CHAPTER V

　　He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskeredold 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. Morel,in doubt as to whether she were a customer or not.

　　"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked himto call this morning."

　　"Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy littlemanner intended to be businesslike.

　　They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room,upholstered in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing ofmany customers. On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leatherhoops tangled together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed theodour of new wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By thistime he was so much stunned that he only noticed the outside things.

　　"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morelto 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 Paulrecognised as his own notepaper in front of him.

　　"Yes," he answered.

　　At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feelingguilty for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter;second, in wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different,in the fat, red hand of the man, from what it had been when it layon the kitchen table. It was like 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. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouderwith 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 Board-school."

　　"And did you learn it there?"

　　"No--I---" The boy went crimson and got no farther.

　　"His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs. Morel, half pleadingand rather distant.

　　Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he alwaysseemed to keep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet ofpaper 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 handwritingthat the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.

　　"'Monsieur,'" he began; then he looked in great confusionat Mr. Jordan. "It's the--it's the---"

　　He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer workeven 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'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'twopairs--gris fil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can't tell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the---"

　　He wanted to say "handwriting", but the word still refusedto come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him.

　　"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockingswithout TOES.'"

　　"Well," flashed Paul, "'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--asa rule---"

　　The little man looked at him. He did not know whether "doigts"meant "fingers"; he knew that for all HIS purposes it meant "toes".

　　"Fingers to stockings!" he snapped.

　　"Well, it DOES mean fingers," the boy persisted.

　　He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother,who sat quiet and with that peculiar shut-off look of the poorwho have to depend on the favour of others.

　　"And when could he come?" he asked.

　　"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finishedschool now."

　　"He would live in Bestwood?"

　　"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight."

　　"H'm!"

　　It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eightshillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say anotherword, after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". Hefollowed his mother down the stairs. She looked at him with herbright 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 youwon'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 disagreeableto YOU--it's their way. You always think people are meaning thingsfor you. But they don't."

　　It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-placethe blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was fullof colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the marketwas a row of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun--applesand 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 onlybeen in an eating-house once or twice in his life, and then onlyto have a cup of tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwoodconsidered that tea and bread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef,was all they could afford to eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinnerwas considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty.

　　They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morelscanned 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 heliked 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 waitresswas busy, and Mrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited for the girl's pleasure, whilst sheflirted 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 orderswere too meagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on herrights 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. Morelasked coldly for the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at his mother's hardness. He knew that only yearsof 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 oneor two places, shall we?"

　　They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morelwanted to buy him a little sable brush that be hankered after. But this indulgence he refused. He stood in front of milliners'shops and drapers' shops almost bored, but content for her tobe interested. They wandered on.

　　"Now, just look at those black grapes!" she said. "They makeyour mouth water. I've wanted some of those for years, but I s'llhave 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 ladyin 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'sa tubful."

　　"So there is--red and white. But really, I never knewstocks to smell like it!" And, to his great relief, she movedout of the doorway, but only to stand in front of the window.

　　"Paul!" she cried to him, who was trying to get out ofsight 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 thinkevery second as the flowers was going to fall off, they hangso 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 plantyou 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 arrivedhome in the mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired.

　　In the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticketand took it to the station. When he got back, his mother was justbeginning 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 giveme a pound a month. He has given me ten shillings--twice; and now Iknow 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 fulfilmentyou 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 careabout helping you, once they've gone. He'd rather spend it onthat 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 hedoesn't buy her a gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever boughtME 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 aphotograph 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 ofLouie 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 togive her young man that photo to send to his mother--the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful, as you say. But I hardlyexpected to see so much of them at the first view."

　　Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier inthe 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 'eran 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'sa fool to ha' ta'en up wi' such a one as that."

　　"Dear Mater," William replied. "I'm sorry you didn't likethe photograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that youmightn't think it decent. However, I told Gyp that it didn't quitesuit 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 notefrom the girl. This time the young lady was seen in a black satinevening bodice, cut square, with little puff sleeves, and blacklace 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 firstone 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 hiswaistcoat pocket. He loved it with its bars of yellow across. His mother packed his dinner in a small, shut-up basket, and he setoff at a quarter to seven to catch the 7.15 train. Mrs. Morel cameto the entry-end to see him off.

　　It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree the slendergreen fruits that the children call "pigeons" were twinkling gailydown on a little breeze, into the front gardens of the houses. The valley was full of a lustrous dark haze, through which the ripecorn 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 himso 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 himas he crossed the field. He had a small, compact body that lookedfull 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 eachof them, that these men would work out what SHE wanted; they werederived 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'sSurgical Appliance Factory, and stood helplessly against the firstgreat parcel-rack, waiting for somebody to pick him up. The placewas 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. Itwas ten past eight. Evidently there was no rush of punctuality. Paul listened to the voices of the two clerks. Then he heardsomeone cough, and saw in the office at the end of the room an old,decaying clerk, in a round smoking-cap of black velvet embroideredwith red and green, opening letters. He waited and waited. One of the junior clerks went to the old man, greeted himcheerily 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.

　　"H'm! What's your name?"

　　"Paul Morel."

　　"Paul Morel? All right, you come on round here."

　　Paul followed him round the rectangle of counters. The roomwas second storey. It had a great hole in the middle of the floor,fenced as with a wall of counters, and down this wide shaftthe lifts went, and the light for the bottom storey. Also therewas a corresponding big, oblong hole in the ceiling, and onecould see above, over the fence of the top floor, some machinery;and right away overhead was the glass roof, and all light for thethree storeys came downwards, getting dimmer, so that it was alwaysnight on the ground floor and rather gloomy on the second floor. The factory was the top floor, the warehouse the second, the storehousethe ground floor. It was an insanitary, ancient place.

　　Paul was led round to a very dark corner.

　　"This is the 'Spiral' corner," said the clerk. "You're Spiral,with Pappleworth. He's your boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn'tget here till half-past eight. So you can fetch the letters,if you like, from 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 your entry ledgers. Mr. Pappleworth won't be long."

　　And the thin young man stalked away with long, busy stridesover the hollow wooden floor.

　　After a minute or two Paul went down and stood in the doorof the glass office. The old clerk in the smoking-cap lookeddown over the rim of his spectacles.

　　"Good-morning," he said, kindly and impressively. "You wantthe letters for the Spiral department, Thomas?"

　　Paul resented being called "Thomas". But he took the lettersand returned to his dark place, where the counter made an angle,where the great parcel-rack came to an end, and where therewere three doors in the corner. He sat on a high stool and readthe letters--those whose handwriting was not too difficult. They ran as follows:

　　"Will you please send me at once a pair of lady's silk spiralthigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year;length, thigh to knee, etc." Or, "Major Chamberlain wishesto repeat his previous order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage."

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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