a little box of pins, and on the sofa lay a heap of drawn lace.
The room was all lace, and it was so dark and warm that the white,snowy stuff seemed the more distinct.
"If you're coming in you won't have to mind the work,"said Mrs. Radford. "I know we're about blocked up. But sityou down."
Clara, much embarrassed, gave him a chair against the wallopposite the white heaps. Then she herself took her placeon the sofa, shamedly.
"Will you drink a bottle of stout?" Mrs. Radford asked. "Clara, get him a bottle of stout."
He protested, but Mrs. Radford insisted.
"You look as if you could do with it," she said. "Haven't younever any more colour than that?"
"It's only a thick skin I've got that doesn't showthe blood through," he answered.
Clara, ashamed and chagrined, brought him a bottle of stoutand a glass. He poured out some of the black stuff.
"Well," he said, lifting the glass, "here's health!"
"And thank you," said Mrs. Radford.
He took a drink of stout.
"And light yourself a cigarette, so long as you don't setthe house on fire," said Mrs. Radford.
"Thank you," he replied.
"Nay, you needn't thank me," she answered. "I s'll beglad to smell a bit of smoke in th' 'ouse again. A house o'women is as dead as a house wi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'mnot a spider as likes a corner to myself. I like a man about,if he's only something to snap at."
Clara began to work. Her jenny spun with a subdued buzz;the white lace hopped from between her fingers on to the card. It was filled; she snipped off the length, and pinned the enddown to the banded lace. Then she put a new card in her jenny. Paul watched her. She sat square and magnificent. Her throat andarms were bare. The blood still mantled below her ears; she benther head in shame of her humility. Her face was set on her work. Her arms were creamy and full of life beside the white lace;her large, well-kept hands worked with a balanced movement,as if nothing would hurry them. He, not knowing, watched her allthe time. He saw the arch of her neck from the shoulder, as shebent her head; he saw the coil of dun hair; he watched her moving,gleaming arms.
"I've heard a bit about you from Clara," continued the mother. "You're in Jordan's, aren't you?" She drew her lace unceasing.
"Yes."
"Ay, well, and I can remember when Thomas Jordan used to askME for one of my toffies."
"Did he?" laughed Paul. "And did he get it?"
"Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't--which was latterly. For he's the sort that takes all and gives naught, he is--or usedto be."
"I think he's very decent," said Paul.
"Yes; well, I'm glad to hear it."
Mrs. Radford looked across at him steadily. There was somethingdetermined about her that he liked. Her face was falling loose,but her eyes were calm, and there was something strong in her thatmade it seem she was not old; merely her wrinkles and loose cheekswere an anachronism. She had the strength and sang-froid of a womanin the prime of life. She continued drawing the lace with slow,dignified movements. The big web came up inevitably over her apron;the length of lace fell away at her side. Her arms were finely shapen,but glossy and yellow as old ivory. They had not the peculiar dullgleam that made Clara's so fascinating to him.
