Chapter 10 - Page 2

"They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and sold
it to Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound."

"Oh, what stories people do tell!" she cried.

"Ha!" he answered. "I said I wor sure it wor a lie.
But they said tha'd told Fred Hodgkisson."

"As if I would tell him such stuff!"

"Ha!" assented the miner.

But he was disappointed nevertheless.

"It's true he has got the first prize," said Mrs. Morel.

The miner sat heavily in his chair.

"Has he, beguy!" he exclaimed.

He stared across the room fixedly.

"But as for fifty pounds--such nonsense!" She was silent awhile.
"Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true."

"Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!" exclaimed Morel.

"Yes, and it was worth it."

"Ay!" he said. "I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineas
for a bit of a paintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!"

He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed,
as if it were nothing.

"And when does he handle th' money?" asked the collier.

"That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home,
I suppose."

There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead
of eating his dinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarled
with work lay on the table. His wife pretended not to see him rub
the back of his hand across his eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust
on his black face.

"Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadna
ha' killed 'im," he said quietly.

The thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade.
It left her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest.

Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said:

"Mother, I want an evening suit."

"Yes, I was afraid you would," she said. She was glad.
There was a moment or two of silence. "There's that one of William's,"
she continued, "that I know cost four pounds ten
and which he'd only worn three times."

"Should you like me to wear it, mother?" he asked.

"Yes. I think it would fit you--at least the coat. The trousers
would want shortening."

He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down,
he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front,
with an evening coat and vest. It was rather large.

"The tailor can make it right," she said, smoothing her hand
over his shoulder. "It's beautiful stuff. I never could find
in my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very glad
I am now."

And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought
of her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes.
She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers.
The