chapter vi part 2death in the family paul found his mother ready to go home.she smiled on her son. he took the great bunch of flowers.mr. and mrs. leivers walked down the fields with them. the hills were golden with evening; deep inthe woods showed the darkening purple of bluebells.it was everywhere perfectly stiff, save for the rustling of leaves and birds. "but it is a beautiful place," said mrs.morel. "yes," answered mr. leivers; "it's a nicelittle place, if only it weren't for the
rabbits. the pasture's bitten down to nothing.i dunno if ever i s'll get the rent off it." he clapped his hands, and the field brokeinto motion near the woods, brown rabbits hopping everywhere."would you believe it!" exclaimed mrs. morel. she and paul went on alone together."wasn't it lovely, mother?" he said quietly.a thin moon was coming out. his heart was full of happiness till ithurt.
his mother had to chatter, because she,too, wanted to cry with happiness. "now wouldn't i help that man!" she said. "wouldn't i see to the fowls and the youngstock! and i'd learn to milk, and i'd talk withhim, and i'd plan with him. my word, if i were his wife, the farm wouldbe run, i know! but there, she hasn't the strength--shesimply hasn't the strength. she ought never to have been burdened likeit, you know. i'm sorry for her, and i'm sorry for himtoo. my word, if i'd had him, i shouldn't havethought him a bad husband!
not that she does either; and she's verylovable." william came home again with his sweetheartat the whitsuntide. he had one week of his holidays then.it was beautiful weather. as a rule, william and lily and paul wentout in the morning together for a walk. william did not talk to his beloved much,except to tell her things from his boyhood. paul talked endlessly to both of them. they lay down, all three, in a meadow byminton church. on one side, by the castle farm, was abeautiful quivering screen of poplars. hawthorn was dropping from the hedges;penny daisies and ragged robin were in the
field, like laughter. william, a big fellow of twenty-three,thinner now and even a bit gaunt, lay back in the sunshine and dreamed, while shefingered with his hair. paul went gathering the big daisies. she had taken off her hat; her hair wasblack as a horse's mane. paul came back and threaded daisies in herjet-black hair--big spangles of white and yellow, and just a pink touch of raggedrobin. "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 ofmisery and fierce appreciation. "has he made a sight of me?" she asked,laughing down on her lover. "that he has!" said william, smiling. he looked at her.her beauty seemed to hurt him. he glanced at her flower-decked head andfrowned. "you look nice enough, if that's what youwant to know," he said. and she walked without her hat.in a little while william recovered, and was rather tender to her.
coming to a bridge, he carved her initialsand his in a heart. /----\/----\ | l. l. w. | \ / \w. m. / \----/ she watched his strong, nervous hand, withits glistening hairs and freckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it. all the time there was a feeling of sadnessand warmth, and a certain tenderness in the house, whilst william and lily were athome. 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 these two blouses, and these things?" and annie stood washing when william andlily went out the next morning. mrs. morel was furious. and sometimes the young man, catching aglimpse of his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister, hated her. on sunday morning she looked very beautifulin a dress of foulard, silky and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and in alarge cream hat covered with many roses,
mostly crimson. nobody could admire her enough.but in the evening, when she was going 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'sthe fourth pair she'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 stoodon the hearthrug whilst she sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her.in the afternoon he had left her whilst he went to see some old friend. she had sat looking at a book.after supper william wanted to write a letter."here is your book, lily," said mrs. morel. "would you care to go on with it for a fewminutes?" "no, thank you," said the girl."i will sit still." "but it is so dull." william scribbled irritably at a greatrate.
as he sealed the envelope he said:"read a book! why, she's never read a book in her life." "oh, go along!" said mrs. morel, cross withthe exaggeration, "it's true, mother--she hasn't," he cried,jumping up and taking his 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 there is i' books, tersit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can i." "but you shouldn't say these things," saidmrs. 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 annieswan's. nobody wants to read dry stuff on sundayafternoon." "well, i'll bet she didn't read ten linesof it." "you are mistaken," said his mother.all the time lily sat miserably on the sofa. he turned to her swiftly."did you read any?" he asked. "yes, i did," she replied."how much?" "i don't know how many pages."
"tell me one thing you read."she could not. she never got beyond the second page.he read a great deal, and had a quick, active intelligence. she could understand nothing but love-making and chatter. he was accustomed to having all histhoughts sifted through his mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and wasasked in reply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed. "you know, mother," he said, when he wasalone with her at night, "she's no idea of money, she's so wessel-brained.
when she's paid, she'll suddenly buy suchrot as marrons glaces, and then i have to buy her season ticket, and her extras, evenher underclothing. and she wants to get married, and i thinkmyself we might as well get married 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 offnow," 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, "shedidn't ask me; but one morning--and it was cold--i found her on the station shivering,not able to 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 she hadn't gotsomething thicker on in weather like that,
and she said because she had nothing.and there she is--a bronchial subject! i had to take her and get some warm things. well, mother, i shouldn't mind the money ifwe had any. and, you know, she ought to keep enough topay for her season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and i have to findthe money." "it's a poor lookout," said mrs. morelbitterly. he was pale, and his rugged face, that usedto be so perfectly careless and laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair. "but i can't give her up now; it's gone toofar," he said.
"and, besides, for some things i couldn'tdo without her." "my boy, remember you're taking your lifein your hands," said mrs. morel. "nothing is as bad as a marriage that's ahopeless 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 ofthe chimney-piece, his hands in his pockets. he was a big, raw-boned man, who looked asif he would go to the world's end if he wanted to.but she saw the despair on his face.
"i couldn't give her up now," he said. "well," she said, "remember there are worsewrongs than breaking off an engagement." "i can't give her up now," he said. the clock ticked on; mother and sonremained 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, andperhaps you'll know better." he kissed her, and went.she raked the fire. her heart was heavy now as it had neverbeen.
before, with her husband, things had seemedto be breaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. now her soul felt lamed in itself.it was her hope that was struck. and so often william manifested the samehatred towards his betrothed. on the last evening at home he was railingagainst 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 means for her--abit of a theatrical show where she can cut
a figure." "i haven't, mrs. morel!" cried the girl--"ihaven't! it is 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," shepleaded, tears in her eyes. "yes," said mrs. morel; "i can quiteunderstand it, child.
take no notice of him. you ought to be ashamed, william, sayingsuch 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 thanthat table-leg. gets confirmed three times for show, toshow 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 wellask a fly to love you!
it'll love settling on you--""now, say no more," commanded mrs. morel. "if you want to say these things, you mustfind 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're engaged to her!" mrs. morel subsided in wrath andindignation. william was silent, and later he repented,kissed and comforted the girl. yet it was true, what he had said.he hated her. when they were going away, mrs. morelaccompanied them as far as 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, veryuncomfortable 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 threemonths." mrs. morel was afraid. her heart beat furiously, hearing the quietbitterness of her son's last speech. "how do you know?" she replied."you don't know, and therefore you've no
right to say such a thing." "he's always saying these things!" criedthe girl. "in three months after i was buried you'dhave somebody else, and i should be forgotten," he said. "and that's your love!"mrs. morel saw them into the train in nottingham, then she returned home. "there's one comfort," she said to paul--"he'll never have any money 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 afeverish tone; he seemed unnatural and intense. sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly,usually he was flat and bitter in his letter. "ah," his mother said, "i'm afraid he'sruining himself against that creature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no more thana rag doll." he wanted to come home.
the midsummer holiday was gone; it was along while to christmas. he wrote in wild excitement, saying hecould come for saturday and sunday at goose fair, the first week in october. "you are not well, my boy," said hismother, when she saw him. she was almost in tears at having him toherself again. "no, i've not been well," he said. "i've seemed to have a dragging cold allthe last month, but it's going, i think." it was sunny october weather. he seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboyescaped; 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 motherto him. he was doing extra work, trying to makesome money to marry on, he said. he only talked to his mother once on thesaturday night; then he was sad and tender about his beloved. "and yet, you know, mother, for all that,if i died she'd be broken-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'renot 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 choose her--well, you can't grumble," said his mother. on the sunday morning, as he was puttinghis collar on: "look," he said to his mother, holding uphis chin, "what a rash 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 bit of this soothing ointment on.you should wear different collars."
he went away on sunday midnight, seemingbetter and more solid for his two days at home.on tuesday morning came a telegram from london that he was ill. mrs. morel got off her knees from washingthe floor, read the telegram, called a neighbour, went to her landlady andborrowed a sovereign, put on her things, and set off. she hurried to keston, caught an expressfor london in nottingham. she had to wait in nottingham nearly anhour. 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 herhow to get to elmers end. carrying her string bag, that contained hernightdress, 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 atwilliam'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 were tossed about, there was nofire in the room, a glass of milk stood on 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, asif repeating a letter from dictation: "owing to a leakage in the hold of thisvessel, the sugar had set, and become converted into rock.
it needed hacking--"he was quite unconscious. it had been his business to examine somesuch cargo of sugar in the port of london. "how long has he been like this?" themother asked the landlady. "he got home at six o'clock on mondaymorning, and he seemed to sleep all day; then in the night we heard him talking, andthis morning he asked for you. so i wired, and we fetched the doctor." "will you have a fire made?"mrs. morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still.the doctor came. it was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiarerysipelas, which had started under the
chin where the collar chafed, and wasspreading over the face. he hoped it would not get to the brain. mrs. morel settled down to nurse.she prayed for william, prayed that he would recognise her.but the young man's face grew more discoloured. in the night she struggled with him.he raved, and raved, and would not come to consciousness.at two o'clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died. mrs. morel sat perfectly still for an hourin the lodging bedroom; then she roused the
household. at six o'clock, with the aid of thecharwoman, she laid him out; then she went round the dreary london village to theregistrar and the doctor. at nine o'clock to the cottage on scargillstreet came another wire: "william died last night.let father come, bring money." annie, paul, and arthur were at home; mr.morel was gone to work. the three children said not a word.annie began to whimper with fear; paul set off for his father. it was a beautiful day.
at brinsley pit the white steam meltedslowly in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkled highup; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busy noise. "i want my father; he's got to go tolondon," said the boy to the first man he met on the bank."tha wants walter morel? go in theer an' tell joe ward." paul went into the little top office."i want my father; he's got to go to london.""thy feyther? is he down?
what's his name?""mr. morel." "what, walter?is owt amiss?" "he's got to go to london." the man went to the telephone and rang upthe bottom office. "walter morel's wanted, number 42, hard.summat's amiss; there's his lad here." then he turned round to paul. "he'll be up in a few minutes," he said.paul wandered out to the pit-top. he watched the chair come up, with itswagon of coal. the great iron cage sank back on its rest,a full carfle was hauled off, an empty tram
run on to the chair, a bell ting'edsomewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone. paul did not realise william was dead; itwas impossible, with such a bustle going on. the puller-off swung the small truck on tothe turn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curving lines. "and william is dead, and my mother's inlondon, and what will she be doing?" the boy asked himself, as if it were aconundrum. he watched chair after chair come up, andstill no father.
at last, standing beside a wagon, a man'sform! the chair sank on its rests, morel stepped off. he was slightly lame from an accident."is it thee, paul? is 'e worse?""you've got to go to london." the two walked off the pit-bank, where menwere watching curiously. as they came out and went along therailway, with the sunny autumn field on one side and a wall of trucks on the other,morel said in a frightened voice: "'e's niver gone, child?" "yes.""when wor't?"
"last night.we had a telegram from my mother." morel walked on a few strides, then leanedup against a truck-side, his hand over his eyes.he was not crying. paul stood looking round, waiting. on the weighing machine a truck trundledslowly. paul saw everything, except his fatherleaning against the truck as if he were tired. morel had only once before been to london.he set off, scared and peaked, to help his wife.that was on tuesday.
the children were left alone in the house. paul went to work, arthur went to school,and annie had in a friend to be with her. on saturday night, as paul was turning thecorner, coming home from keston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to sethleybridge station. they were walking in silence in the dark,tired, straggling apart. the boy waited."mother!" he said, in the darkness. mrs. morel's small figure seemed not toobserve. he spoke again."paul!" she said, uninterestedly. she let him kiss her, but she seemedunaware of him.
in the house she was the same--small,white, and mute. she noticed nothing, she said nothing,only: "the coffin will be here to-night, walter.you'd better see about some help." then, turning to the children: "we'rebringing him home." then she relapsed into the same mutelooking into space, her hands folded on her lap. paul, looking at her, felt he could notbreathe. the house was dead silent."i went to work, mother," he said plaintively.
"did you?" she answered, dully.after half an hour morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again."wheer s'll we ha'e him when he does come?" he asked his wife. "in the front-room.""then i'd better shift th' table?" "yes.""an' ha'e him across th' chairs?" "you know there--yes, i suppose so." morel and paul went, with a candle, intothe parlour. there was no gas there. the father unscrewed the top of the bigmahogany oval table, and cleared the middle
of the room; then he arranged six chairsopposite each other, so that the coffin could stand on their beds. "you niver seed such a length as he is!"said the miner, and watching anxiously as he worked.paul went to the bay window and looked out. the ash-tree stood monstrous and black infront of the wide darkness. it was a faintly luminous night.paul went back to his mother. at ten o'clock morel called: "he's here!"everyone started. there was a noise of unbarring andunlocking the front door, which opened
straight from the night into the room. "bring another candle," called morel.annie and arthur went. paul followed with his mother.he stood with his arm round her waist in the inner doorway. down the middle of the cleared room waitedsix chairs, face to face. in the window, against the lace curtains,arthur held up one candle, and by the open door, against the night, annie stoodleaning forward, her brass candlestick glittering. there was the noise of wheels.
outside in the darkness of the street belowpaul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, and a few pale faces; then somemen, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves, seemed to struggle in the obscurity. presently two men appeared, bowed beneath agreat weight. it was morel and his neighbour."steady!" called morel, out of breath. he and his fellow mounted the steep gardenstep, heaved into the candlelight with their gleaming coffin-end.limbs of other men were seen struggling behind. morel and burns, in front, staggered; thegreat dark weight swayed.
"steady, steady!" cried morel, as if inpain. all the six bearers were up in the smallgarden, holding the great coffin aloft. there were three more steps to the door.the yellow lamp of the carriage shone alone down the black road. "now then!" said morel.the coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with their load. annie's candle flickered, and she whimperedas the first men appeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men struggled toclimb into the room, bearing the coffin that rode like sorrow on their livingflesh.
"oh, my son--my son!" mrs. morel sang softly, and each time thecoffin swung to the unequal climbing of the men: "oh, my son--my son--my son!""mother!" paul whimpered, his hand round her waist. she did not hear."oh, my son--my son!" she repeated. paul saw drops of sweat fall from hisfather's brow. six men were in the room--six coatless men,with yielding, struggling limbs, filling the room and knocking against thefurniture. the coffin veered, and was gently loweredon to the chairs.
the sweat fell from morel's face on itsboards. "my word, he's a weight!" said a man, andthe five miners sighed, bowed, and, trembling with the struggle, descended thesteps again, closing the door behind them. the family was alone in the parlour withthe great polished box. william, when laid out, was six feet fourinches long. like a monument lay the bright brown,ponderous coffin. paul thought it would never be got out ofthe room again. his mother was stroking the polished wood. they buried him on the monday in the littlecemetery on the hillside that looks over
the fields at the big church and thehouses. it was sunny, and the white chrysanthemumsfrilled themselves in the warmth. mrs. morel could not be persuaded, afterthis, to talk and take her old bright interest in life. she remained shut off.all the way home in the train she had said to herself: "if only it could have beenme!" when paul came home at night he found hismother sitting, her day's work done, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarseapron. she always used to have changed her dressand put on a black apron, before.
now annie set his supper, and his mothersat looking blankly in front of her, her mouth shut tight. then he beat his brains for news to tellher. "mother, miss jordan was down to-day, andshe said my sketch of a colliery at work was beautiful." but mrs. morel took no notice.night after night he forced himself to tell her things, although she did not listen.it drove him almost insane to have her thus. at last:"what's a-matter, mother?" he asked.
she did not hear."what's a-matter?" he persisted. "mother, what's a-matter?" "you know what's the matter," she saidirritably, turning away. the lad--he was sixteen years old--went tobed drearily. he was cut off and wretched throughoctober, november and december. his mother tried, but she could not rouseherself. she could only brood on her dead son; hehad been let to die so cruelly. at last, on december 23, with his fiveshillings christmas-box in his pocket, paul wandered blindly home.
his mother looked at him, and her heartstood still. "what's the matter?" she asked."i'm badly, mother!" he replied. "mr. jordan gave me five shillings for achristmas-box!" he handed it to her with trembling hands.she put it on the table. "you aren't glad!" he reproached her; buthe trembled violently. "where hurts you?" she said, unbuttoninghis overcoat. it was the old question. "i feel badly, mother."she undressed him and put him to bed. he had pneumonia dangerously, the doctorsaid.
"might he never have had it if i'd kept himat home, not let him go to nottingham?" was one of the first things she asked."he might not have been so bad," said the doctor. mrs. morel stood condemned on her ownground. "i should have watched the living, not thedead," she told herself. paul was very ill. his mother lay in bed at nights with him;they could not afford a nurse. he grew worse, and the crisis approached. one night he tossed into consciousness inthe ghastly, sickly feeling of dissolution,
when all the cells in the body seem inintense irritability to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare ofstruggle, like madness. "i s'll die, mother!" he cried, heaving forbreath on the pillow. she lifted him up, crying in a small voice: "oh, my son--my son!"that brought him to. he realised her.his whole will rose up and arrested him. he put his head on her breast, and tookease of her for love. "for some things," said his aunt, "it was agood thing paul was ill that christmas. i believe it saved his mother."
paul was in bed for seven weeks.he got up white and fragile. his father had bought him a pot of scarletand gold tulips. they used to flame in the window in themarch sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his mother.the two knitted together in perfect intimacy. mrs. morel's life now rooted itself inpaul. william had been a prophet.mrs. morel had a little present and a letter from lily at christmas. mrs. morel's sister had a letter at the newyear.
"i was at a ball last night. some delightful people were there, and ienjoyed myself thoroughly," said the letter."i had every dance--did not sit out one." mrs. morel never heard any more of her. morel and his wife were gentle with eachother for some time after the death of their son.he would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyed and blank across the room. then he got up suddenly and hurried out tothe three spots, returning in his normal state.
but never in his life would he go for awalk up shepstone, past the office where his son had worked, and he always avoidedthe cemetery.