it for him. Now he was going away. She felt almost as if he were going
as well out of her heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with
himself. That was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all
himself away.
A few days before his departure--he was just twenty--he burned his
love-letters. They had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen
cupboard. From some of them he had read extracts to his mother. Some
of them she had taken the trouble to read herself. But most were too
trivial.
Now, on the Saturday morning he said:
"Come on, Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have the
birds and flowers."
Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday's work on the Friday, because he was
having a last day's holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which
he loved, to take with him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so
miserable.
He took the first letter off the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had
purple and green thistles. William sniffed the page.
"Nice scent! Smell."
And he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose.
"Um!" said Paul, breathing in. "What d'you call it? Smell, mother."
His mother ducked her small, fine nose down to the paper.
"I don't want to smell their rubbish," she said, sniffing.
"This girl's father," said William, "is as rich as Croesus. He owns
property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French.
'You will see, I've forgiven you'--I like HER forgiving me. 'I told
mother about you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you
come to tea on Sunday, but she will have to get father's consent also. I
sincerely hope he will agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If,
however, you--'"
"'Let you know how it' what?" interrupted Mrs. Morel.
"'Transpires'--oh yes!"
"'Transpires!'" repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. "I thought she was so
well educated!"
William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving
Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from
his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her
and made her anxious for him.
"My lad," she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only got to
flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its
head scratched."
"Well, they can't go on scratching for ever," he replied. "And when
they've done, I trot away."
"But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pull
off," she answered.
"Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter
themselves."
"You flatter YOURSELF," she said quietly.
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