“Yes.”
“It's no good.”
“I'll see for myself.”
“And why on earth don't you let him stop. It's just what he wants.”
“Of course,” cried the mother, “YOU know what he wants!”
She got ready and went by the first train to Derby, where she saw her son and the sergeant. It was, however, no good.
When Morel was having his dinner in the evening, she said suddenly:
“I've had to go to Derby to-day.”
The miner turned up his eyes, showing the whites in his black face.
“Has ter, lass. What took thee there?”
“That Arthur!”
“Oh—an' what's agate now?”
“He's only enlisted.”
Morel put down his knife and leaned back in his chair.
“Nay,” he said, “that he niver 'as!”
“And is going down to Aldershot tomorrow.”
“Well!” exclaimed the miner. “That's a winder.” He considered it a moment, said “H'm!” and proceeded with his dinner. Suddenly his face contracted with wrath. “I hope he may never set foot i' my house again,” he said.
“The idea!” cried Mrs. Morel. “Saying such a thing!”
“I do,” repeated Morel. “A fool as runs away for a soldier, let 'im look after 'issen; I s'll do no more for 'im.”
“A fat sight you have done as it is,” she said.
And Morel was almost ashamed to go to his public-house that evening.
“Well, did you go?” said Paul to his mother when he came home.
“I did.”
“And could you see him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He blubbered when I came away.”
“H'm!”
“And so did I, so you needn't 'h'm'!”
Mrs. Morel fretted after her son. She knew he would not like the army. He did not. The discipline was intolerable to him.
“But the doctor,” she said with some pride to Paul, “said he was perfectly proportioned—almost exactly; all his measurements were correct. He IS good-looking, you know.”
“He's awfully nice-looking. But he doesn't fetch the girls like William, does he?”
“No; it's a different character. He's a good deal like his father, irresponsible.”
To console his mother, Paul did not go much to Willey Farm at this time. And in the autumn exhibition of students' work in the Castle he had two studies, a landscape in water-colour and a still life in oil, both of which had first-prize awards. He was highly excited.
“What do you think I've got for my pictures, mother?” he asked, coming home one evening. She saw by his eyes he was glad. Her face flushed.
“Now, how should I know, my boy!”
“A first prize for those glass jars—”
“H'm!”
“And a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm.”
“Both first?”
“Yes.”
“H'm!”
There was a rosy, bright look about her, though she said nothing.
“It's nice,” he said, “isn't it?”
“It is.”
“Why don't you praise me up to the skies?”
She laughed.
“I should have the trouble of dragging you down again,” she said.
But she was full of joy, nevertheless. William had brought her his sporting trophies. She kept them still, and she did not forgive his death. Arthur was handsome—at least, a good specimen—and warm and generous, and probably would do well in the end. But Paul was going to distinguish himself. She had a great belief in him, the more because he was unaware of his own powers. There was so much to come out of him. Life for her was rich with promise. She was to see herself fulfilled. Not for nothing had been her struggle.
Several times during the exhibition Mrs. Morel went to the Castle unknown to Paul. She wandered down the long room looking at the other exhibits. Yes, they were good. But they had not in them a certain something which she demanded for her satisfaction. Some made her jealous, they were so good. She looked at them a long time trying to find fault with them. Then suddenly she had a shock that made her heart beat. There hung Paul's picture! She knew it as if it were printed on her heart.
“Name—Paul Morel—First Prize.”
It looked so strange, there in public, on the walls of the Castle gallery, where in her lifetime she had seen so many pictures. And she glanced round to see if anyone had noticed her again in front of the same sketch.
But she felt a proud woman. When she met well-dressed ladies going home to the Park, she thought to herself:
“Yes, you look very well—but I wonder if YOUR son has two first prizes in the Castle.”
And she walked on, as proud a little woman as any in Nottingham. And Paul felt he had done something for her, if only a trifle. All his work was hers.
One day, as he was going up Castle Gate, he met Miriam. He had seen her on the Sunday, and had not expected to meet her in town. She was walking with a rather striking woman, blonde, with a sullen expression, and a defiant carriage. It was strange how Miriam, in her bowed, meditative bearing, looked dwarfed beside this woman with the handsome shoulders. Miriam watched Paul searchingly. His gaze was on the stranger, who ignored him. The girl saw his masculine spirit rear its head.
“Hello!” he said, “you didn't tell me you were coming to town.”
“No,” replied Miriam, half apologetically. “I drove in to Cattle Market with father.”
He looked at her companion.
“I've told you about Mrs. Dawes,” said Miriam huskily; she was nervous. “Clara, do you know Paul?”
“I think I've seen him before,” replied Mrs. Dawes indifferently, as she shook hands with him. She had scornful grey eyes, a skin like white honey, and a full mouth, with a slightly lifted upper lip that did not know whether it was raised in scorn of all men or out of eagerness to be kissed, but which believed the former. She carried her head back, as if she had drawn away in contempt, perhaps from men also. She wore a large, dowdy hat of black beaver, and a sort of slightly affected simple dress that made her look rather sack-like. She was evidently poor, and had not much taste. Miriam usually looked nice.
“Where have you seen me?” Paul asked of the woman.
She looked at him as if she would not trouble to answer. Then:
“Walking with Louie Travers,” she said.
Louie was one of the “Spiral” girls.
“Why, do you know her?” he asked.
She did not answer. He turned to Miriam.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To the Castle.”
“What train are you going home by?”
“I am driving with father. I