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This
time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs would shift the
"nasty peens in his head". He was sickening for an attack of an
inflammation of the brain. He
had never been well since his sleeping on the ground when he went with Jerry
to Nottingham. Since then he
had drunk and stormed. Now he
fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had him to nurse.
He was one of the worst patients imaginable.
But, in spite of all, and putting aside the fact that he was
breadwinner, she never quite wanted him to die.
Still there was one part of her wanted him for herself.
The
neighbours were very good to her: occasionally
some had the children in to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs
work for her, one would mind the baby for a day.
But it was a great drag, nevertheless.
It was not every day the neighbours helped.
Then she had nursing of baby and husband, cleaning and cooking,
everything to do. She was quite worn out, but she did what was wanted of her.
And
the money was just sufficient. She
had seventeen shillings a week from clubs, and every Friday Barker and the
other butty put by a portion of the stall's profits for Morel's wife.
And the neighbours made broths, and gave eggs, and such invalids'
trifles. If they had not helped
her so generously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled
through, without incurring debts that would have dragged her down.
The
weeks passed. Morel, almost
against hope, grew better. He
had a fine constitution, so that, once on the mend, he went straight forward
to recovery. Soon he was
pottering about downstairs. During
his illness his wife had spoilt him a little.
Now he wanted her to continue. He
often put his band to his head, pulled down the comers of his mouth, and
shammed pains he did not feel. But
there was no deceiving her. At
first she merely smiled to herself. Then
she scolded him sharply.
"Goodness,
man, don't be so lachrymose."
That
wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness.
"I
wouldn't be such a mardy baby," said the wife shortly.
Then
he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy.
He was forced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine.
Nevertheless,
there was a state of peace in the house for some time.
Mrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost
like a child, was rather happy. Neither
knew that she was more tolerant because she loved him less.
Up till this time, in spite of all, he had been her husband and her
man. She had felt that, more or
less, what he did to himself he did to her.
Her living depended on him. There
were many, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him, but it was always
ebbing.
Now,
with the birth of this third baby, her self no longer set towards him,
helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose, standing off from him.
After this she scarcely desired him.
And, standing more aloof from him, not feeling him so much part of
herself, but merely part of her circumstances, she did not mind so much what
he did, could leave him alone.
There
was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year, which is like autumn
in a man's life. His wife was
casting him off, half regretfully, but relentlessly; casting him off and
turning now for love and life to the children.
Henceforward he was more or less a husk. And he himself acquiesced, as so many men do, yielding their
place to their children.
During
his recuperation, when it was really over between them, both made an effort
to come back somewhat to the old relationship of the first months of their
marriage. He sat at home and,
when the children were in bed, and she was sewing--she did all her sewing by
hand, made all shirts and children's clothing--he would read to her from the
newspaper, slowly pronouncing and delivering the words like a man pitching
quoits. Often she hurried him
on, giving him a phrase in anticipation.
And then he took her words humbly.
The
silences between them were peculiar. There
would be the swift, slight "cluck" of her needle, the sharp
"pop" of his lips as he let out the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle
on the bars as he spat in the fire. Then
her thoughts turned to William. Already
he was getting a big boy. Already
he was top of the class, and the master said he was the smartest lad in the
school. She saw him a man,
young, full of vigour, making the world glow again for her.
And
Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think about, would
be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His
soul would reach out in its blind way to her and find her gone.
He felt a sort of emptiness, almost like a vacuum in his soul.
He was unsettled and restless. Soon
he could not live in that atmosphere, and he affected his wife.
Both felt an oppression on their breathing when they were left
together for some time. Then he
went to bed and she settled down to enjoy herself alone, working, thinking,
living.
Meanwhile
another infant was coming, fruit of this little peace and tenderness between
the separating parents. Paul
was seventeen months old when the new baby was born. He was then a plump, pale child, quiet, with heavy blue eyes,
and still the peculiar slight knitting of the brows. The last child was also a boy, fair and bonny.
Mrs. Morel was sorry when she knew she was with child, both for
economic reasons and because she did not love her husband; but not for the
sake of the infant.
They
called the baby Arthur. He was
very pretty, with a mop of gold curls, and he loved his father from the
first. Mrs. Morel was glad this
child loved the father. Hearing
the miner's footsteps, the baby would put up his arms and crow.
And if Morel were in a good temper, he called back immediately, in
his hearty, mellow voice:
"What
then, my beauty? I sh'll come
to thee in a minute."
And
as soon as he had taken off his pit-coat, Mrs. Morel would put an apron
round the child, and give him to his father.
"What
a sight the lad looks!" she would exclaim sometimes, taking back the
baby, that was smutted on the face from his father's kisses and play.
Then Morel laughed joyfully.
"He's
a little collier, bless his bit o' mutton!" he exclaimed.
And
these were the happy moments of her life now, when the children included the
father in her heart.
Meanwhile
William grew bigger and stronger and more active, while Paul, always rather
delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and trotted after his mother like her
shadow. He was usually active
and interested, but sometimes he would have fits of depression.
Then the mother would find the boy of three or four crying on the
sofa.
"What's
the matter?" she asked, and got no answer.
"What's
the matter?" she insisted, getting cross.
"I
don't know," sobbed the child.
So
she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but without effect.
It made her feel beside herself.
Then the father, always impatient, would jump from his chair and
shout:
"If
he doesn't stop, I'll smack him till he does."
"You'll
do nothing of the sort," said the mother coldly. And then she carried the child into the yard, plumped him
into his little chair, and said: "Now
cry there, Misery!"
And
then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves perhaps caught his eye, or at last he
cried himself to sleep. These
fits were not often, but they caused a shadow in Mrs. Morel's heart, and her
treatment of Paul was different from that of the other children.
Suddenly
one morning as she was looking down the alley of the Bottoms for the barm-man,
she heard a voice calling her. It
was the thin little Mrs. Anthony in brown velvet.
"Here,
Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie."
"Oh,
do you?" replied Mrs. Morel. "Why,
what's the matter?"
"A
lad as gets 'old of another an' rips his clothes off'n 'is back," Mrs.
Anthony said, "wants showing something."
"Your
Alfred's as old as my William," said Mrs. Morel.
"'Appen
'e is, but that doesn't give him a right to get hold of the boy's collar,
an' fair rip it clean off his back."
"Well,"
said Mrs. Morel, "I don't thrash my children, and even if I did, I
should want to hear their side of the tale."
"They'd
happen be a bit better if they did get a good hiding," retorted Mrs.
Anthony. "When it comes
ter rippin' a lad's clean collar off'n 'is back a-purpose---"
"I'm
sure he didn't do it on purpose," said Mrs. Morel.
"Make
me a liar!" shouted Mrs. Anthony.
Mrs.
Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her
hand trembled as she held her mug of barm.
"But
I s'll let your mester know," Mrs. Anthony cried after her.
At
dinner-time, when William had finished his meal and wanted to be off
again--he was then eleven years old--his mother said to him:
"What
did you tear Alfred Anthony's collar for?"
"When
did I tear his collar?"
"I
don't know when, but his mother says you did."
"Why--it
was yesterday--an' it was torn a'ready."
"But
you tore it more."
"Well,
I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked seventeen--an' Alfy Ant'ny 'e says:
'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me,
Went down to a river to bade.
Adam an' Eve got drownded,
Who do yer think got saved?'
An'
so I says: 'Oh, Pinch-YOU,' an'
so I pinched 'im, an' 'e was mad, an' so he snatched my cobbler an' run off
with it. An' so I run after 'im,
an' when I was gettin' hold of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it ripped 'is collar.
But I got my cobbler---"
He
pulled from his pocket a black old horse-chestnut hanging on a string.
This old cobbler had "cobbled"--hit and smashed--seventeen
other cobblers on similar strings. So
the boy was proud of his veteran.
"Well,"
said Mrs. Morel, "you know you've got no right to rip his collar."
"Well,
our mother!" he answered. "I
never meant tr'a done it--an' it was on'y an old indirrubber collar as was
torn a'ready."
"Next
time," said his mother, "YOU be more careful.
I shouldn't like it if you came home with your collar torn off."
"I
don't care, our mother; I never did it a-purpose."
The
boy was rather miserable at being reprimanded.
"No--well,
you be more careful."
William
fled away, glad to be exonerated. And
Mrs. Morel, who hated any bother with the neighbours, thought she would
explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over.
But
that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour.
He stood in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some
minutes. Then:
"Wheer's
that Willy?" he asked.
"What
do you want HIM for?" asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.
"I'll
let 'im know when I get him," said Morel, banging his pit-bottle on to
the dresser.
"I
suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you about Alfy's
collar," said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.
"Niver
mind who's got hold of me," said Morel.
"When I get hold of 'IM I'll make his bones rattle."
"It's
a poor tale," said Mrs. Morel, "that you're so ready to side with
any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own
children."
"I'll
learn 'im!" said Morel. "It
none matters to me whose lad 'e is; 'e's none goin' rippin' an' tearin'
about just as he's a mind."
"'Ripping
and tearing about!'" repeated Mrs. Morel.
"He was running after that Alfy, who'd taken his cobbler, and he
accidentally got hold of his collar, because the other dodged--as an Anthony
would."
"I
know!" shouted Morel threateningly.
"You
would, before you're told," replied his wife bitingly.
"Niver
you mind," stormed Morel. "I
know my business."
"That's
more than doubtful," said Mrs. Morel, "supposing some loud-mouthed
creature had been getting you to thrash your own children."
"I
know," repeated Morel.
And
he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying:
"Can
I have my tea, mother?"
"Tha
can ha'e more than that!" shouted Morel.
"Hold
your noise, man," said Mrs. Morel; "and don't look so
ridiculous."
"He'll
look ridiculous before I've done wi' him!" shouted Morel, rising from
his chair and glaring at his son.
William,
who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone pale, and was
looking in a sort of horror at his father.
"Go
out!" Mrs. Morel commanded
her son.
William
had not the wit to move. Suddenly
Morel clenched his fist, and crouched.
"I'll
GI'E him 'go out'!" he shouted like an insane thing.
"What!"
cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. "You
shall not touch him for HER telling, you shall not!"
"Shonna
I?" shouted Morel. "Shonna
I?"
And,
glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs.
Morel sprang in between them, with her fist lifted.
"Don't
you DARE!" she cried.
"What!"
he shouted, baffled for the moment. "What!"
She
spun round to her son.
"GO
out of the house!" she commanded him in fury.
The
boy, as if hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone.
Morel rushed to the door, but was too late.
He returned, pale under his pit-dirt with fury.
But now his wife was fully roused.
"Only
dare!" she said in a loud, ringing voice.
"Only dare, milord, to lay a finger on that child!
You'll regret it for ever."
He
was afraid of her. In a
towering rage, he sat down.
When
the children were old enough to be left, Mrs. Morel joined the Women's
Guild. It was a little club of
women attached to the Co-operative Wholesale Society, which met on Monday
night in the long room over the grocery shop of the Bestwood
"Co-op". The women were supposed to discuss the benefits to be
derived from co-operation, and other social questions.
Sometimes Mrs. Morel read a paper.
It seemed queer to the children to see their mother, who was always
busy about the house, sitting writing in her rapid fashion, thinking,
referring to books, and writing again.
They felt for her on such occasions the deepest respect.
But
they loved the Guild. It was
the only thing to which they did not grudge their mother--and that partly
because she enjoyed it, partly because of the treats they derived from it.
The Guild was called by some hostile husbands, who found their wives
getting too independent, the "clat-fart" shop--that is, the
gossip-shop. It is true, from off the basis of the Guild, the women could
look at their homes, at the conditions of their own lives, and find fault.
So the colliers found their women had a new standard of their own,
rather disconcerting. And also,
Mrs. Morel always had a lot of news on Monday nights, so that the children
liked William to be in when their mother came home, because she told him
things.
Then,
when the lad was thirteen, she got him a job in the "Co-op."
office. He was a very
clever boy, frank, with rather rough features and real viking blue eyes.
"What
dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed Jack on 'im for?" said Morel.
"All he'll do is to wear his britches behind out an' earn nowt.
What's 'e startin' wi'?"
"It
doesn't matter what he's starting with," said Mrs. Morel.
"It
wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we
me, an' 'ell earn a easy ten shillin' a wik from th' start. But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end out on a stool's
better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi'me, I know."
"He
is NOT going in the pit," said Mrs. Morel, "and there's an end of
it."
"It
wor good enough for me, but it's non good enough for 'im."
"If
your mother put you in the pit at twelve, it's no reason why I should do the
same with my lad."
"Twelve!
It wor a sight afore that!"
"Whenever
it was," said Mrs. Morel.
She
was very proud of her son. He
went to the night school, and learned shorthand, so that by the time he was
sixteen he was the best shorthand clerk and book-keeper on the place, except
one. Then he taught in the
night schools. But he was so
fiery that only his good-nature and his size protected him.
All
the things that men do--the decent things--William did.
He could run like the wind. When
he was twelve he won a first prize in a race; an inkstand of glass, shaped
like an anvil. It stood proudly on the dresser, and gave Mrs. Morel a keen
pleasure. The boy only ran for
her. He flew home with his
anvil, breathless, with a "Look, mother!"
That was the first real tribute to herself. She took it like a queen.
"How
pretty!" she exclaimed.
Then
he began to get ambitious. He
gave all his money to his mother. When
he earned fourteen shillings a week, she gave him back two for himself, and,
as he never drank, he felt himself rich.
He went about with the bourgeois of Bestwood.
The townlet contained nothing higher than the clergyman.
Then came the bank manager, then the doctors, then the tradespeople,
and after that the hosts of colliers. Willam
began to consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and the
tradesmen. He played billiards
in the Mechanics' Hall. Also he danced--this in spite of his mother.
All the life that Bestwood offered he enjoyed, from the sixpenny-hops
down Church Street, to sports and billiards.
Paul
was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like ladies,
most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart for a brief fortnight.
Occasionally
some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and
immediately she sniffed the air.
"Is
Mr. Morel in?" the damsel would ask appealingly.
"My
husband is at home," Mrs. Morel replied.
"I--I
mean YOUNG Mr. Morel," repeated the maiden painfully.
"Which
one? There are several."
Whereupon
much blushing and stammering from the fair one.
"I--I
met Mr. Morel--at Ripley," she explained.
"Oh--at
a dance!"
"Yes."
"I
don't approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is NOT at home."
Then
he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl away so
rudely. He was a careless, yet
eager-looking fellow, who walked with long strides, sometimes frowning,
often with his cap pushed jollily to the back of his head. Now he came in frowning.
He threw his cap on to the sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand,
and glared down at his mother. She
was small, with her hair taken straight back from her forehead.
She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth.
Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly.
"Did
a lady call for me yesterday, mother?" he asked.
"I
don't know about a lady. There
was a girl came." "And
why didn't you tell me?"
"Because
I forgot, simply."
He
fumed a little.
"A
good-looking girl--seemed a lady?"
"I
didn't look at her."
"Big
brown eyes?"
"I
did NOT look. And tell your
girls, my son, that when they're running after you, they're not to come and
ask your mother for you. Tell
them that--brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes."
"I'm
sure she was a nice girl."
"And
I'm sure she wasn't."
There
ended the altercation. Over the
dancing there was a great strife between the mother and the son.
The grievance reached its height when William said he was going to
Hucknall Torkard--considered a low town--to a fancy-dress ball.
He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress he could hire, which one
of his friends had had, and which fitted him perfectly.
The Highland suit came home. Mrs.
Morel received it coldly and would not unpack it.
"My
suit come?" cried William.
"There's
a parcel in the front room."
He
rushed in and cut the string.
"How
do you fancy your son in this!" he said, enraptured, showing her the
suit.
"You
know I don't want to fancy you in it."
On
the evening of the dance, when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morel put on
her coat and bonnet.
"Aren't
you going to stop and see me, mother?" he asked.
"No;
I don't want to see you," she replied.
She
was rather pale, and her face was closed and hard. She was afraid of her son's going the same way as his father.
He hesitated a moment, and his heart stood still with anxiety.
Then he caught sight of the Highland bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her.
She went out.
When
he was nineteen he suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a situation in
Nottingham. In his new place he
had thirty shillings a week instead of eighteen.
This was indeed a rise. His
mother and his father were brimmed up with pride. Everybody praised William.
It seemed he was going to get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her younger sons.
Annie was now studying to be a teacher.
Paul, also very clever, was getting on well, having lessons in French
and German from his godfather, the clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs.
Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and
very good-looking boy, was at the Board school, but there was talk of his
trying to get a scholarship for the High School in Nottingham.
William
remained a year at his new post in Nottingham.
He was studying hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting him. Still he went out to the dances and the river parties.
He did not drink. The children were all rabid teetotallers.
He came home very late at night, and sat yet longer studying.
His mother implored him to take more care, to do one thing or
another.
"Dance,
if you want to dance, my son; but don't think you can work in the office,
and then amuse yourself, and THEN study on top of all. You can't; the human frame won't stand it.
Do one thing or the other--amuse yourself or learn Latin; but don't
try to do both."
Then
he got a place in London, at a hundred and twenty a year.
This seemed a fabulous sum. His
mother doubted almost whether to rejoice or to grieve.
"They
want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother," he cried, his eyes
blazing as he read the letter. Mrs.
Morel felt everything go silent inside her.
He read the letter: "'And
will you reply by Thursday whether you accept.
Yours faithfully---' They
want me, mother, at a hundred and twenty a year, and don't even ask to see
me. Didn't I tell you I could
do it! Think of me in London!
And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater.
We s'll all be rolling in money."
"We
shall, my son," she answered sadly.
It
never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his going away than
glad of his success. Indeed, as
the days drew near for his departure, her heart began to close and grow
dreary with despair. She loved
him so much! More than that,
she hoped in him so much. Almost
she lived by him. She liked to
do things for him: she liked to
put a cup for his tea and to iron his collars, of which he was so proud.
It was a joy to her to have him proud of his collars.
There was no laundry. So
she used to rub away at them with her little convex iron, to polish them,
till they shone from the sheer pressure of her arm.
Now she would not do 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.
Soon
there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the file of
scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from
the corners of the notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots and ivy sprays.
And William went to London, to start a new life.
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