At last the doctor came. He was about forty,good-looking, brown-skinned. His wife had died, and he,who had loved her, had specialised on women's ailments. Paul told his name and his mother's. The doctor did not remember.
"Number forty-six M.," said the nurse; and the doctor lookedup the case in his book.
"There is a big lump that may be a tumour," said Paul. "But Dr. Ansell was going to write you a letter."
"Ah, yes!" replied the doctor, drawing the letter fromhis pocket. He was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He wouldcome to Sheffield the next day.
"What is your father?" he asked.
"He is a coal-miner," replied Paul.
"Not very well off, I suppose?"
"This--I see after this," said Paul.
"And you?" smiled the doctor.
"I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory."
The doctor smiled at him.
"Er--to go to Sheffield!" he said, putting the tips of hisfingers together, and smiling with his eyes. "Eight guineas?"
"Thank you!" said Paul, flushing and rising. "And you'llcome to-morrow?"
"To-morrow--Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time thereis a train in the afternoon?"
"There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen."
"And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to walk?" The doctor smiled.
"There is the tram," said Paul; "the Western Park tram."
The doctor made a note of it.
"Thank you!" he said, and shook hands.
Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left inthe charge of Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging in the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with his father.
"Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?" said the father.
"Yes," replied the son. "But I'm going back to-night."
"Are ter, beguy!" exclaimed the collier. "An' has ter eaten owt?"
"No."
"That's just like thee," said Morel. "Come thy ways in."
The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The twowent indoors. Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands,and sleeves rolled up, sat in the arm-chair opposite and lookedat him.
"Well, an' how is she?" asked the miner at length, in a little voice.
"She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea," said Paul.
"That's a blessin'!" exclaimed Morel. "I hope we s'll soonbe havin' her whoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?"
"He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her."
"Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!"
"Eight guineas."
"Eight guineas!" the miner spoke breathlessly. "Well, we munfind it from somewhere."
"I can pay that," said Paul.
There was silence between them for some time.
"She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie,"Paul said.
"Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was," answered Morel. "But Minnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!" He satlooking dismal.
"I s'll have to be going at half-past three," said Paul.
"It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dostthink she'll be able to get as far as this?"
"We must see what the doctors say to-morrow," Paul said.
Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty,and Paul thought his father looked lost, forlorn, and old.
"You'll have to go and see her next week, father," he said.
"I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time," said Morel.
"If she's not," said Paul, "then you must come."
"I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money," said Morel.
"And I'll write to you what the doctor says," said Paul.
"But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out,"said Morel.
"Well, I'll write plain."
It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcelydo more than write his own name.
The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonardwere waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except when he haddeceived himself.
"It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see," said Dr. Jameson.
"And if it is," said Annie, "can you sweal it away?"
"Probably," said the doctor.
Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and putthat down.
"Thank you!" he said. "I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see what we can do."
"There can't be an operation?" said Paul.
The doctor shook his head.
"No," he said; "and even if there could, her heart wouldn'tstand it."
"Is her heart risky?" asked Paul.
"Yes; you must be careful with her."
"Very risky?"
"No--er--no, no! Just take care."
And the doctor was gone.
Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply,like a child. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms roundhis neck, clinging.
"I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs," she said.
And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do itanother time. He felt he could not carry her.
"He thinks it's only a tumour!" cried Annie to her mother. "And he can sweal it away."
"I KNEW he could," protested Mrs. Morel scornfully.
She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ashoff his coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It was so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The long grey hair floated and was gone in the blacknessof the chimney.
The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early in the morning, and they were alone.
"You won't fret, my boy!" she said.
"No, mother."
"No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself."
"Yes," he answered. Then, after a while: "And I shall comenext Saturday, and shall bring my father?"
"I suppose he wants to come," she replied. "At any rate,if he does you'll have to let him."
He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples,gently, tenderly, as if she were a lover.
"Shan't you be late?" she murmured.
"I'm going," he said, very low.
Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hairfrom her temples.
"And you won't be any worse, mother?"
"No, my son."
"You promise me?"
"Yes; I won't be any worse."
He kissed her, held her in his arms for a moment, and was gone. In the early sunny morning he ran to the station, crying all the way;he did not know what for. And her blue eyes were wide and staringas she thought of him.
In the afternoon he went a walk with Clara. They satin the little wood where bluebells were standing. He took her hand.
"You'll see," he said to Clara, "she'll never be better."
"Oh, you don't know!" replied the other.
"I do," he said.
She caught him impulsively to her breast.
"Try and forget it, dear," she said; "try and forget it."
"I will," he answered.
Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair. It was comforting, and he held his arms round her. But he didnot forget. He only talked to Clara of something else. And itwas always so. When she felt it coming, the agony, she criedto him:
"Don't think of it, Paul! Don't think of it, my darling!"
And she pressed him to her breast, rocked him, soothed himlike a child. So he put the trouble aside for her sake, to take itup again immediately he was alone. All the time, as he went about,he cried mechanically. His mind and hands were busy. He cried,he did not know why. It was his blood weeping. He was just as muchalone whether he was with Clara or with the men in the White Horse. Just himself and this pressure inside him, that was all that existed. He read sometimes. He had to keep his mind occupied. And Clara was away of occupying his mind.
On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He wasa forlorn figure, looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs.
"My father's come," he said, kissing his mother.
"Has he?" she answered wearily.
The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom.
"How dun I find thee, lass?" he said, going forward and kissingher in a hasty, timid fashion.
"Well, I'm middlin'," she replied.
"I see tha art," he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as ifnobody owned him, he looked.
"Have you gone on all right?" asked the wife, rather wearily,as if it were an effort to talk to him.
"Yis," he answered. "'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, asyer might expect."
"Does she have your dinner ready?" asked Mrs. Morel.
"Well, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice," he said.
"And you MUST shout at her if she's not ready. She WILL leavethings to the last minute."
She gave him a few instructions. He sat looking at her asif she were almost a stranger to him, before whom he was awkwardand humble, and also as if he had lost his presence of mind,and wanted to run. This feeling that he wanted to run away,that he was on thorns to be gone from so trying a situation, and yetmust linger because it looked better, made his presence so trying. He put up his eyebrows for misery, and clenched his fists on his knees,feeling so awkward in presence of big trouble.
Mrs. Morel did not change much. She stayed in Sheffieldfor two months. If anything, at the end she was rather worse. But she wanted to go home. Annie had her children. Mrs. Morelwanted to go home. So they got a motor-car from Nottingham--for shewas too ill to go by train--and she was driven through the sunshine. It was just August; everything was bright and warm. Under the bluesky they could all see she was dying. Yet she was jollier than shehad been for weeks. They all laughed and talked.
"Annie," she exclaimed, "I saw a lizard dart on that rock!"
Her eyes were so quick; she was still so full of life.
Morel knew she was coming. He had the front door open. Everybody was on tiptoe. Half the street turned out. They heardthe sound of the great motor-car. Mrs. Morel, smiling, drove homedown the street.
"And just look at them all come out to see me!" she said. "But there, I suppose I should have done the same. How do you do,Mrs. Mathews? How are you, Mrs. Harrison?"
They none of them could hear, but they saw her smile and nod. And they all saw death on her face, they said. It was a great eventin the street.
Morel wanted to carry her indoors, but he was too old. Arthur took her as if she were a child. They had set her a big,deep chair by the hearth where her rocking-chair used to stand. When she was unwrapped and seated, and had drunk a little brandy,she looked round the room.
"Don't think I don't like your house, Annie," she said;"but it's nice to be in my own home again."
And Morel answered huskily:
"It is, lass, it is."
And Minnie, the little quaint maid, said:
"An' we glad t' 'ave yer."
There was a lovely yellow ravel of sunflowers in the garden. She looked out of the window.
"There are my sunflowers!" she said.
CHAPTER XIV
THE RELEASE （I）
"By the way," said Dr. Ansell one evening when Morel wasin Sheffield, "we've got a man in the fever hospital here who comesfrom Nottingham--Dawes. He doesn't seem to have many belongingsin this world."
"Baxter Dawes!" Paul exclaimed.
"That's the man--has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think. Been in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?"
"He used to work at the place where I am."
"Did he? Do you know anything about him? He's just sulking,or he'd be a lot better than he is by now."
"I don't know anything of his home circumstances, except thathe's separated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell him about me, will you? Tell him I'll come and see him."
The next time Morel saw the doctor he said:
"And what about Dawes?"
"I said to him," answered the other, "'Do you know a man fromNottingham named Morel?' and he looked at me as if he'd jump atmy throat. So I said: 'I see you know the name; it's Paul Morel.' Then I told him about your saying you would go and see him. 'What does he want?' he said, as if you were a policeman."
"And did he say he would see me?" asked Paul.
"He wouldn't say anything--good, bad or indifferent,"replied the doctor.
"Why not?"
"That's what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in,day out. Can't get a word of information out of him."
"Do you think I might go?" asked Paul.
"You might."
There was a feeling of connection between the rival men,more than ever since they had fought. In a way Morel felt guiltytowards the other, and more or less responsible. And being in sucha state of soul himself, he felt an almost painful nearness to Dawes,who was suffering and despairing, too. Besides, they had metin a naked extremity of hate, and it was a bond. At any rate,the elemental man in each had met.
He went down to the isolation hospital, with Dr. Ansell's card. This sister, a healthy young Irishwoman, led him down the ward.
"A visitor to see you, Jim Crow," she said.
