 Chapter 4 Part 2 of Sons and Lovers. Mrs. Morrill's intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fine, perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule that Paul should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers of the five pits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. All the earnings of each stall were put down to the chief buddy, as contractor, and he divided the wages again, either in the public house or in his own home. So that the children could fetch the money, school closed early on Friday afternoons. Each of the Morrill children, William, then Annie, then Paul, had fetched the money on Friday afternoons until they themselves went to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three with a little calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, children, and men were seen trooping to the offices. These offices were quite handsome, a new red brick building almost like a mansion standing in its own grounds at the end of Green Hill Lane. The waiting room was the hall, a long, bare room paved with blue brick, and having a seat all round against the wall. Here sat the colliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The women and children usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. Paul always examined the grass-border and the big grass bank, because in it grew tiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a sound of many voices. The women had on their Sunday hats. The girls chattered loudly. Little dogs ran here and there. The green shrubs were silent all round. Then from inside came the cry, Spiny Park, Spiny Park! All the folk for Spiny Park trooped inside. When it was time for Bready to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay room was quite small, a counter went across dividing it into half. Behind the counter stood two men, Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite was large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having a rather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silk neckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the open grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the throats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom was rather small and fat and very bald. He made remarks that were not witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions against the colliers. The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had been home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog. Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind the legs of the men, near the fire which scorched him. He knew the order of the names. They went according to stall number. Holliday, came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite, then Mrs. Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, and drew aside. Bower, John Bower! A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible, glowered at him over his spectacles. John Bower! he repeated. It's me, said the boy. Why, you used to have a different nose than that! said Glossy Mr. Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, thinking of John Bower, Sr. How is it your father's not come? Did Mr. Braithwaite, in a large and magisterial voice? He's badly piped the boy. You should tell him to keep off the drink! pronounced the great cashier. And never mind if he puts his foot through your—said a mocking voice from behind. All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked down at his next sheet. Fred Pilkington! he called, quite indifferent. Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm. Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. He was pushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning. But he did not hope to get through the wall of men. Walter Moral! came the ringing voice. Here piped Paul, small and inadequate. Moral! Walter Moral! the cashier repeated, his finger and thumb on the invoice, ready to pass on. Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness and could not or would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. Then Mr. Winterbottom came to the rescue. He's here! Where is he? Moral's lad! The fat red bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He pointed to the fireplace. The cashiers looked round, moved aside, and disclosed the boy. Here he is! said Mr. Winterbottom. Paul went to the counter. Seventeen pounds, eleven in five pence. Why don't you shout up when you're called? said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the invoice a five-pound bag of silver, and then in a delicate and pretty movement picked up a little ten-pound column of gold and plumped it beside the silver. The gold slid in a bright stream over the paper. The cashier finished counting off the money. The boy dragged the hole down the counter to Mr. Winterbottom, to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. Here he suffered again. Sixteen in six! said Mr. Winterbottom. The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some loose silver and half a sovereign. How much do you think you've given me? asked Mr. Winterbottom. The boy looked at him but said nothing. He had not the faintest notion. Haven't you got a tongue in your head? Paul bit his lip and pushed forward some more silver. Don't they teach you to count at the board school? he asked. Not but algebra and French, said a collier. And cheek and impudence, said another. Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he got his money into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of the damned on these occasions. His relief, when he got outside and was walking along the Mansfield Road, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. There were some gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple trees of an orchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream. The boy went near the wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men but could not recognize them in their dirt. And this was a new torture to him. When he got down to the new inn, at Bretty, his father was not yet come. Mrs. Warmbay, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morrell's mother, had bit Mrs. Warmbay's friend. Your father's not come yet, said the landlady, in the peculiar half-scornful, half-patronizing voice of a woman who talks chiefly to grown men. Sit you down. Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were reckoning, sharing out their money, in a corner. Others came in. They all glanced at the boy without speaking. That last Morrell came, brisk, and with something of an air even in his blackness. Hello! He said, rather tenderly to his son. Have you bested me? Shall you have a drink of something? Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists, and he would have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all the men than in having a tooth drawn. The landlady looked at him, de hote en bas, rather pitying, and at the same time resenting his clear fierce morality. Paul went home, glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking-day, and there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him. Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing. I'm not going to the office any more. He said. Why, what's the matter? His mother asked in surprise. His sudden rages rather amused her. I'm not going any more. He declared. Oh, very well. Tell your father so. He chewed his bun as if he hated it. I'm not—I'm not going to fetch the money. When one of Carlin's children can go, they'd be glad enough of the sixpence, said Mrs. Morrell. This sixpence was Paul's only income. It mostly went in buying birthday presents, but it was an income, and he treasured it. But— They can have it, then, he said. I don't want it. Oh, very well, said his mother, but you needn't bully me about it. They're hateful and common, and hateful they are, and I'm not going any more. Mr. Braithway drops his H's and Mr. Winterbottom says you was. And is that why you won't go any more? smiled Mrs. Morrell. The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes dark and furious, his mother moved about at her work, taking no notice of him. They always stand in front of me so I can't get out. He said, Well, my lad, you've only to ask them, she replied. And then Alfred Winterbottom says, What do they teach you at the board school? They never taught him much, said Mrs. Morrell. That is a fact, neither manners nor wit, and his cunning he was born with. So in her own way she soothed him. His ridiculous hypersensitiveness made her heart ache, and sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her. Made her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised. What was the check? She asked. Seventeen pounds eleven and five pence, and sixteen and six stoppages, replied the boy. It's a good week, and only five shilling stoppages for my father. So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, and could call him to account if he gave her short money. Morrell always kept to himself the secret of the week's amount. Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule that Paul should stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and draw or read. He was very fond of drawing. Many always gallivanted on Friday nights. Arthur was enjoying himself, as usual, so the boy remained alone. Mrs. Morrell loved her marketing. In the tiny marketplace on the top of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby, Ilkaston and Mansfield meet, many stalls were erected. Breaks ran in from surrounding villages. The marketplace was full of women, the streets packed with men. It was amazing to see so many men everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morrell usually quarreled with her lace woman, sympathized with her fruit man, who was a gay bee, but his wife was a badden. Laughed with the fish man, who was a scamp, but so droll. Put the linoleum man in his place, was cold with the oddwares man, and only went to the crockery man when she was driven, or drawn by the corn-flowers on a little dish, then she was coldly polite. "'I wondered how much that little dish was,' she said. "'Seven pence to you.' "'Thank you.' She put the dish down and walked away, but she could not leave the marketplace without it. Again she went by where the pots lay coldly on the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretending not to. She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her bonnet was in its third year. It was a great grievance to Annie. "'Mother,' the girl implored, "'don't wear that nubbly little bonnet? Then what else shall I wear?' replied the mother tartly. And I'm sure it's right enough.' It had started with a tip, then it had flowers, now was reduced to black lace and a bit of jet. It looks rather come down,' said Paul. "'Couldn't you give it a pick-me-up?' "'I'll jow your head for impudence,' said Mrs. Morrell, and she tied the strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin. She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, the pot-man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something between them. Suddenly she shouted, "'Do you want it for five pence?' She started. Her heart hardened, but then she stooped and took up her dish. "'I'll have it,' she said. "'You'll do me the favour, like?' he said. "'You'd better spit in it like you do when you have something give-year.' Mrs. Morrell paid him the five pence in a cold manner. "'I don't see why you give it me,' she said. "'You wouldn't have let me have it for five pence if you didn't want to.' "'In this flamin' scrat in place you may count yourself lucky if you can give your things away,' he growled. "'Yes, there are bad times and good,' said Mrs. Morrell. But she had forgiven the pot-man. They were friends. She dared now finger his pots, so she was happy. Paul was waiting for her. He loved her homecoming. She was always her best so. The triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick light step in the entry and looked up from his drawing. "'Oh!' she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway. "'My word, you are loaded!' he exclaimed, putting down his brush. "'I am,' she gasped. That brazen Annie said she'd meet me. Such a weight!' She dropped her string-bag and her packages on the table. "'Is the bread done?' she asked, going to the oven. "'The last one is soaking,' he replied. "'You needn't look. I've not forgotten it.' "'Oh! that pot-man!' she said, closing the oven door. "'You know what a wretch I've said he was. Well, I don't think he's quite so bad.' "'Don't you?' the boy was attentive to her. She took off her little black bonnet. "'No. I think he can't make any money. Well, it's everybody's cry alike nowadays, and it makes him disagreeable.' "'It would me,' said Paul. "'Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have—how much do you think he let me have this for?' She took the dish out of its rag of newspaper and stood looking on it with joy. "'Show me,' said Paul. The two stood together gloating over the dish. "'I love corn-flowers on things,' said Paul. "'Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me. One in three,' said Paul. "'Five pence!' "'It's not enough, mother!' "'No. Do you know I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd been extravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't have let me have it if he hadn't wanted to.' "'No, he needn't—needy,' said Paul, and the two comforted each other from the fear of having robbed the pop-man. "'We can each have stewed fruit in it,' said Paul. "'Or custard, or a jelly,' said his mother. "'Or radishes and lettuce,' said he. "'Don't forget that bread,' she said, her voice bright with glee. Paul looked in the oven, tapped the loaf on the base. "'It's done,' he said, giving it to her. She tapped it also. "'Yes,' she replied, going to unpack her bag. "'Oh, and I'm a wicked extravagant woman! I know she'll come to want!' He hopped to her side eagerly to see her latest extravagance. She unfolded another lump of newspaper, and disclosed some roots of pansies and of crimson daisies. "'For, Pennyworth,' she moaned. "'How cheap!' he cried. "'Yes, but I couldn't afford it this week of all weeks.' "'But lovely!' he cried. "'Aren't they?' she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. "'Paul, look at this yellow one, isn't it? Out of face, just like an old man!' "'Just!' cried Paul, stooping to sniff. "'And smells that nice! But he's a bit splashed.' He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully washed the pansy. "'Now look at him, now he's wet,' he said. "'Yes,' she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction. The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end where the morals lived, there were not many young things. So the few were more united. Boys and girls played together, the girls joining in the fights and the rough games, the boys taking part in the dancing games and rings and make-belief of the girls. Annie and Paul and Arthur loved the winter evenings when it was not wet. They stayed indoors till the colliers were all gone home, till it was thick dark and the street would be deserted. Then they tied their scarves round their necks, for they scorned overcoats, as all the colliers' children did, and went out. The entry was very dark, and at the end the whole great night opened out in a hollow with a little tangle of lights below where mint and pit lay, and another far away opposite for Selby. The farthest honey-lights seemed to stretch out the darkness for ever. The children looked anxiously down the road at the one lamp-post which stood at the end of the field-path. If the little luminous space were deserted the two boys felt genuine desolation. They stood with their hands in their pockets under the lamp, turning their backs on the night, quite miserable, watching the dark houses. Finally a pinafore under a short coat was seen, and a long-legged girl came flying up. Where's Billy Pillans, and your Annie and Eddie Dankin? I don't know. But it did not matter so much. There were three now. They set up a game round the lamp-post till the others rushed up yelling. Then the play went fast and furious. There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop of darkness as if all the night were there. In front another wide dark way opened over the hill-brow. Occasionally somebody came out of this way and went into the field down the path. In a dozen yards the night had swallowed them. The children played on. They were brought exceedingly close together owing to their isolation. If a quarrel took place the whole play was spoiled. Arthur was very touchy, and Billy Pillans, really Philips, was worse. Then Paul had to side with Arthur, and on Paul's side went Alice, while Billy Pillans always had Emmy Lim and Eddie Dankin to back him up. Then the six would fight, hate with a fury of hatred, and flee home in terror. Paul never forgot after one of these fierce, internecine fights, seeing a big red moon lift itself up, slowly, between the waste road over the hill-top, steadily like a great bird. Eddie thought of the Bible, that the moon should be turned to blood, and the next day he made haste to be friends with Billy Pillans. And then the wild intense games went on again under the lamp-posts surrounded by so much darkness. Miss Moral, going into her parlor, would hear the children singing away. My shoes are made of Spanish leather. My socks are made of silk. I wear a ring on every finger. I wash myself in milk. They sounded so perfectly absorbed in the game, as their voices came out of the night, that they had the feel of wild creatures singing. It stirred the mother, and she understood when they came in at eight o'clock, ruddy, with brilliant eyes, and quick, passionate speech. They all loved the Scargal Street-house for its openness, for the great scallop of the world it had in view. On summer evenings the women would stand against the field-fence, gossiping, facing the west, watching the sun-sets flare quickly out, till the Derbyshire Hills ridged across the crimson far away, like the black crest of a newt. In this summer season the pits never turned full time, particularly the soft coal. Mrs. Dakin, who lived next door to Mrs. Moral, going to the field-fence to shake her hearth-rug, would spy men coming slowly up the hill. She saw at once they were colliers. Then she waited, a tall, thin, shrew-faced woman, standing on the hill-brow, almost like a menace to the poor colliers who were toiling up. It was only eleven o'clock. From the far-off wooded hills the haze that hangs like fine black crepe at the back of the summer morning had not yet dissipated. The first man came to the stile. Chock, chock! went the gate under his thrust. What, hand your knocked off? cried Mrs. Dakin. Oh, hand, Mrs. It's a pity and they let you go, she said sarcastically. It is that, replied the man. Nay, you know your flick to come up again, she said. And the man went on. Mrs. Dakin, going up her yard, spied Mrs. Moral taking the ashes to the ash-pit. I reckon Minton's knocked off, Mrs. She cried. Isn't it sickening? exclaimed Mrs. Moral in wrath. Ha! But I'd just seen Jaunt Hutchby. They might as well have saved their shoe-leather, said Mrs. Moral, and both women went indoors disgusted. The colliers, their faces scarcely blackened, were trooping home again. Moral hated to go back. He loved the sunny morning, but he had gone to pit to work, and to be sent home again spoiled his temper. Good gracious at this time exclaimed his wife as he entered. Can I help it, woman? he shouted. And I've not done half enough dinner. Then I'll eat my bitter snap as they took with me. He bawled pathetically. He felt ignominious and sore. And the children coming home from school would wonder to see their father eating with his dinner the two thick slices of rather dry and dirty bread and butter that had been to pit and back. What's my dad eating his snap for now? asked Arthur. I should have had it hollered at me if I didn't, snorted Moral. What a story! exclaimed his wife. And is it going to be wasted? said Moral. I'm not such an extravagant mortal as you lot with your waste. If I drop a bit of bread at pit in all the dust and dirt, I pick it up and eat it. The mice would eat it, said Paul. It wouldn't be wasted. Good bread and butter's not for mice, either, said Moral. Dirty or not dirty, I'd eat it rather than it should be wasted. You might leave it for the mice and pay for it out of your next pint, said Mrs. Moral. Oh, my die! exclaimed. They were very poor that autumn. William had just gone away to London, and his mother missed his money. He sent ten shillings once or twice, but he had many things to pay for at first. His letters came regularly once a week. He wrote a good deal to his mother, telling her all his life, how he made friends and was exchanging lessons with a Frenchman, how he enjoyed London. His mother felt again he was remaining to her just as when he was at home. She wrote to him every week her direct rather witty letters. All day long, as she cleaned the house, she thought of him. He was in London. He would do well. Almost he was like her knight who wore her favour in the battle. He was coming at Christmas for five days. There had never been such preparations. Paul and Arthur scoured the land for Holly and Evergreens. Annie made the pretty paper hoops in the old-fashioned way. And there was unheard of extravagance in the larder. Mrs. Moral made a big and magnificent cake. Then, feeling queenly, she showed Paul how to blanch almonds. He skinned the long nuts reverently, counting them all, to see not one was lost. It was said that eggs whisked better in a cold place, so the boy stood in the scullery where the temperature was nearly at freezing point, and whisked, and whisked, and flew in excitement to his mother as the white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy. "'Just look, mother, isn't it lovely?' And he balanced a bit on his nose, then blew it in the air. "'Now, don't waste it,' said the mother. Everybody was mad with excitement. William was coming on Christmas Eve. Mrs. Moral surveyed her pantry. There was a big plum cake and a rice cake, jam tarts, lemon tarts, and minced pies, two enormous dishes. She was finished cooking, Spanish tarts and cheesecakes. Everywhere was decorated. The kissing bunch of buried Holly, hung with bright and glittering things, spun slowly over Mrs. Moral's head as she trimmed her little tarts in the kitchen. A great fire roared. There was a scent of cooked pastry. He was due at seven o'clock, but he would be late. The three children had gone to meet him. She was alone. But at a quarter to seven Moral came in again. Neither wife nor husband spoke. He sat in his arm-chair, quite awkward with excitement, and she quietly went on with her baking. Only by the careful way in which she did things could it be told how much moved she was. The clock ticked on. What time does he say he's coming? Moral asked for the fifth time. The train gets in at half-past six. She replied emphatically. Then he'll be here at ten past seven. Hey, bless you, it'll be hours late on the Midland, she said indifferently. But she hoped, by expecting him late, to bring him early. Moral went down the entry to look for him. Then he came back. Goodness man! She said, you're like an ill-setting hen. Hadn't you better be getting him somewhat to eat ready? Asked the father. There's plenty of time. She answered. There's not so much as I can see on. He answered, turning crossly in his chair. She began to clear her table. The kettle was singing. They waited and waited. Meantime the three children were on the platform at Sethley Bridge, on the Midland main line, two miles from home. They waited one hour. A train came. He was not there. Down the line the red and green lights shone. It was very dark and very cold. Ask him if the London trains come, said Paul to Annie when they saw a man in a tip cap. I'm not, said Annie. You be quiet. He might send us off. But Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting someone by the London train. It sounded so grand. Yet he was much too much scared of broaching any man, let alone one in a peaked cap, to dare to ask. The three children could scarcely go into the waiting room for fear of being sent away, and for fear something should happen whilst they were off the platform. Still they waited in the dark and cold. It's an hour and a half late, said Arthur, pathetically. Well, said Annie, it's Christmas Eve. They all grew silent. He wasn't coming. They looked down the darkness of the railway. There was London. It seemed the uttermost of distance. They thought anything might happen if one came from London. They were all too troubled to talk. Cold and unhappy and silent, they huddled together on the platform. At last, after more than two hours, they saw the lights of an engine peering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran out. The children drew back with beating hearts. A great train, bound for Manchester, drew up. Two doors opened, and from one of them, William. They flew to him. He handed parcels to them cheerily, and immediately began to explain that this great train had stopped for his sake at such a small station as Sethley Bridge. It was not booked to stop. Meanwhile, the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, the chop was cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morrill put on her black apron. She was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to read, the minutes were a torture to her. "'Hm,' said Morrill, "'it's an hour and a half.' "'And those children waiting,' she said. "'The train cannot come in yet,' he said. "'I tell you, on Christmas Eve, they're hours wrong.' They were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with anxiety. The ashtree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind, and all that space of night from London home. Mrs. Morrill suffered. The slight click of the works inside the clock irritated her. It was getting so late, it was getting unbearable. At last there was a sound of voices, and a footstep in the entry. "'His hair!' cried Morrill, jumping up. Then he stood back. The mother ran a few steps toward the door, and waited. There was a rush and a patter of feet. The door burst open. William was there. He dropped his Gladstone bag and took his mother in his arms. "'Mother!' he said. "'My boy!' she cried. Then for two seconds, no longer, she clasped him and kissed him. Then she withdrew and said, trying to be quite normal. But how late you are!' "'Aren't I?' he cried, turning to his father. "'Well, Dad!' the two men shook hands. "'Well, my lad!' Morrill's eyes were wet. "'We thought that never be coming,' he said. "'Oh, I'd come,' exclaimed William. Then the son turned round to his mother. "'But you look well!' she said proudly, laughing. "'Well,' he exclaimed, "'I should think so, coming home.'" He was a fine fellow, big, straight, and fearless-looking. He looked round at the evergreens and the kissing-bunch and the little tarts that lay in their tins on the hearth. "'Why, Jove, Mother, it's not different,' he said, as if in relief. Everybody was still for a second. Then he suddenly sprang forward, picked a tart from the hearth, and pushed it whole into his mouth. "'Well, did ever you see such a perish oven?' the father exclaimed. He had brought them endless presents. Every penny he had he had spent on them. There was a sense of luxury overflowing in the house. For his mother there was an umbrella with gold on the pale handle. She kept it to her dying day, and would have lost anything rather than that. Everybody had something gorgeous, and besides there were pounds of unknown sweets, Turkish delight, crystallized pineapple, and such like things which the children thought only the splendor of London could provide. And Paul boasted of these sweets among his friends. Real pineapple cut off in slices, and then turned into crystal, fair grand. Everybody was mad with happiness in the family. Home was home, and they loved it with a passion of love, whatever the suffering had been. There were parties, there were rejoicings. People came in to see William, to see what difference London had made to him. And they all found him such a gentleman, and such a fine fellow, my word. When he went away again the children retired to various places to weep alone. Moral went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Moral felt as if she were numbed by some drug, as if her feelings were paralyzed. She loved him passionately. He was in the office of a lawyer connected with a large shipping firm, and at the mid-summer his chief offered him a trip in the Mediterranean on one of the boats, for quite a small cost. Mrs. Moral wrote, Go, go, my boy, you may never have a chance again, and I should love to think of you cruising there in the Mediterranean almost better than to have you at home. But William came home for his fortnight's holiday. Not even the Mediterranean, which pulled at all his young man's desire to travel, and at his poor man's wonder at the glamorous south, could take him away when he might come home. That compensated his mother for much. End of Chapter 5 Part 1 of Sons and Lovers. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers. By D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 5 Part 1. Paul Launches Into Life. Moral was rather a heedless man, careless of danger, so he had endless accidents. Now when Mrs. Moral heard the rattle of an empty coal-cart see-satter entry-end, she ran into the parlor to look, expecting almost to see her husband seated in the wagon, his face gray under his dirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or other. If it were he, she would run out to help. About a year after William went to London, and just after Paul had left school, before he got work, Mrs. Moral was upstairs and her son was painting in the kitchen. He was very clever with his brush. When there came a knock at the door. Crossley he put down his brush to go. At the same moment his mother opened a window upstairs and looked down. A pit lad in his dirt stood on the threshold. "'Is this Walder Morals?' he asked. "'Yes,' said Mrs. Moral. "'What is it?' But she had guessed already. "'Your master's got hurt.' He said. "'Hey, dear me,' she exclaimed. "'It's a wonder if he hadn't, lad. And what's he done this time?' "'I don't know for sure, but it's his legs somewhere. They're taking him to the hospital.' "'Good gracious me,' she exclaimed. "'Hey, dear, what a one he is. There's not five minutes of peace. I'll be hanged if there is.' His thumb's nearly better, and now, did you see him?' I see'd him at the bottom, and I see'd him bring him up in a tub. And he were in a dead faint. But he shouted like anything when Dr. Fraser examined him in the lamp-cabin, and cost and swore, and said as he were going to be taken home. He weren't going to the hospital.' The boy faltered to an end. "'He would want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thank you, my lad. Hey, dear, if I'm not sick, sick and surfeited I am.' She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting. "'And it must be pretty bad if they've taken him to the hospital,' she went on. "'But what a careless creature he is. Other men don't have all these accidents? Yes, he would want to put all the burden on me. Hey, dear, just as we were getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away. There's no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know I shall have to go trailing to Keston. I shall have to leave that bedroom.' "'I can finish it,' said Paul. "'You needn't. I shall catch the seven o'clock back, I should think. Oh, my blessed heart! The fuss and commotion he'll make. And those granite sets at Tender Hill. He might well call them kidney-pebbles. They'll jolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can't mend them, the state they're in, and all the men as go across in that ambulance. You'd think they'd have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs, there'd be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trail them ten miles in a slow ambulance to knotting him. It's a crying shame. Oh, and the fuss he'll make. I know he will. I wonder who's with him.' "'Barker, I should think. Poor beggar. He'll wish himself anywhere, rather. But he'll look after him, I know. Now there's no telling how long he'll be stuck in that hospital, and won't he hate it. But if it's only his leg, it's not so bad.' All the time she was getting ready, hurriedly taking off her bodice, she crouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into her lading-can. I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!' She exclaimed, wriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms, rather surprising on a smallish woman. Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table. "'There isn't a train till four-twenty,' he said. "'You've time enough.' "'Oh, no, I haven't!' she cried, blinking at him over the towel as she wiped her face. "'Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I come with you to Keston?' "'Come with me? What for I should like to know? Now what have I to take him? Hey, dear, his clean shirt, and it is blessing it is clean, but it had better be aired. And stockings, he won't want them. And a towel, I suppose, and handkerchiefs. Now what else?' "'A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,' said Paul. His father had been in the hospital before. "'Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,' continued Mrs. Morrill as she combed her long brown hair that was fine as silk and which touched now with gray. He's very particular to wash himself to the waist, but below he thinks doesn't matter. But there, I suppose, they see plenty like it.' Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very thin bread and butter. "'Here you are,' he said, putting her cup of tea in her place. "'I can't be bothered,' she exclaimed crossly. "'Well, you've got to, so there. Now it's put out already,' he insisted. So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little in silence. She was thinking.' In a few minutes she was gone to walk the two and a half miles to Keston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulging string bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges, a little, quick stepping figure, and his heart ached for her that she was thrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quickly in her anxiety, felt at the back of her, her son's heart waiting on her, felt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her. And when she was at the hospital she thought, "'It will upset that lad when I tell him how bad it is. I'd better be careful.' And when she was trudging home again she felt he was coming to share her burden. "'Is it bad?' asked Paul as soon as she had entered the house. "'It's bad enough,' she replied. "'What?' She sighed and sat down, undoing her bonnet strings. Her son watched her face as it was lifted, and her small work hardened hands fingering at the bow under her chin. "'Well,' she answered, "'it's not really dangerous, but the nurse says it's a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on his leg, here, and it's a compound fracture. There are pieces of bones sticking through.' "'Ah! How horrid!' exclaimed the children.' And she continued, "'Of course he says he's going to die. It wouldn't be him if he didn't. I'm done for, my lass,' he said, looking at me. "'Don't be so silly,' I said to him. "'You're not going to die of a broken leg, however badly it smashed. I shall never come out of here but in a wooden box,' he groaned. "'Well,' I said, "'if you want them to carry you into the garden in a wooden box, when you're better, I've no doubt they will. If we think it's good for him,' said the sister, she's an awfully nice sister, but rather strict.' Mrs. Morrell took off her bonnet. The children waited in silence. "'Of course he is bad,' she continued. "'And he will be. It's a great shock, and he's lost a lot of blood. And of course it is a very dangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it will mend so easily. And then there's the fever and the mortification. If it took bad ways, he'd quickly be gone. But there he's a clean-blooded man, with wonderful healing flesh, and so I see no reason why it should take bad ways. Of course there's a wound.' She was pale now with emotion and anxiety. The three children realized that it was very bad for their father, and the house was silent, anxious. "'Buddy always gets better,' said Paul, after a while. "'That's what I tell him,' said the mother. Everybody moved about in silence. And he really looked nearly done for,' she said. But the sister says that is the pain.' Annie took away her mother's coat and bonnet. "'And he looked at me when I came away. I said, I shall have to go now, Walter, because of the train, and the children. And he looked at me. It seems hard.' Paul took up his brush again and went on painting. Arthur went outside for some coal. Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morrell, in her little rocking chair that her husband had made for her when the first baby was coming, remained motionless, brooding. She was grieved, and bitterly sorry for the man who was hurt so much. But still, in her heart of hearts, where the love should have burned, there was a blank. Now when all her woman's pity was roused to its full extent, when she would have slaved herself to death to nurse him and to save him, when she would have taken the pain herself if she could, somewhere far away inside her, she felt indifferent to him and to his suffering. It hurt her most of all, this failure to love him, even when he roused her strong emotions. She brooded awhile. "'And there,' she said suddenly, when I'd got half way to Keston, I found I'd come out in my working boots and look at them.' They were an old pair of pals, brown and rubbed through at the toes. I didn't know what to do with myself for shame,' she added. In the morning, when Annie and Arthur were at school, Mrs. Morrell talked again to her son, who was helping her with her housework. I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow. Well, I said to him, what sort of a journey did you have with him? "'Don't ask me, Mrs.' he said. I, I said, I know what he'd be. But it wore bad for him, Mrs. Morrell. It wore that,' he said. I know, I said, at every jolt I thought my art would have flown clean out of my mouth,' he said. And the scream he gives sometimes. Mrs., not for a fortune, would I go through with it again. I can quite understand it, I said. It's a nasty job, though, he said. And one is it'll be a long while before it's right again. I'm afraid it will, I said. I like Mr. Barker. I do like him. There's something so manly about him.' Paul resumed his task silently. "'And, of course,' Mrs. Morrell continued, "'for a man like your father, the hospital is hard, he can't understand rules and regulations, and he won't let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed the muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day, would he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn't. So, of course, he'll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn't like leaving him. I'm sure when I kissed him and came away, it seemed a shame.' So she talked to her son, almost as if she were thinking aloud to him, and he took it in as best he could by sharing her trouble to lighten it. And in the end, she shared almost everything with him without knowing. Morrell had a very bad time. For a week he was in a critical condition. Then he began to mend. And then, knowing he was going to get better, the whole family sighed with relief and proceeded to live happily. They were not badly off whilst Morrell was in the hospital. There were 14 shillings a week from the pit, 10 shillings from the sick club, and five shillings from the disability fund, and then every week the buddies had something for Mrs. Morrell, five or six shillings, so that she was quite well to do. And whilst Morrell was progressing favorably in the hospital, the family was extraordinarily happy and peaceful. On Saturdays and Wednesdays, Mrs. Morrell went to Nottingham to see her husband. Then she always brought back some little thing, a small tube of paints for Paul or some thick paper, a couple of postcards for Annie that the whole family rejoiced over for days before the girl was allowed to send them away, or a fret saw for Arthur or a bit of pretty wood. She described her adventures into the big shops with joy. Soon the folk in the picture shop knew her and knew about Paul. The girl in the book shop took a keen interest in her. Mrs. Morrell was full of information when she got home from Nottingham. The three sat round till bedtime, listening, putting in, arguing. Then Paul often raked the fire. I'm the man in the house now, he used to say to his mother, with joy. They learned how perfectly peaceful the home could be, and they almost regretted, though none of them would have owned to such callousness that their father was soon coming back. Paul was now fourteen and was looking for work. He was a rather small and rather finely made boy with dark brown hair and light blue eyes. His face had already lost its youthful chubbiness and was becoming somewhat like Williams, rough-featured, almost rugged, and it was extraordinarily mobile. Usually he looked as if he saw things, was full of life and warm. Then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly and was very lovable. And then, when there was any clog in his soul's quick running, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that becomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood or feels himself held cheap and, again, is adorable at the first touch of warmth. He suffered very much from the first contact with anything. When he was seven, the starting school had been a nightmare and a torture to him, but afterwards he liked it. And now that he felt he had to go out into life, he went through agonies of shrinking self-consciousness. He was quite a clever painter for a boy of his years and he knew some French and German and mathematics that Mr. Heaton had taught him. But nothing he had was of any commercial value. He was not strong enough for heavy manual work, his mother said. He did not care for making things with his hands, preferred racing about or making excursions into the country or reading or painting. What do you want to be? His mother asked. Anything? That is no answer, said Mrs. Morrell. But it was quite truthfully the only answer he could give. His ambition, as far as this world's gear went, was quietly to earn his 30 or 35 shillings a week somewhere near home and then, when his father died, have a cottage with his mother, paint and go out as he liked and live happily ever after. That was his program as far as doing things went. But he was proud within himself, measuring people against himself and placing them inexorably. And he thought that perhaps he might also make a painter, the real thing, but that he left alone. Then, said his mother, you must look in the paper for the advertisements. He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter humiliation and an anguish to go through. But he said nothing. When he got up in the morning, his whole being was knotted up over this one thought. I've got to go and look for advertisements for a job. It stood in front of the morning, that thought, killing all joy and even life for him. His heart felt like a tight knot. And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was supposed to be a queer, quiet child. Going up the sunny street of the little town, he felt as if all the folk he met said to themselves, he's going to the co-op reading room to look in the papers for a place. He can't get a job. I suppose he's living on his mother. Then he crept up the stone stairs behind the drapery shop at the co-op and peeped in the reading room. Usually one or two men were there, either old useless fellows or colliers on the club, so he entered, full of shrinking and suffering when they looked up, seated himself at the table, and pretended to scan the news. He knew they would think, what does a lad of thirteen want in a reading room with a newspaper? And he suffered. Then he looked wistfully out of the window. Already he was a prisoner of industrialism. Large sunflowers stared over the old red wall of the garden opposite, looking in their jolly way down on the women who were hurrying with something for dinner. The valley was full of corn, brightening in the sun. Two collieries, among the fields, waved their small white plumes of steam. Far off on the hills were the woods of Ennisly, dark and fascinating. Already his heart went down. He was being taken into bondage. His freedom in the beloved home valley was going now. The brewer's wagons came rolling up from Keston with enormous barrels, four aside, like beans in a burst bean pod. The wagoner, thrown to loft, rolling massively in his seat, was not so much below Paul's eye. The man's hair on his small bullet head was bleached almost white by the sun, and on his thick red arms rocking idly on his sack apron, the white hairs glistened. His red face shone and was almost asleep with sunshine. The horses, handsome and brown, went on by themselves, looking by far the masters of the show. Paul wished he were stupid. I wish, he thought to himself, I was fat like him, and like a dog in the sun, I wish I was a pig in a brewer's wagoner. Then, the room being at last empty, he would hastily copy an advertisement on a scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in immense relief. His mother would scan over his copies. Yes, she said, you may try. William had written out a letter of application couched in admirable business language, which Paul copied with variations. The boy's handwriting was excruable, so that William, who did all things well, got into a fever of impatience. The elder brother was becoming quite swanky. In London he found that he could associate with men far above his Bestwood friends in station. Some of the clerks in the office had studied for the law, and were more or less going through a kind of apprenticeship. William always made friends among men wherever he went, he was so jolly. Therefore he was soon visiting and staying in houses of men who, in Bestwood, would have looked down on the unapproachable bank manager, and would merely have called indifferently on the rector. So he began to fancy himself as a great gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised at the ease with which he became a gentleman. His mother was glad he seemed so pleased, and his lodging in Walthamstow was so dreary. But now there seemed to come a kind of fever into the young man's letters. He was unsettled by all the change. He did not stand firm on his own feet, but seemed to spin rather giddily on the quick current of the new life. His mother was anxious for him. She could feel him losing himself. He had danced and gone to the theatre, boated on the river, been out with friends, and she knew he sat up afterwards in his cold bedroom grinding away at Latin because he intended to get on in his office and in the law as much as he could. He never sent his mother any money now. It was all taken, the little he had, for his own life. And she did not want any, except sometimes, when she was in a tight corner, and when ten shillings would have saved her much worry. She still dreamed of William, and of what he would do with herself behind him. Never for a minute would she admit to herself how heavy and anxious her heart was because of him. Also he talked a good deal now of a girl he had met at a dance, a handsome brunette, quite young, and a lady after whom the men were running thick and fast. I wonder if you would run, my boy, his mother wrote to him, unless you saw all the other men chasing her, too. You feel safe enough and vain enough in a crowd. But take care, and see how you feel when you find yourself alone and in triumph. William resented these things and continued the chase. He had taken the girl on the river. If you saw her mother you would know how I feel, tall and elegant, with the clearest of clear, transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, and such gray eyes, as bright mocking like lights on water at night. It is all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her, and she dresses as well as any woman in London. I tell you your son doesn't half put his head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him. His moral wondered, in her heart, if her son did not go walking down Piccadilly with an elegant figure in fine clothes, rather than with a woman who was near to him. But she congratulated him in her doubtful fashion. And as she stood over the washing-tub, the mother brooded over her son. She saw him saddled with an elegant and expensive wife, earning little money, dragging along and getting draggled in some small, ugly house in a suburb. But there, she told herself, I am very likely a silly, meeting trouble halfway. Nevertheless, the load of anxiety scarcely ever left her heart, lest William should do the wrong thing by himself. Presently Paul was bidden call upon Thomas Jordan, manufacturer of surgical appliances, at twenty-one, Spaniel Rowe, Nottingham. Mrs. Morrill was all joy. There, you see! She cried, her eyes shining. You've only written four letters, and the third is answered. You're lucky, my boy, as I've always said you were. Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg, adorned with elastic stockings and other appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's note paper, and he felt alarmed. He had not known that elastic stockings existed, and he seemed to feel the business world with its regulated system of values and its impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemed monstrous also that a business could be run on wooden legs. Mother and son set off together one Tuesday morning. It was August and blazing hot. Paul walked with something screwed up tight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain rather than this unreasonable suffering at being exposed to strangers, to be accepted or rejected. Yet he chattered away with his mother. He would never have confessed to her how he suffered over these things, and she only partly guessed. She was gay, like a sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket office at Bestwood, and Paul watched her take from her purse the money for the tickets. As he saw her hands and their old black kid gloves getting the silver out of the worn purse, his heart contracted with pain of love of her. She was quite excited, and quite gay. He suffered because she would talk aloud in presence of the other travelers. Now look at that silly cow! She said, careering round as if it thought it was a circus. It's most likely a bot fly, he said, very low. A what? She asked brightly and unashamed. They thought a while. He was sensible all the time of having her opposite him. Suddenly their eyes met, and she smiled to him. A rare, intimate smile, beautiful with brightness and love. Then each looked out of the window. The sixteen slow miles of railway journey passed. The mother and son walked down Station Street, feeling the excitement of lovers having an adventure together. In Carrington Street they stopped to hang over the parapet and look at the barges on the canal below. It's just like Venice, he said, seeing the sunshine on the water that lay between high factory walls. Perhaps, she answered, smiling. They enjoyed the shops immensely. Now you see that blouse, she would say. Wouldn't that just suit our Annie? And for one in eleven three, isn't that cheap? And made of needlework as well, he said. Yes! They had plenty of time so they did not hurry. The town was strange and delightful to them, but the boy was tied up inside in a knot of apprehension. He dreaded the interview with Thomas Jordan. It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's Church. They turned up a narrow street that led to the castle. It was gloomy and old-fashioned, having low dark shops and dark green house-doors with brass knockers, and yellow ochre door-steps projecting on to the pavement, then another old shop, whose small window looked like a cunning, half-shut eye. Mother and son went cautiously, looking everywhere for Thomas Jordan and son. It was like hunting in some wild place. They were on tiptoe of excitement. Suddenly they spied a big dark archway in which were names of various firms, Thomas Jordan among them. Here it is, said Mrs. Morrill. But now where is it? They looked round, on one side was a queer, dark cardboard factory, on the other a commercial hotel. It's up the entry, said Paul. And they ventured under the archway as into the jaws of the dragon. They emerged into a wide yard, like a well with buildings all round. It was littered with straw and boxes and cardboard. The sunshine actually caught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. But elsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors and two flights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of a staircase, loomed the ominous words, Thomas Jordan and son, with all appliances. Mrs. Morrill went first, her son followed her. Charles I mounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morrill as he followed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door. She pushed open the door and stood in pleased surprise. In front of her was a big warehouse with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks, with their shirts leased rolled back, were going about in an at-home sort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemed luminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very homely. Mrs. Morrill took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood behind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil. He wore a boy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit. One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face. His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end of the room where there was a glass office, and then he came forward. He did not say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs. Morrill. "'Can I see, Mr. Jordan?' she asked. "'I'll fetch him,' answered the young man. He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old man looked up. He reminded Paul of a Pomeranian dog. Then the same little man came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and wore an alpaca jacket. So with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly and inquiringly down the room. "'Good morning,' he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morrill, in doubt as to whether she were a customer or not. "'Good morning. I came with my son, Paul Morrill. You asked him to call this morning.' "'Come this way,' said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner, intended to be business-like. They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odor of new wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so much stunned that he only noticed the outside things. "'Sit down,' said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morrill to a horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the little old man fidgeted and found a paper. "'Did you write this letter?' he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognized as his own note-paper in front of him. "'Yes,' he answered. At that moment he was occupied in two ways. First, in feeling guilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter, second, in wondering why his letters seemed so strange and different in the fat-red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen table. It was like a part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the man held it. "'Where did you learn to write?' said the old man crossly. Paul merely looked at him shamedly and did not answer. "'He is a bad writer,' put in Mrs. Morrill apologetically. Then she pushed up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil. "'And you say you know French?' inquired the little man, still sharply. "'Yes,' said Paul. "'What school did you go to?' The poor school. "'Ain't did you learn it there?' "'No, I—' the boy went crimson and got no farther. "'His godfather gave him lessons,' said Mrs. Morrill, half-pleading and rather distant. Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner, he always seemed to keep his hands ready for action. He pulled another sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it to Paul. "'Read that,' he said. It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper. "'Monsieur,' he began, then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan. "'It's the—' it's the—' He wanted to say handwriting, but his wits would no longer work even sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool and hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again. "'Sir, please send me—' I can't tell the—' Two pairs, griffubah, grey-thread stockings, sans without—' I can't tell the words—' Dwot, fingers, I can't tell the—' He wanted to say handwriting, but the word still refused to come. Having him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him. "'Please send by return two pairs grey-thread stockings without toes.' "'Well,' flashed Paul, Dwot means fingers as well as a rule. The little man looked at him. He did not know whether Dwot meant finger. He knew that for all his purposes it meant toes. "'Fingers, just stockings,' he snapped. "'Well, it does mean fingers,' the boy persisted. He hated the little man, who made such a clot of him. Mr. Jordan looked at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and with all that peculiar shut-off look of the poor, who have to depend on the favour of others. "'And when could he come?' he asked. "'Well,' said Mrs. Morrell, as soon as you wish. "'He has finished school now.' "'He would live in Bestwood?' "'Yes, but he could be an at the station, a quarter to eight.' "'Huh!' It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight shillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word, after having insisted that Dwot meant fingers. He followed his mother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes, full of love and joy. "'I think you'll like it,' she said. "'Dwot does mean fingers, mother, and it was the writing. I couldn't read the writing. Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see much of him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them.' But wasn't Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?' "'I suppose he was a workman who has got on.' She said. "'You mustn't mind people so much. They're not being disagreeable to you. It's their way. You always think people are meaning things for you, but they don't.' It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the marketplace the blue skies shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. Down the long row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full of color. Just where the horse-trams trundled across the market was a row of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun, apples and piles of reddish oranges, small green-gauge plums and bananas. There was a warm scent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of ignominy and of rage sank. "'Where shall we go for dinner?' asked the mother. It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an eating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and bread and butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty. They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morrill scanned the bill of fare her heart was heavy. Things were so dear. So she ordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish. "'We oughtn't to have come here, mother,' said Paul. "'Never mind,' she said, "'we won't come again.' She insisted on his having a small current tart, because he liked sweets. "'I don't want it, mother,' he pleaded. "'Yes,' she insisted. "'You'll have it.' And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, and Mrs. Morrill did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited for the girl's pleasure while she flirted among the men. "'Brazen hussy,' said Mrs. Morrill to Paul. "'Look now, she's taking that man his pudding, and he came long after us.' "'It doesn't matter, mother,' said Paul. Mrs. Morrill was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too meager, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights just then. They waited and waited. "'Should we go, mother?' he said. Then Mrs. Morrill stood up. The girl was passing near. "'Will you bring one current tart?' said Mrs. Morrill clearly. The girl looked round insolently. "'Directly,' she said. "'We have waited quite long enough,' said Mrs. Morrill. In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morrill asked coldly for the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marveled at his mother's hardness. He knew that only years of battling had taught her to insist even so little on her rights. She shrank as much as he. "'It's the last time I go there for anything,' she declared when they were outside the place, thankful to be clear. "'We'll go,' she said, and look at keeps and boots, and one or two places, shall we?' They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morrill wanted to buy him a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence he refused. He stood in front of milliner's shops and a draper's shops, almost bored, but content for her to be interested. They wandered on. "'Now just look at those black grapes,' she said. "'They make your mouth water. I've wanted some of those for years, but I shall have to wait a bit before I get them.' Then she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway, sniffing. "'Oh, oh, isn't it simply lovely?' Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady in black, peering over the counter curiously. "'They're looking at you,' he said, trying to draw his mother away. "'But what is it?' she exclaimed, refusing to be moved. "'Stocks,' he answered, sniffing hastily. "'Look, there's a tub full.' "'So there is, red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smell like it.' And to his great relief, she moved out of the doorway, but only to stand in front of the window. "'Paul!' she cried to him, who was trying to get out of sight of the elegant young lady in black, the shop girl. "'Paul, just look here!' He came reluctantly back. "'Now just look at that fuchsia!' she exclaimed, pointing. "'Hm!' he made a curious, interested sound. You'd think every second as the flowers were going to fall off, they'd hang so big and heavy. "'And such an abundance!' she cried. And the way they dropped downwards were their threads and knots. "'Yes,' she exclaimed. "'Lovely!' "'I wonder who'll buy it?' he said. "'I wonder!' she answered. "'Not us!' "'It would die in our parlor.' "'Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole. It kills every bit of a plant you put in, and the kitchen chokes them to death.' They bought a few things and set off towards the station. Looking up the canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw the castle on its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock in a positive miracle of delicate sunshine. "'Won't it be nice for me to come out at dinner times?' said Paul. "'I can go all round here and see everything. I shall love it.' "'You will!' ascended his mother. He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home in the mellow evening, happy and glowing and tired. End of Part 1 of Chapter 5. Chapter 5 Part 2 of Sons and Lovers. In the morning he filled in the form for his season ticket and took it to the station. When he got back, his mother was just beginning to wash the floor. He sat crouched up on the sofa. "'He says it'll be here on Saturday,' he said. "'And how much will it be?' "'About one pound eleven,' he said. She went on washing her floor in silence. "'Is it a lot?' he asked. "'It's no more than I thought,' she answered. "'And I shall earn eight shillings a week,' he said.' She did not answer but went on with her work. At last she said, "'That William promised me when he went to London as he'd give me a pound a month. He has given me ten shillings—twice. And now I know he hasn't a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want it—only just now you'd think he might be able to help with this ticket, which I'd never expected.' "'He earns a lot,' said Paul. "'He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they're all alike. They're large in promises, but it's precious little fulfillment you get.' "'He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself,' said Paul. "'And I keep this house on less than thirty,' she replied. "'And I'm supposed to find money for extras. But they don't care about helping you once they've gone. He'd rather spend it on that dressed-up creature.' "'She should have her own money if she's so grand,' said Paul. "'She should, but she hasn't. I asked him. And I know he doesn't buy her a gold bangle for nothing. I wonder who ever bought me a gold bangle.' William was succeeding with his gypsy, as he called her. He asked the girl. Her name was Louisa Lily Dennis Western, for a photograph to send to his mother. The photo came, a handsome brunette taken in profile, smarking slightly, and it might be quite naked, for on the photograph not a scrap of clothing was to be seen, only a naked bust. "'Yes,' wrote Mrs. Morrell to her son. The photograph of Louis is very striking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you think, my boy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young man that photo to send to his mother, the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful, as you say, but I hardly expected to see so much of them at the first view.' Morrell found the photograph standing on the chiffoniere in the parlor. He came out with it between his thick thumb and forefinger. "'Who does reckon this is?' he asked of his wife. "'It's the girl our William is going with,' replied Mrs. Morrell. "'Huh! There's a bright spark from the look on her, as one is want to do him over much good neither. Who is she?' Her name is Louisa Lily Dennis Western. "'And come again to Morrell,' exclaimed the minor. "'And is there an actress?' She is not. She's supposed to be a lady. "'I'll bet,' he exclaimed, still staring at the photo. "'A lady is she, and how much does she reckon to keep up this sort of game on?' "'On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what bit of money's given her.' "'Hm!' said Morrell, laying down the photograph. "'Then he's a fool to have taken up with such a one, is that?' "'Dear Mater,' William replied. "'I'm sorry you didn't like the photograph. It never occurred to me, when I said it, that you mightn't think it decent. However, I told Jip that it didn't quite suit your prim and proper notions, so she's going to send you another, that I hope will please you better. She's always being photographed, in fact the photographer's asked her if they may take her for nothing.' Presently the new photograph came, with a little silly note from the girl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satin evening bodice, cut square, with little puffed sleeves, and black lace hanging down her beautiful arms. "'I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes,' said Mrs. Morrell sarcastically. "'I'm sure I ought to be impressed.' "'You are disagreeable, mother,' said Paul. "'I think the first one with bare shoulders is lovely.' "'Do you?' answered his mother. "'Well, I don't.' On the Monday morning the boy got up at six to start work. He had the season ticket, which had cost such bitterness in his waistcoat pocket. He loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother packed his dinner in a small shut-up basket, and he set off at a quarter to seven to catch the seven-fifteen train. Mrs. Morrell came to the entry-end to see him off. It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slender green fruits that the children call pigeons were twinkling gaily down on a little breeze into the front gardens of the houses. The valley was full of a lustrous dark haze through which the ripe corn shimmered, and in which the steam from mint and pit smelted swiftly. Puffs of wind came. Paul looked over the high woods of Aldersley, where the country gleamed, and home had never pulled at him so powerfully. Good morning, mother," he said, smiling but feeling very unhappy. Good morning," she replied cheerfully and tenderly. She stood in her white apron on the open road, watching him as he crossed the field. He had a small, compact body that looked full of life. She felt, as she saw him trudging over the field, that where he determined to go he would get. She thought of William. He would have leaped the fence instead of going round the style. He was away in London, doing well. Paul would be working in Nottingham. Now she had two sons in the world. She could think of two places, great centres of industry, and feel that she had put a man into each of them, that these men would work out what she wanted. They were derived from her, they were of her, and their works also would be hers. All the morning long, she thought of Paul. At eight o'clock he climbed the dismal stairs of Jordan's surgical appliance factory, and stood helplessly against the first great parcel rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The place was still not awake. Over the counters were great dust sheets. Two men only had arrived, and were heard talking in a corner as they took off their coats and rolled up their shirt sleeves. It was ten past eight. Apparently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voices of the two clerks. Then he heard someone cough, and saw in the office at the end of the room an old, decaying clerk in a round smoking cap of black velvet embroidered with red and green opening letters. He waited and waited. One of the junior clerks went to the old man, greeted him cheerily and loudly. Evidently the old chief was deaf. Then the young fellow came striding importantly down to his counter. He spied Paul. "'Hello,' he said. "'You the new lad?' "'Yes,' said Paul. "'Huh! What's your name?' "'Paul Morrell?' "'Paul Morrell. All right. You come on round here.' Paul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The room was second-story. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor, fenced as with a wall of counters, and down this wide shaft the lifts went and the light for the bottom story. Also there was a corresponding big oblong hole in the ceiling, and one could see above, over the fence of the top floor, some machinery, and right away overhead was the glass roof, and all light for the three stories came downwards, getting dimmer, so that it was always night on the ground floor, and rather gloomy on the second floor. The factory was the top floor, the warehouse, the second, the storehouse, the ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place. Paul was led round to a very dark corner. "'This is a spiral corner,' said the clerk. "'Your spiral with Papaworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't get here till half past eight, so you can fetch the letters, if you like, for Mr. Melling down there.' The young man pointed to the old clerk in the office. "'All right,' said Paul. "'Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are the entry-ledgers. Mr. Papaworth won't be long.' And the thin young man stalked away with long busy strides over the hollow wooden floor. After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the door of the glass office. The old clerk in the smoking-cap looked down over the rim of his spectacles. "'Good morning,' he said kindly and impressively. "'You want the letters for the spiral department, Thomas?' Paul resented being called Thomas, but he took the letters and returned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle, where the great parcel-rack came to an end, and where there were three doors in the corner. He sat on a high stool and read the letters, those whose handwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows. "'Will you please send me at once a pair of ladies' silk spiral thigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year, length, thigh to knee, etc.,' or, Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat his previous order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage. Many of these letters, some of them in French or Norwegian, were a great puzzle to the boy. He sat on his stool nervously awaiting the arrival of his boss. He suffered tortures of shyness when, at half-past eight, the factory girls for upstairs trooped past him. Mr. Papaworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty to nine, when all the other men were at work. He was a thin, sallow man with a red nose, quick, staccato, and smartly but stiffly dressed. He was about thirty-six years old. There was something rather doggie, rather smart, rather cute and shrewd, and something warm, and something slightly contemptible about him. "'You, my new lad,' he said." Paul stood up and said he was. "'Fetch the letters!' Mr. Papaworth gave a chew to his gum. "'Yes.' "'Copy them.' "'No.' "'Well, come on, then, let's look slippy. Change your coat.' "'No.' "'You want to bring an old coat and leave it here.' He pronounced the last words with a chlorodyne gum between his side teeth. He vanished into the darkness behind the great parcel rack, reappeared coatless, turning up a smart striped shirt cuff over a thin and hairy arm. Then he slipped into his coat. Paul noticed how thin he was, and that his trousers were in folds behind. He seized a stool, dragged it beside the boys, and sat down. "'Sit down,' he said." Paul took a seat. Mr. Papaworth was very close to him. The man seized the letters, snatched a long entry-book out of a rack in front of him, flung it open, seized a pen, and said, "'Now look here. You'll want to copy these letters in here.' He sniffed twice, gave a quick chew at his gum, stared fixedly at a letter, then went very still and absorbed, and wrote the entry rapidly in a beautiful, flourishing hand. He clenched quickly at Paul. "'See that?' "'Yes.' "'Dink, you can do it all right?' "'Yes.' "'All right, then, let's see you.' He sprang off his stool. Paul took a pen. Mr. Papaworth disappeared. Paul rather liked copying the letters, but he wrote slowly, laboriously, and exceedingly badly. He was doing the fourth letter, and feeling quite busy and happy when Mr. Papaworth reappeared. "'Now then, how are you getting on? Dunham?' He leaned over the boy's shoulder, chewing, and smelling of chlorodyne. "'Strike my bob, lad, but you're a beautiful writer,' he exclaimed satirically. "'Nair mine, how many have you done? Only three. I'd have eaten them. Get on, my lad, and put numbers on them. Here, look. Get on!' Paul ground away at the letters, whilst Mr. Papaworth fussed over various jobs. Suddenly the boy started as a shrill whistle sounded near his ear. Mr. Papaworth came, took a plug out of a pipe, and said, in an amazingly cross embossy voice, "'Yes?' Paul heard a faint voice, like a woman's, out of the mouth of the tube. He gazed in wonder, never having seen a speaking tube before. "'Well,' said Mr. Papaworth, disagreeably into the tube, "'you'd better get some of your back work done, then!' Again the woman's tiny voice was heard, sounding pretty and cross. "'I've not time to stand here while you talk,' said Mr. Papaworth, and he pushed the plug into the tube. "'Come, my lad,' he said imploringly to Paul, "'there's Polly crying out for them orders. Can't you buck up a bit? Come! Here, come out!' He took the book to Paul's immense chagrin and began the copying himself. He worked quickly and well. This done he seized some strips of long yellow paper, about three inches wide, and made out the day's orders for the work girls. "'You'd better watch me,' he said to Paul, working all the while rapidly. Paul watched the weird little drawings of legs and thighs and ankles, with the strokes across and the numbers, and the few brief directions which his chief made upon the yellow paper. Then Mr. Papaworth finished and jumped up. "'Come on with me,' he said, and the yellow paper's flying in his hands he dashed through a door and down some stairs into the basement where the gas was burning. They crossed the cold, damp storeroom, then a long dreary room with a long table on trestles, into a smaller, cozy apartment, not very high, which had been built on to the main building. In this room a small woman with a red-surge blouse, and her black hair done on top of her head, was waiting like a proud little bantam. "'Here you are,' said Papaworth. "'I think it is here you are,' exclaimed Polly. The girls have been here nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time wasted.' "'You think of getting your work done and not talking so much?' said Mr. Papaworth. You could have been finishing off.' "'You know quite well we've finished everything off on Saturday,' cried Polly, flying at him, her dark eyes flashing. "'T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t he mocked. Here's your new lad. Don't ruin him as you did the last.' "'As we did the last,' repeated Polly, "'yes, we do a lot of ruining. We do. My word, a lad would take some ruining after he'd been with you.' "'It's time for work now, not for talk,' said Mr. Papaworth severely and coldly. "'It was time for work sometime back," said Polly, marching away with her head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty. In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under the window. Through the inner doorway was another longer room, with six more machines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed in white aprons, stood talking together. "'Have you nothing else to do but talk?' said Mr. Papaworth. "'Only wait for you,' said one handsome girl, laughing. "'Well, get on, get on,' he said. "'Come on, my lad, you'll know your road down here again.' And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checking and invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, laboring in his exkerbal handwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down from the glass office and stood behind him to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly a red and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in. "'Mr. J. A. Bates Esquire,' exclaimed the cross voice just behind his ear. Paul looked at Mr. J. A. Bates Esquire in his own vile writing and wondered what was the matter now. "'Didn't they teach you any better than that while they were at it? If you put Mr.—you don't put Esquire, a man can't be both at once.' The boy regretted his too much generosity and disposing of honors, hesitated, and with trembling fingers scratched out the Mr. Then all at once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice. "'Make another. Are you going to send that to a gentleman?' And he tore up the blue form irritably. Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan watched. "'I don't know what they do teach in schools. You'll have to write better than that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry and play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?' he asked of Mr. Papelworth. "'Yes—prime, isn't it?' replied Mr. Papelworth indifferently. Mr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unameable. Paul divine that his master's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed the little manufacturer, although he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave his men alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did not look like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his role of proprietor at first to put things on a right footing. "'Let's see. What's your name?' asked Mr. Papelworth of the boy. "'Paul Moral.' It is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce their own names. "'Paul Moral, is it? All right. You, Paul Moral, threw them things there, and then—' Mr. Papelworth subsided on to a stool and began writing. "'A girl came up from out of the door, just behind, put some newly pressed elastic web appliances on the counter, and returned. Mr. Papelworth picked up the whitey-blue knee-band, examined it, and its yellow order paper quickly, and put it on one side. Next was a flesh-pink leg. He went through the few things, wrote out a couple of orders, and called to Paul to accompany him. This time they went through the door once the girl had emerged. There Paul found himself at the top of a little wooden flight of steps, and below him saw a room with windows round two sides, and at the farther end half a dozen girls sitting bending over the benches and the light from the window, sewing. They were singing together two little girls in blue. Hearing the door opened, they all turned round to see Mr. Papelworth and Paul looking down on them from the far end of the room. They stopped singing. "'Can't you make a bit less row?' said Mr. Papelworth. "'Focal, think we keep cats!' A hunchback woman on a high stool turned her long, rather heavy-faced, towards Mr. Papelworth, and said, in a contralto voice, "'They're all-time cats, then!' In vain Mr. Papelworth tried to be impressive for Paul's benefit. He descended the steps into the finishing off-room and went to the hunchback, fanny. She had such a short body on her high stool that her head, with its great bands of bright brown hair, seemed over-large, as did her pale, heavy face. She wore a dress of green-black cashmere, and her wrists, coming out of the narrow cuffs, were thin and flat, as she put down her work nervously. He showed her something that was wrong with a kneecap. "'Well,' she said, "'you needn't come blaming it on to me. It's not my fault.'" Her color mounted to her cheek. "'I never said it was your fault. Will you do as I tell you?' replied Mr. Papelworth shortly. "'You don't say it's my fault, but you'd like to make out as it was?' The hunchback woman cried, almost in tears. Then she snatched the kneecap from her boss, saying, "'Yes, I'll do it for you, but you needn't be snappy.'" "'Here's your new lad,' said Mr. Papelworth. Fanny turned, smiling very gently on Paul. "'Oh,' she said. "'Yes, don't make a softie of him between you.' "'It's not us as to make a softie of him,' she said indignantly. "'Come on, then, Paul,' said Mr. Papelworth. "'I'll revoi, Paul,' said one of the girls. There was a titter of laughter. Paul went out, blushing deeply, not having spoken a word. The day was very long. All morning the work-people were coming to speak to Mr. Papelworth. Paul was writing or learning to make up parcels, ready for the midday post. At one o'clock, or rather at a quarter to one, Mr. Papelworth disappeared to catch his train. He lived in the suburbs. At one o'clock, Paul, feeling very lost, took his dinner-basket down into the stock-room in the basement, that had the long table on trestles, and ate his meal hurriedly, alone in that cellar of gloom and desolation. Then he went out of doors. The brightness and the freedom of the streets made him feel adventurous and happy. But at two o'clock he was back in the corner of the big room. Soon the work-girls went trooping past, making remarks. It was the commoner girls who worked upstairs at the heavy tasks of trust-making and the finishing of artificial limbs. He waited for Mr. Papelworth, not knowing what to do, sitting scribbling on the yellow order paper. Mr. Papelworth came at twenty minutes to three. Then he sat and gossiped with Paul, treating the boy entirely as an equal, even in age. In the afternoon there was never very much to do, unless it were near the weekend, and the accounts had to be made up. At five o'clock all the men went down into the dungeon with the table on trestles, and there they had tea, eating bread and butter on the bare, dirty boards, talking with the same kind of ugly haste and slovenliness with which they ate their meal. And yet upstairs the atmosphere among them was always jolly and clear. The cellar and the trestles affected them. After tea, when all the gases were lighted, work went more briskly. There was the big evening-post to get off. The hose came up warm and newly pressed from the work-rooms. Paul had made out the invoices. Now he had the packing up and a dressing to do. Then he had to weigh his stock of parcels on the scales. Everywhere voices were calling weights. There was the chink of metal, the rapid snapping of string, the hurring to old Mr. Melling for stamps, and at last the postman came with his sack, laughing and jolly. Then everything slacked off, and Paul took his dinner basket and ran to the station to catch the eight-twenty train. The day in the factory was just twelve hours long. His mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had to walk from Keston, so was not home until about twenty past nine, and he left the house before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morrill was rather anxious about his health, but she herself had had to put up with so much that she expected her children to take the same odds. They must go through with what came. And Paul stayed at Jordan's, although all the time he was there his health suffered from the darkness and lack of air and the long hours. He came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She saw he was rather pleased, and her anxiety all went. Well, and how was it? She asked. Ever so funny, mother? He replied. You don't have to work a bit hard, and they're nice with you. And did you get on all right? Yes, they only say my writing's bad, but Mr. Papaworth—he's my man—said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm spiral, mother. You must come and see. It's ever so nice. Soon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Papaworth, who had a certain saloombar flavor about him, was always natural and treated him as if he had been a comrade. Sometimes the spiral boss was irritable and chewed more lozenges than ever. Even then, however, he was not offensive, but one of those people who hurt themselves by their own irritability more than they hurt other people. Haven't you done that yet? He would cry. Go on, be a month of Sundays. Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular and in high spirits. I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch to-morrow. He said jubilantly to Paul. What's a Yorkshire terrier? Don't know what a Yorkshire terrier is. Don't know a Yorkshire— Mr. Papaworth was aghast. Is it a little silky one, colors of iron and rusty silver? That's it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds worth of pups already, and she's worth over seven pounds herself, and she doesn't weigh twenty ounces. The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Paul did not care for her. She seemed so like a wet rag that would never dry. Then a man called for her and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr. Papaworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy, and the talk went on, so to voce. Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and then the only fault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the counter. Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen in your ear! And one day he said to the lad, Why don't you hold your shoulders straighter? Come down here! When he took him into the glass office, and fitted him with special braces for keeping the shoulders square. But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and rather dull. He liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly, the little brisk overseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar, asked him if she could cook him anything on her little stove. Next day his mother gave him a dish that could be heated up. He took it into the pleasant clean room to Polly, and very soon it grew to be an established custom that he should have dinner with her. When he came in at eight in the morning he took his basket to her, and when he came down at one o'clock she had his dinner ready. He was not very tall and pale, with thick chestnut hair, irregular features, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He often called her a robinette. Though naturally rather quiet, he would sit and chatter with her for hours, telling her about his home. The girls all liked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a little circle while he sat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. Some of them regarded him as a curious little creature, so serious, yet so bright and jolly, and always so delicate in his way with them. They all liked him, and he adored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane of red hair, her face of apple blossom, her murmuring voice, such a lady in her shabby black frock, appealed to his romantic side. When you sit winding, he said, it looks as if you were spinning at a spinning wheel. It looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in The Idols of the King. I'd draw you if I could. And she glanced at him, blushing shyly. And later on he had a sketch he prized very much, Connie sitting on the stool before the wheel, her flowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock, her red mouth shut in serious, running the scarlet thread off the hank onto the reel. With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrust her hip at him, he usually joked. Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending, but to condescend to him made her happy, and he did not mind. How do you put needles in? he asked. Go away and don't bother. But I ought to know how to put needles in. She ground at her machine all the while steadily. There are many things you ought to know, she replied. Tell me then how to stick needles in the machine. Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, this is how you do it! He watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped. Then Polly appeared and said in a clear voice, Mr. Papaworth wants to know how much longer you're going to be down here playing with the girls, Paul. Paul flew upstairs, calling, Good-bye! and Emma drew herself up. It wasn't me who wanted to play with the machine, she said. As a rule, when all the girls came back at two o'clock, he ran upstairs to fanny the hunchback in the finishing off-room. Mr. Papaworth did not appear till twenty to three, and he often found his boy sitting beside fanny, talking or drawing, or singing with the girls. Often, after a minute's hesitation, fanny would begin to sing. She had a fine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus, and it went well. Paul was not at all embarrassed, after a while, sitting in the room with a half a dozen work girls. At the end of the song, fanny would say, I know you've been laughing at me. Don't be so soft, fanny, cried one of the girls. Once there was mention of Connie's red hair. Fanny's is better to my fancy, said Emma. You needn't try to make a fool of me, said fanny, flushing deeply. No, but she has, Paul. She's got beautiful hair. It's a treat of a color, said he. That coldish color like earth and yet shiny. It's like bogwater. Goodness me! exclaimed one girl, laughing. How I do but get criticized, said fanny. But you should see it down, Paul, cried Emma earnestly. It's simply beautiful. Put it down for him, fanny, if he wants something to paint. Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to. Then I'll take it down myself, said the lad. Well, you can if you like, said fanny. And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush of hair of uniform dark brown slid over the humped back. What a lovely lot, he exclaimed. The girls watched. There was silence. The youth shook the hair loose from the coil. It splendid, he said, smelling its perfume. I'll bet it's worth pounds. I'll leave it to you when I die, Paul, said fanny, half joking. You look just like anybody else sitting drying their hair, said one of the girls to the long-legged hunchback. Poor fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults. Polly was curt in business-like, the two departments were forever at war, and Paul was always finding fanny in tears. Then he was made the recipient of all her woes, and he had to plead her case with Polly. So the time went along happily enough. The factory had a homely feel. No one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyed it when the work got faster, towards post-time, and all the men united in labor. He liked to watch his fellow clerks at work. The man was the work, and the work was the man. One thing for the time being. It was different with the girls. The real woman never seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out, waiting. From the train going home at night he used to watch the lights of the town, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blaze in the valleys. He felt rich in life, and happy. Trawing farther off there was a patch of lights at bullwell, like myriad petals shaken to the ground from the shed's stars, and beyond was the red glare of the furnaces, playing like hot breath on the clouds. He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home, up two long hills, down two short hills. He was often tired, and he counted the lamps climbing the hill above him, how many more to pass. And from the hill-top, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round on the villages five or six miles away, that shone like swarms of glittering living things, almost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered this far-off darkness with brilliance, and occasionally the black valley space between was traced, violated by a great train rushing south to London, or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles, level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in silence. And then he went to the corner at home, which faced the other side of the night. The ash tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose with gladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly on the table. It'll help, mother! he asked, wistfully. There's precious little left! she answered. After your ticket and dinners and such are taken off? Then he told her the budget of the day. His life's story, like in Arabian nights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost, as if it were her own life. End of chapter.