her passion of grief over him broke out. “But it does matter!” she cried. “And you ought to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn’t be a happy one!”
“Your own’s been bad enough, mater, but it hasn’t left you so much worse off than the folk who’ve been happier. I reckon you’ve done well. And I am the same. Aren’t I well enough off?”
“You’re not, my son. Battle—battle—and suffer. It’s about all you do, as far as I can see.”
“But why not, my dear? I tell you it’s the best——”
“It isn’t. And one ought to be happy, one ought.”
By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of this kind often took place between her and her son, when she seemed to fight for his very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She was ill and pitiful.
“Never mind, Little,” he murmured. “So long as you don’t feel life’s paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn’t matter, happiness or unhappiness.”
She pressed him to her.
“But I want you to be happy,” she said pathetically.
“Eh, my dear—say rather you want me to live.”
Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate she knew he would not live. He had that poignant carelessness about himself, his own suffering, his own life, which is a form of slow suicide. It almost broke her heart. With all the passion of her strong nature she hated Miriam for having in this subtle way undermined his joy. It did not matter to her that Miriam could not help it. Miriam did it, and she hated her.
She wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equal to be his mate—educated and strong. But he would not look at anybody above him in station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate that feeling was wholesome. His mother prayed and prayed for him, that he might not be wasted. That was all her prayer—not for his soul or his righteousness, but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours she thought and prayed for him.
He drifted away from Miriam imperceptibly, without knowing he was going. Arthur only left the army to be married. The baby was born six months after his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job under the firm again, at twenty-one shillings a week. She furnished for him, with the help of Beatrice’s mother, a little cottage of two rooms. He was caught now.
