Sons and Lovers
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.
“‘_Doigts_’ 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 market-place the
blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened.
Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full
of colour. 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-gage 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 should 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. Morel 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 currant 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. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son
waited for the girl’s pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men.
“Brazen hussy!” said Mrs. Morel 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. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too
meagre, 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. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near.
“Will you bring one currant tart?” said Mrs. Morel clearly.
The girl looked round insolently.
“Directly,” she said.
“We have waited quite long enough,” said Mrs. Morel.
In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldly
for the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled 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 Keep’s and Boot’s, and one or two
places, shall we?”
They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted to buy
him a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence he
refused. He stood in front of milliners’ shops and drapers’ 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 s’ll 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 tubful.”
“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.
“H’m!” He made a curious, interested sound. “You’d think every second
as the flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an’ heavy.”
“And such an abundance!” she cried.
“And the way they drop downwards with 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 parlour.”
“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 s’ll love it.”
“You will,” assented his mother.
He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home in
the mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired.
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.
“An’ I s’ll 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 fulfilment 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 am
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 whoever bought _me_ a gold bangle.”
William was succeeding with his “Gipsy”, as he called her. He asked the
girl—her name was Louisa Lily Denys Western—for a photograph to send to
his mother. The photo came—a handsome brunette, taken in profile,
smirking 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. Morel to her son, “the photograph of Louie 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.”
Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the parlour.
He came out with it between his thick thumb and finger.
“Who dost reckon this is?” he asked of his wife.
“It’s the girl our William is going with,” replied Mrs. Morel.
“H’m! ’Er’s a bright spark, from th’ look on ’er, an’ one as wunna do
him owermuch good neither. Who is she?”
“Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western.”
“An’ come again to-morrer!” exclaimed the miner. “An’ is ’er 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?
An’ how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o’ game on?”
“On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what
bit of money’s given her.”
“H’m!” said Morel, laying down the photograph. “Then he’s a fool to ha’
ta’en up wi’ such a one as that.”
“Dear Mater,” William replied. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the
photograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you mightn’t
think it decent. However, I told Gyp 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 photographers _ask_ 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 puff sleeves, and black lace hanging
down her beautiful arms.
“I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes,” said Mrs.
Morel 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 7.15 train. Mrs. Morel 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 Minton pit melted 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 stile. 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.
Evidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voices