From the train going home at night he used to watch
the lights of the town, sprinkled thick on the hills,
fusing together in a blaze in the valleys. He
felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off,
there was a patch of lights at Bulwell like myriad
petals shaken to the ground from the shed stars; and
beyond was the red glare of the furnaces, playing
like hot breath on the clouds.
He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home,
up two long hills, down two short hills. He was
often tired, and he counted the lamps climbing the
hill above him, how many more to pass. And from
the hilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round
on the villages five or six miles away, that shone
like swarms of glittering living things, almost a
heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered
the far-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally
the black valley space between was traced, violated
by a great train rushing south to London or north
to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles
level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making
the valley clang with their passage. They were
gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered
in silence.
And then he came to the corner at home, which faced
the other side of the night. The ash-tree seemed
a friend now. His mother rose with gladness as
he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly
on the table.
“It’ll help, mother?” he asked wistfully.
“There’s precious little left,”
she answered, “after your ticket and dinners
and such are taken off.”
Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story,
like an Arabian Nights, was told night after night
to his mother. It was almost as if it were her
own life.
CHAPTER VI
DEATH IN THE FAMILY
ArthurMorel was growing up. He was
a quick, careless, impulsive boy, a good deal like
his father. He hated study, made a great moan
if he had to work, and escaped as soon as possible
to his sport again.
In appearance he remained the flower of the family,
being well made, graceful, and full of life.
His dark brown hair and fresh colouring, and his exquisite
dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with
his generous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite.
But as he grew older his temper became uncertain.
He flew into rages over nothing, seemed unbearably
raw and irritable.
His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes.
He thought only of himself. When he wanted amusement,
all that stood in his way he hated, even if it were
she. When he was in trouble he moaned to her
ceaselessly.
“Goodness, boy!” she said, when he groaned
about a master who, he said, hated him, “if
you don’t like it, alter it, and if you can’t
alter it, put up with it.”
