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Sons and Lovers by David Herbert Lawrence [D. H. Lawrence]

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and swaying as he spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering concern:

"Did it catch thee?"

He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child.
With the catastrophe he had lost all balance.

"Go away," she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind.

He hiccoughed. "Let's--let's look at it," he said, hiccoughing again.

"Go away!" she cried.

"Lemme--lemme look at it, lass."

She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying
grasp on the back of her rocking-chair.

"Go away," she said, and weakly she pushed him off.

He stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her. Summoning all
her strength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of will,
moving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where she
bathed her eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too dizzy.
Afraid lest she should swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair,
trembling in every fibre. By instinct, she kept the baby clasped.

Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back
into its cavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws,
for the scattered spoons.

Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and came
craning his neck towards her.

"What has it done to thee, lass?" he asked, in a very wretched,
humble tone.

"You can see what it's done," she answered.

He stood, bending forward, supported on his hands, which grasped
his legs just above the knee. He peered to look at the wound.
She drew away from the thrust of his face with its great moustache,
averting her own face as much as possible. As he looked at her,
who was cold and impassive as stone, with mouth shut tight,
he sickened with feebleness and hopelessness of spirit.
He was turning drearily away, when he saw a drop of blood fall
from the averted wound into the baby's fragile, glistening hair.
Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark drop hang in the glistening cloud,
and pull down the gossamer. Another drop fell. It would soak
through to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feeling it
soak in; then, finally, his manhood broke.

"What of this child?" was all his wife said to him.
But her low, intense tones brought his head lower. She softened:
"Get me some wadding out of the middle drawer," she said.

He stumbled away very obediently, presently returning with a
pad, which she singed before the fire, then put on her forehead,
as she sat with the baby on her lap.

"Now that clean pit-scarf."

Again he rummaged and fumbled in the drawer, returning presently
with a red, narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling fingers
proceeded to bind it round her head.

"Let me tie it for thee," he said humbly.

"I can do it myself," she replied. When it was done she
went upstairs, telling him to rake the fire and lock the door.

In the morning Mrs. Morel said:

"I knocked against the latch of the coal-place, when I
was getting a raker in the dark, because the candle blew out."
Her two small children looked up at her with wide, dismayed eyes.
They said nothing, but their parted lips seemed to express the
unconscious tragedy they felt.

Walter Morel lay in bed next day until nearly dinner-time. He
did not think of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thought
of anything, but he would not think of that. He lay and suffered like
a sulking dog. He had hurt himself most; and he was the more damaged
because he would never say a word to her, or express his sorrow.
He tried to wriggle out of it. "It was her own fault," he said
to himself. Nothing, however, could prevent his inner consciousness
inflicting on him the punishment which ate into his spirit like rust,
and which he could only alleviate by drinking.

He felt as if he had not the initiative to get up, or to say a word,
or to move, but could only lie like a log. Moreover, he had himself
violent pains in the head. It was Saturday. Towards noon he rose,
cut himself food in the pantry, ate it with his head dropped,
then pulled on his boots, and went out, to return at three o'clock
slightly tipsy and relieved; then once more straight to bed.
He rose again at six in the evening, had tea and went straight out.

Sunday was the same: bed till noon, the Palmerston Arms till
2.30, dinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morel
went upstairs, towards four o'clock, to put on her Sunday dress,
he was fast asleep. She would have felt sorry for him, if he
had once said, "Wife, I'm sorry." But no; he insisted to himself
it was her fault. And so he broke himself. So she merely left
him alone. There was this deadlock of passion between them,
and she was stronger.

The family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all sat
down to meals together.

"Isn't my father going to get up?" asked William.

"Let him lie," the mother replied.

There was a feeling of misery over all the house. The children
breathed the air that was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They were
rather disconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at.

Immediately Morel woke he got straight out of bed. That was
characteristic of him all his life. He was all for activity.
The prostrated inactivity of two mornings was stifling him.

It was near six o'clock when he got down. This time he entered
without hesitation, his wincing sensitiveness having hardened again.
He did not care any longer what the family thought or felt.

The tea-things were on the table. William was reading aloud
from "The Child's Own", Annie listening and asking eternally "why?"
Both children hushed into silence as they heard the approaching
thud of their father's stockinged feet, and shrank as he entered.
Yet he was usually indulgent to them.

Morel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate and drank
more noisily than he had need. No one spoke to him. The family
life withdrew, shrank away, and became hushed as he entered.
But he cared no longer about his alienation.

Immediately he had finished tea he rose with alacrity to go out.
It was this alacrity, this haste to be gone, which so sickened
Mrs. Morel. As she heard him sousing heartily in cold water,
heard the eager scratch of the steel comb on the side of the bowl,
as he wetted his hair, she closed her eyes in disgust. As he bent over,
lacing his boots, there was a certain vulgar gusto in his movement
that divided him from the reserved, watchful rest of the family.
He always ran away from the battle with himself. Even in his own
heart's privacy, he excused himself, saying, "If she hadn't said
so-and-so, it would never have happened. She asked for what she's got."
The children waited in restraint during his preparations. When he
had gone, they sighed with relief.

He closed the door behind him, and was glad. It was a
rainy evening. The Palmerston would be the cosier. He hastened
forward in anticipation. All the slate roofs of the Bottoms shone
black with wet. The roads, always dark with coal-dust, were full
of blackish mud. He hastened along. The Palmerston windows were steamed
over. The passage was paddled with wet feet. But the air was warm,
if foul, and full of the sound of voices and the smell of beer
and smoke.

"What shollt ha'e, Walter?" cried a voice, as soon as Morel
appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?"

The men made a seat for him, and took him in warmly. He was glad.
In a minute or two they had thawed all responsibility out of him,
all shame, all trouble, and he was clear as a bell for a jolly night.

On the Wednesday following, Morel was penniless. He dreaded
his wife. Having hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what to
do with himself that evening, having not even twopence with which
to go to the Palmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt.
So, while his wife was down the garden with the child, he hunted
in the top drawer of the dresser where she kept her purse, found it,
and looked inside. It contained a half-crown, two halfpennies,
and a sixpence. So he took the sixpence, put the purse carefully back,
and went out.

The next day, when she wanted to pay the greengrocer, she looked
in the purse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes.
Then she sat down and thought: "WAS there a sixpence? I hadn't
spent it, had I? And I hadn't left it anywhere else?"

She was much put about. She hunted round everywhere for it.
And, as she sought, the conviction came into her heart that her
husband had taken it. What she had in her purse was all the money
she possessed. But that he should sneak it from her thus was unbearable.
He had done so twice before. The first time she had not accused him,
and at the week-end he had put the shilling again into her purse.
So that was how she had known he had taken it. The second time he
had not paid back.

This time she felt it was too much. When he had had his dinner--
he came home early that day--she said to him coldly:

"Did you take sixpence out of my purse last night?"

"Me!" he said, looking up in an offended way. "No, I didna!
I niver clapped eyes on your purse."

But she could detect the lie.

"Why, you know you did," she said quietly.

"I tell you I didna," he shouted. "Yer at me again, are yer?
I've had about enough on't."

"So you filch sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking
the clothes in."

"I'll may yer pay for this," he said, pushing back his
chair in desperation. He bustled and got washed, then went
determinedly upstairs. Presently he came down dressed,
and with a big bundle in a blue-checked, enormous handkerchief.

"And now," he said, "you'll see me again when you do."

"It'll be before I want to," she replied; and at that he marched
out of the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly,
but her heart brimming with contempt. What would she do if he went
to some other pit, obtained work, and got in with another woman?
But she knew him too well--he couldn't. She was dead sure of him.
Nevertheless her heart was gnawed inside her.

"Where's my dad?" said William, coming in from school.

"He says he's run away," replied the mother.

"Where to?"

"Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handkerchief,
and says he's not coming back."

"What shall we do?" cried the boy.

"Eh, never trouble, he won't go far."

"But if he doesn't come back," wailed Annie.

And she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morel
sat and laughed.

"You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll see him before
the night's out."

But the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on.
Mrs. Morel grew anxious from very weariness. One part of her said
it would be a relief to see the last of him; another part fretted
because of keeping the children; and inside her, as yet, she could
not quite let him go. At the bottom, she knew very well he could
NOT go.

When she went down to the coal-place at the end of the garden,
however, she felt something behind the door. So she looked.
And there in the dark lay the big blue bundle. She sat on a piece
of coal and laughed. Every time she saw it, so fat and yet
so ignominious, slunk into its corner in the dark, with its ends
flopping like dejected ears from the knots, she laughed again.
She was relieved.

Mrs. Morel sat waiting. He had not any money, she knew,
so if he stopped he was running up a bill. She was very tired of him--
tired to death. He had not even the courage to carry his bundle
beyond the yard-end.

As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the door
and came in, slinking, and yet sulky. She said not a word.
He took off his coat, and slunk to his armchair, where he began
to take off his boots.

"You'd better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off,"
she said quietly.

"You may thank your stars I've come back to-night," he said,
looking up from under his dropped head, sulkily, trying to be impressive.

"Why, where should you have gone? You daren't even get your
parcel through the yard-end," she said.

He looked such a fool she was not even angry with him.
He continued to take his boots off and prepare for bed.

"I don't know what's in your blue handkerchief," she said.
"But if you leave it the children shall fetch it in the morning."

Whereupon he got up and went out of the house, returning presently
and crossing the kitchen with averted face, hurrying upstairs.
As Mrs. Morel saw him slink quickly through the inner doorway,
holding his bundle, she laughed to herself: but her heart was bitter,
because she had loved him.



DURING the next week Morel's temper was almost unbearable.
Like all miners, he was a great lover of medicines, which,
strangely enough, he would often pay for himself.

"You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral," he said. "It's a
winder as we canna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse."

So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite
first medicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had
hanging in the attic great bunches of dried herbs:
wormwood, rue, horehound, elder flowers, parsley-purt,
marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury. Usually there was a jug of
one or other decoction standing on the hob, from which he drank largely.

"Grand!" he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. "Grand!"
And he exhorted the children to try.

"It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews," he vowed.
But they were not to be tempted.

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!"


"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.



PAUL would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small.
His fair hair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey.
He was a pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and with
a full, dropping underlip.

As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious
of what other people felt, particularly his mother. When she
fretted he understood, and could have no peace. His soul seemed
always attentive to her.

As he grew older he became stronger. William was too far
removed from him to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boy
belonged at first almost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a
"flybie-skybie", as her mother called her. But she was intensely
fond of her second brother. So Paul was towed round at the heels
of Annie, sharing her game. She raced wildly at lerky with the other
young wild-cats of the Bottoms. And always Paul flew beside her,
living her share of the game, having as yet no part of his own.
He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister adored him.
He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to.

She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not
so fond. So she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with
an antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul
must practise jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into
the face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail,
and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul remained quite still.

"You couldn't tell it was there, mother; you couldn't tell it
was there," he repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept for
the doll he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out.
She forgave her brother--he was so much upset. But a day or two
afterwards she was shocked.

"Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella," he said. "Let's burn her."

She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to see
what the boy would do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some of
the shavings out of Arabella's body, put the waxen fragments into
the hollow face, poured on a little paraffin, and set the whole thing
alight. He watched with wicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt off
the broken forehead of Arabella, and drop like sweat into the flame.
So long as the stupid big doll burned he rejoiced in silence.
At the end be poked among the embers with a stick, fished out the arms
and legs, all blackened, and smashed them under stones.

"That's the sacrifice of Missis Arabella," he said. "An' I'm
glad there's nothing left of her."

Which disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say nothing.
He seemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken it.

All the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarly
against their father, along with their mother. Morel continued
to bully and to drink. He had periods, months at a time, when he
made the whole life of the family a misery. Paul never forgot
coming home from the Band of Hope one Monday evening and finding
his mother with her eye swollen and discoloured, his father standing
on the hearthrug, feet astride, his head down, and William,
just home from work, glaring at his father. There was a silence
as the young children entered, but none of the elders looked round.

William was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched.
He waited until the children were silent, watching with children's
rage and hate; then he said:

"You coward, you daren't do it when I was in."

But Morel's blood was up. He swung round on his son.
William was bigger, but Morel was hard-muscled, and mad with fury.

"Dossn't I?" he shouted. "Dossn't I? Ha'e much more o'
thy chelp, my young jockey, an' I'll rattle my fist about thee.
Ay, an' I sholl that, dost see?"

Morel crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly,
almost beast-like fashion. William was white with rage.

"Will yer?" he said, quiet and intense. "It 'ud be the
last time, though."

Morel danced a little nearer, crouching, drawing back his fist
to strike. William put his fists ready. A light came into his
blue eyes, almost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word,
and the men would have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would.
The three children sat pale on the sofa.

"Stop it, both of you," cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice.
"We've had enough for ONE night. And YOU,"
she said, turning on to her husband, "look at your children!"

Morel glanced at the sofa.

"Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!" he sneered.
"Why, what have I done to the children, I should like to know?
But they're like yourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks and
nasty ways--you've learned 'em in it, you 'ave."

She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while he
threw his boots under the table and went to bed.

"Why didn't you let me have a go at him?" said William,
when his father was upstairs. "I could easily have beaten him."

"A nice thing--your own father," she replied.

"'FATHER!'" repeated William. "Call HIM MY father!"

"Well, he is--and so---"

"But why don't you let me settle him? I could do, easily."

"The idea!" she cried. "It hasn't come to THAT yet."

"No," he said, "it's come to worse. Look at yourself.
WHY didn't you let me give it him?"

"Because I couldn't bear it, so never think of it,"
she cried quickly.

And the children went to bed, miserably.

When William was growing up, the family moved from the Bottoms
to a house on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the valley,
which spread out like a convex cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, before it.
In front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind,
sweeping from Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force,
and the tree shrieked again. Morel liked it.

"It's music," he said. "It sends me to sleep."

But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it became
almost a demoniacal noise. The winter of their first year
in the new house their father was very bad. The children played
in the street, on the brim of the wide, dark valley, until eight
o'clock. Then they went to bed. Their mother sat sewing below.
Having such a great space in front of the house gave the children
a feeling of night, of vastness, and of terror. This terror came
in from the shrieking of the tree and the anguish of the home discord.
Often Paul would wake up, after he had been asleep a long time,
aware of thuds downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then he
heard the booming shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk, then the
sharp replies of his mother, then the bang, bang of his father's fist on
the table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher.
And then the whole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieks
and cries from the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The children
lay silent in suspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hear
what their father was doing. He might hit their mother again.
There was a feeling of horror, a kind of bristling in the darkness,
and a sense of blood. They lay with their hearts in the grip of an
intense anguish. The wind came through the tree fiercer and fiercer.
All the chords of the great harp hummed, whistled, and shrieked.
And then came the horror of the sudden silence, silence everywhere,
outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it a silence of blood?
What had he done?

The children lay and breathed the darkness. And then, at last,
they heard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairs
in his stockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last,
if the wind allowed, they heard the water of the tap drumming into
the kettle, which their mother was filling for morning, and they
could go to sleep in peace.

So they were happy in the morning--happy, very happy playing,
dancing at night round the lonely lamp-post in the midst of
the darkness. But they had one tight place of anxiety in their hearts,
one darkness in their eyes, which showed all their lives.

Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion.

"Make him stop drinking," he prayed every night. "Lord, let my
father die," he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit,"
he prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work.

That was another time when the family suffered intensely.
The children came from school and had their teas. On the hob
the big black saucepan was simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven,
ready for Morel's dinner. He was expected at five o'clock. But for
months he would stop and drink every night on his way from work.

In the winter nights, when it was cold, and grew dark early,
Mrs. Morel would put a brass candlestick on the table, light a
tallow candle to save the gas. The children finished their
bread-and-butter, or dripping, and were ready to go out to play.
But if Morel had not come they faltered. The sense of his sitting
in all his pit-dirt, drinking, after a long day's work, not coming
home and eating and washing, but sitting, getting drunk, on an empty stomach,
made Mrs. Morel unable to bear herself. From her the feeling was
transmitted to the other children. She never suffered alone any more:
the children suffered with her.

Paul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great trough
of twilight, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were.
A few last colliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamplighter
came along. No more colliers came. Darkness shut down over the valley;
work was done. It was night.

Then Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle still
burned on the table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone.
On the hob the saucepan steamed; the dinner-plate lay waiting
on the table. All the room was full of the sense of waiting,
waiting for the man who was sitting in his pit-dirt, dinnerless,
some mile away from home, across the darkness, drinking himself drunk.
Paul stood in the doorway.

"Has my dad come?" he asked.

"You can see he hasn't," said Mrs. Morel, cross with the
futility of the question.

Then the boy dawdled about near his mother. They shared
the same anxiety. Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strained
the potatoes.

"They're ruined and black," she said; "but what do I care?"

Not many words were spoken. Paul almost hated his mother
for suffering because his father did not come home from work.

"What do you bother yourself for?" he said. "If he wants
to stop and get drunk, why don't you let him?"

"Let him!" flashed Mrs. Morel. "You may well say 'let him'."

She knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is on a
quick way to ruining himself and his home. The children were yet young,
and depended on the breadwinner. William gave her the sense of relief,
providing her at last with someone to turn to if Morel failed. But
the tense atmosphere of the room on these waiting evenings was the same.

The minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still the cloth lay
on the table, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same sense
of anxiety and expectation in the room. The boy could not stand it
any longer. He could not go out and play. So he ran in to Mrs. Inger,
next door but one, for her to talk to him. She had no children.
Her husband was good to her but was in a shop, and came home late.
So, when she saw the lad at the door, she called:

"Come in, Paul."

The two sat talking for some time, when suddenly
the boy rose, saying:

"Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing."

He pretended to be perfectly cheerful, and did not tell his
friend what ailed him. Then he ran indoors.

Morel at these times came in churlish and hateful.

"This is a nice time to come home," said Mrs. Morel.

"Wha's it matter to yo' what time I come whoam?" he shouted.

And everybody in the house was still, because he was dangerous.
He ate his food in the most brutal manner possible, and, when he
had done, pushed all the pots in a heap away from him, to lay his
arms on the table. Then he went to sleep.

Paul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head,
with its black hair slightly soiled with grey, lay on the bare arms,
and the face, dirty and inflamed, with a fleshy nose and thin,
paltry brows, was turned sideways, asleep with beer and weariness
and nasty temper. If anyone entered suddenly, or a noise were made,
the man looked up and shouted:

"I'll lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin' thee, if tha
doesna stop that clatter! Dost hear?"

And the two last words, shouted in a bullying fashion,
usually at Annie, made the family writhe with hate of the man.

He was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him anything.
The children, alone with their mother, told her all about the
day's happenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in
them until it was told to their mother. But as soon as the father
came in, everything stopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth,
happy machinery of the home. And he was always aware of this fall
of silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome.
But now it was gone too far to alter.

He would dearly have liked the children to talk to him,
but they could not. Sometimes Mrs. Morel would say:

"You ought to tell your father."

Paul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper.
Everybody was highly jubilant.

"Now you'd better tell your father when be comes in,"
said Mrs. Morel. "You know how be carries on and says he's never
told anything."

"All right," said Paul. But he would almost rather have
forfeited the prize than have to tell his father.

"I've won a prize in a competition, dad," he said.
Morel turned round to him.

"Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?"

"Oh, nothing--about famous women."

"And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?"

"It's a book."

"Oh, indeed! "

"About birds."

"Hm--hm! "

And that was all. Conversation was impossible between the
father and any other member of the family. He was an outsider.
He had denied the God in him.

The only times when he entered again into the life of his own people
was when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening,
he cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Then
he always wanted several attendants, and the children enjoyed it.
They united with him in the work, in the actual doing of something,
when he was his real self again.

He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in a
good humour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years,
of friction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again.
It was nice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron into
the scullery, crying:

"Out of my road--out of my road!"

Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose,
and made the shape he wanted. Or he sat absorbed for a moment,
soldering. Then the children watched with joy as the metal sank
suddenly molten, and was shoved about against the nose of the
soldering-iron, while the room was full of a scent of burnt resin
and hot tin, and Morel was silent and intent for a minute. He always
sang when he mended boots because of the jolly sound of hammering.
And he was rather happy when he sat putting great patches on his
moleskin pit trousers, which he would often do, considering them
too dirty, and the stuff too hard, for his wife to mend.

But the best time for the young children was when he made fuses.
Morel fetched a sheaf of long sound wheat-straws from the attic.
These he cleaned with his hand, till each one gleamed like a
stalk of gold, after which he cut the straws into lengths of
about six inches, leaving, if he could, a notch at the bottom
of each piece. He always had a beautifully sharp knife that could
cut a straw clean without hurting it. Then he set in the middle
of the table a heap of gunpowder, a little pile of black grains
upon the white-scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the straws
while Paul and Annie rifled and plugged them. Paul loved to see
the black grains trickle down a crack in his palm into the mouth
of the straw, peppering jollily downwards till the straw was full.
Then he bunged up the mouth with a bit of soap--which he got on
his thumb-nail from a pat in a saucer--and the straw was finished.

"Look, dad!" he said.

"That's right, my beauty," replied Morel, who was peculiarly
lavish of endearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse into
the powder-tin, ready for the morning, when Morel would take it
to the pit, and use it to fire a shot that would blast the coal down.

Meantime Arthur, still fond of his father, would lean
on the arm of Morel's chair and say:

"Tell us about down pit, daddy."

This Morel loved to do.

"Well, there's one little 'oss--we call 'im Taffy," he would begin.
"An' he's a fawce 'un!"

Morel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel
Taffy's cunning.

"He's a brown 'un," he would answer, "an' not very high.
Well, he comes i' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze.

"'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein'
some snuff?'

"An' 'e sneezes again. Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'ead
on yer, that cadin'.

"'What's want, Taff?' yo' say."

"And what does he?" Arthur always asked.

"He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie."

This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody
loved it.

Or sometimes it was a new tale.

"An' what dost think, my darlin'? When I went to put my coat
on at snap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse.

"'Hey up, theer!' I shouts.

"An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail."

"And did you kill it?"

"I did, for they're a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi' 'em."

"An' what do they live on?"

"The corn as the 'osses drops--an' they'll get in your pocket an'
eat your snap, if you'll let 'em--no matter where yo' hing your coat--
the slivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are."

These happy evenings could not take place unless Morel
had some job to do. And then he always went to bed very early,
often before the children. There was nothing remaining for him
to stay up for, when he had finished tinkering, and had skimmed
the headlines of the newspaper.

And the children felt secure when their father was in bed.
They lay and talked softly a while. Then they started as the lights
went suddenly sprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swung
in the hands of the colliers tramping by outside, going to take
the nine o'clock shift. They listened to the voices of the men,
imagined them dipping down into the dark valley. Sometimes they
went to the window and watched the three or four lamps growing
tinier and tinier, swaying down the fields in the darkness.
Then it was a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely in
the warmth.

Paul was rather a delicate boy, subject to bronchitis.
The others were all quite strong; so this was another reason
for his mother's difference in feeling for him. One day he came
home at dinner-time feeling ill. But it was not a family to make
any fuss.

"What's the matter with YOU?" his mother asked sharply.

"Nothing," he replied.

But he ate no dinner.

"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"That's why."

So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz
cushions the children loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze.
That afternoon Mrs. Morel was ironing. She listened to the small,
restless noise the boy made in his throat as she worked. Again rose
in her heart the old, almost weary feeling towards him. She had
never expected him to live. And yet he had a great vitality in his young body.
Perhaps it would have been a little relief to her if he had died.
She always felt a mixture of anguish in her love for him.

He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of
the clatter of the iron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud,
thud on the ironing-board. Once roused, he opened his eyes to see
his mother standing on the hearthrug with the hot iron near
her cheek, listening, as it were, to the heat. Her still face,
with the mouth closed tight from suffering and disillusion and
self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, and her blue
eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract with love.
When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life, but as
if she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly,
this feeling about her that she had never had her life's fulfilment:
and his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense of
impotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childish aim.

She spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded,
raced off the dark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed
the iron on the sack lining of the hearthrug vigorously. She was
warm in the ruddy firelight. Paul loved the way she crouched
and put her head on one side. Her movements were light and quick.
It was always a pleasure to watch her. Nothing she ever did,
no movement she ever made, could have been found fault with by
her children. The room was warm and full of the scent of hot linen.
Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her.

Paul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did not
mind much. What happened happened, and it was no good kicking
against the pricks. He loved the evenings, after eight o'clock,
when the light was put out, and he could watch the fire-flames spring
over the darkness of the walls and ceiling; could watch huge shadows
waving and tossing, till the room seemed full of men who battled silently.

On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom.
He was always very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed the
atmosphere for the boy.

"Are ter asleep, my darlin'?" Morel asked softly.

"No; is my mother comin'?"

"She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do you want anything?"
Morel rarely "thee'd" his son.

"I don't want nothing. But how long will she be?"

"Not long, my duckie."

The father waited undecidedly on the hearthrug for a moment
or two. He felt his son did not want him. Then he went to the top
of the stairs and said to his wife:

"This childt's axin' for thee; how long art goin' to be?"

"Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep."

"She says you're to go to sleep," the father repeated gently
to Paul.

"Well, I want HER to come," insisted the boy.

"He says he can't go off till you come," Morel called downstairs.

"Eh, dear! I shan't be long. And do stop shouting downstairs.
There's the other children---"

Then Morel came again and crouched before the bedroom fire.
He loved a fire dearly.

"She says she won't be long," he said.

He loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverish
with irritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate all
his sick impatience. At last Morel, after having stood looking
at his son awhile, said softly:

"Good-night, my darling."

"Good-night," Paul replied, turning round in relief to be alone.

Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect,
in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.
The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from
the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body
and soul completely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept,
and got better; whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on
into a profound sleep that seemed to give her faith.

In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy
horses feeding at the troughs in the field, scattering their hay
on the trodden yellow snow; watch the miners troop home--small,
black figures trailing slowly in gangs across the white field.
Then the night came up in dark blue vapour from the snow.

In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes,
suddenly arriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like swallows,
then were gone, and a drop of water was crawling down the glass.
The snowflakes whirled round the corner of the house,
like pigeons dashing by. Away across the valley the little black
train crawled doubtfully over the great whiteness.

While they were so poor, the children were delighted if they
could do anything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Arthur
went out early in the morning, in summer, looking for mushrooms,
hunting through the wet grass, from which the larks were rising,
for the white-skinned, wonderful naked bodies crouched secretly in
the green. And if they got half a pound they felt exceedingly happy:
there was the joy of finding something, the joy of accepting something
straight from the hand of Nature, and the joy of contributing to
the family exchequer.

But the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty,
was the blackberries. Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings on
the Saturdays; also she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur scoured
the coppices and woods and old quarries, so long as a blackberry
was to be found, every week-end going on their search. In that
region of mining villages blackberries became a comparative rarity.
But Paul hunted far and wide. He loved being out in the country,
among the bushes. But he also could not bear to go home to his
mother empty. That, he felt, would disappoint her, and he would
have died rather.

"Good gracious!" she would exclaim as the lads came in,
late, and tired to death, and hungry, "wherever have you been?"

"Well," replied Paul, "there wasn't any, so we went over
Misk Hills. And look here, our mother!"

She peeped into the basket.

"Now, those are fine ones!" she exclaimed.

"And there's over two pounds-isn't there over two pounds"?

She tried the basket.

"Yes," she answered doubtfully.

Then Paul fished out a little spray. He always brought her
one spray, the best he could find.

"Pretty!" she said, in a curious tone, of a woman accepting
a love-token.

The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than
own himself beaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never
realised this, whilst he was young. She was a woman who waited
for her children to grow up. And William occupied her chiefly.

But when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much at
home, the mother made a companion of Paul. The latter was
unconsciously jealous of his brother, and William was jealous of him.
At the same time, they were good friends.

Mrs. Morel's intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fine,
perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule
that Paul should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers
of the five pits were paid on Fridays, but not individually.
All the earnings of each stall were put down to the chief butty,
as contractor, and he divided the wages again, either in the
public-house or in his own home. So that the children could
fetch the money, school closed early on Friday afternoons.
Each of the Morel children--William, then Annie, then Paul--had fetched
the money on Friday afternoons, until they went themselves to work.
Paul used to set off at half-past three, with a little calico bag
in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, children, and men
were seen trooping to the offices.

These offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building,
almost like a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of
Greenhill Lane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room
paved with blue brick, and having a seat all round, against the wall.
Here sat the colliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early.
The women and children usually loitered about on the red gravel paths.
Paul always examined the grass border, and the big grass bank,
because in it grew tiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There
was a sound of many voices. The women had on their Sunday hats.
The girls chattered loudly. Little dogs ran here and there.
The green shrubs were silent all around.

Then from inside came the cry "Spinney Park--Spinney Park."
All the folk for Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time
for Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room
was quite small. A counter went across, dividing it into half.
Behind the counter stood two men--Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk,
Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite was large, somewhat of the stern
patriarch in appearance, having a rather thin white beard.
He was usually muffled in an enormous silk neckerchief, and right
up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the open grate.
No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the throats
of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom
was rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were
not witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions
against the colliers.

The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had
been home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually
a dog. Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed
behind the legs of the men, near the fire which scorched him.
He knew the order of the names--they went according to stall number.

"Holliday," came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite.
Then Mrs. Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside.

"Bower--John Bower."

A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible,
glowered at him over his spectacles.

"John Bower!" he repeated.

"It's me," said the boy.

"Why, you used to 'ave a different nose than that," said glossy
Mr. Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered,
thinking of John Bower senior.

"How is it your father's not come!" said Mr. Braithwaite,
in a large and magisterial voice.

"He's badly," piped the boy.

"You should tell him to keep off the drink," pronounced the
great cashier.

"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer," said a mocking
voice from behind.

All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked
down at his next sheet.

"Fred Pilkington!" he called, quite indifferent.

Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm.

Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat.
He was pushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning.
But he did not hope to get through the wall of men.

"Walter Morel!" came the ringing voice.

"Here!" piped Paul, small and inadequate.

"Morel--Walter Morel!" the cashier repeated, his finger
and thumb on the invoice, ready to pass on.

Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could
not or would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him.
Then Mr. Winterbottom came to the rescue.

"He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?"

The fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes.
He pointed at the fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside,
and disclosed the boy.

"Here he is!" said Mr. Winterbottom.

Paul went to the counter.

"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don't you
shout up when you're called?" said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged
on to the invoice a five-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate
and pretty movement, picked up a little ten-pound column of gold,
and plumped it beside the silver. The gold slid in a bright stream
over the paper. The cashier finished counting off the money;
the boy dragged the whole down the counter to Mr. Winterbottom,
to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. Here he
suffered again.

"Sixteen an' six," said Mr. Winterbottom.

The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some
loose silver and half a sovereign.

"How much do you think you've given me?" asked Mr. Winterbottom.

The boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the
faintest notion.

"Haven't you got a tongue in your head?"

Paul bit his lip, and pushed forward some more silver.

"Don't they teach you to count at the Board-school?" he asked.

"Nowt but algibbra an' French," said a collier.

"An' cheek an' impidence," said another.

Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he
got his money into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures
of the damned on these occasions.

His relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the
Mansfield Road, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green.
There were some gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple
trees of an orchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream.
The boy went near the wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men,
but could not recognise them in their dirt. And this was a new
torture to him.

When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not
yet come. Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother,
Morel's mother, had been Mrs. Wharmby's friend.

"Your father's not come yet," said the landlady, in the peculiar
half-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly
to grown men. "Sit you down."

Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar.
Some colliers were "reckoning"--sharing out their money--in a corner;
others came in. They all glanced at the boy without speaking.
At last Morel came; brisk, and with something of an air, even in
his blackness.

"Hello!" he said rather tenderly to his son. "Have you bested me?
Shall you have a drink of something?"

Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists,
and he would have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all
the men than in having a tooth drawn.

The landlady looked at him de haut en bas, rather pitying,
and at the same time, resenting his clear, fierce morality.
Paul went home, glowering. He entered the house silently.
Friday was baking day, and there was usually a hot bun. His mother
put it before him.

Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing:

"I'm NOT going to the office any more," he said.

"Why, what's the matter?" his mother asked in surprise.
His sudden rages rather amused her.

"I'm NOT going any more," he declared.

"Oh, very well, tell your father so."

He chewed his bun as if he hated it.

"I'm not--I'm not going to fetch the money."

"Then one of Carlin's children can go; they'd be glad enough
of the sixpence," said Mrs. Morel.

This sixpence was Paul's only income. It mostly went in buying
birthday presents; but it WAS an income, and he treasured it.

"They can have it, then!" he said. "I don't want it."

"Oh, very well," said his mother. "But you needn't bully ME
about it."

"They're hateful, and common, and hateful, they are,
and I'm not going any more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his 'h's', an'
Mr. Winterbottom says 'You was'."

"And is that why you won't go any more?" smiled Mrs. Morel.

The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes
dark and furious. His mother moved
about at her work, taking no notice of him.

"They always stan' in front of me, so's I can't get out,"
he said.

"Well, my lad, you've only to ASK them," she replied.

"An' then Alfred Winterbottom says, 'What do they teach you
at the Board-school?'"

"They never taught HIM much," said Mrs. Morel, "that is a fact--
neither manners nor wit--and his cunning he was born with."

So, in her own way, she soothed him.
His ridiculous hypersensitiveness made her
heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes
roused her, made her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised.

"What was the cheque?" she asked.

"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen
and six stoppages," replied the boy. "It's a good week;
and only five shillings stoppages for my father."

So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned,
and could call him to account if he gave her short money.
Morel always kept to himself the secret of the week's amount.

Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the
rule that Paul should stay at home and bake. He loved to stop
in and draw or read; he was very fond of drawing. Annie always
"gallivanted" on Friday nights; Arthur was enjoying himself as usual.
So the boy remained alone.

Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on
the top of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby,
Ilkeston and Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran
in from surrounding villages. The market-place was full of women,
the streets packed with men. It was amazing to see so many men
everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with
her lace woman, sympathised with her fruit man--who was a gabey,
but his wife was a bad 'un--laughed with the fish man--who was
a scamp but so droll--put the linoleum man in his place, was cold
with the odd-wares man, and only went to the crockery man when she
was driven--or drawn by the cornflowers on a little dish; then she
was coldly polite.

"I wondered how much that little dish was," she said.

"Sevenpence to you."

"Thank you."

She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave
the market-place without it. Again she went by where the pots
lay coldly on the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively,
pretending not to.

She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume.
Her bonnet was in its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie.

"Mother!" the girl implored, "don't wear that nubbly little bonnet."

"Then what else shall I wear," replied the mother tartly.
"And I'm sure it's right enough."

It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was
reduced to black lace and a bit of jet.

"It looks rather come down," said Paul. "Couldn't you give
it a pick-me-up?"

"I'll jowl your head for impudence," said Mrs. Morel, and she
tied the strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin.

She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy,
the pot man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something
between them. Suddenly he shouted:

"Do you want it for fivepence?"

She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took
up her dish.

"I'll have it," she said.

"Yer'll do me the favour, like?" he said. "Yer'd better spit
in it, like yer do when y'ave something give yer."

Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner.

"I don't see you give it me," she said. "You wouldn't let me
have it for fivepence if you didn't want to."

"In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky
if you can give your things away," he growled.

"Yes; there are bad times, and good," said Mrs. Morel.

But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends.
She dare now finger his pots. So she was happy.

Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She
was always her best so--triumphant, tired, laden with parcels,
feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick, light step in the entry
and looked up from his drawing.

"Oh!" she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway.

"My word, you ARE loaded!" he exclaimed, putting down his brush.

"I am!" she gasped. "That brazen Annie said she'd meet me.
SUCH a weight!"

She dropped her string bag and her packages on the table.

"Is the bread done?" she asked, going to the oven.

"The last one is soaking," he replied. "You needn't look,
I've not forgotten it."

"Oh, that pot man!" she said, closing the oven door.
"You know what a wretch I've said he was? Well, I don't think he's
quite so bad."

"Don't you?"

The boy was attentive to her. She took off her little
black bonnet.

"No. I think he can't make any money--well, it's everybody's
cry alike nowadays--and it makes him disagreeable."

"It would ME," said Paul.

"Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have--how much
do you think he let me have THIS for?"

She took the dish out of its rag of newspaper, and stood
looking on it with joy.

"Show me!" said Paul.

The two stood together gloating over the dish.

"I LOVE cornflowers on things," said Paul.

"Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me---"

"One and three," said Paul.


"It's not enough, mother."

"No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd
been extravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't
have let me have it if he hadn't wanted to."

"No, he needn't, need he," said Paul, and the two comforted
each other from the fear of having robbed the pot man.

"We c'n have stewed fruit in it," said Paul.

"Or custard, or a jelly," said his mother.

"Or radishes and lettuce," said he.

"Don't forget that bread," she said, her voice bright with glee.

Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base.

"It's done," he said, giving it to her.

She tapped it also.

"Yes," she replied, going to unpack her bag. "Oh, and I'm
a wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s'll come to want."

He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance.
She unfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots of
pansies and of crimson daisies.

"Four penn'orth!" she moaned.

"How CHEAP!" he cried.

"Yes, but I couldn't afford it THIS week of all weeks."

"But lovely!" he cried.

"Aren't they!" she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy.
"Paul, look at this yellow one, isn't it--and a face just like an
old man!"

"Just!" cried Paul, stooping to sniff. "And smells that nice!
But he's a bit splashed."

He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully
washed the pansy.

"NOW look at him now he's wet!" he said.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction.

The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the
end where the Morels lived there were not many young things.
So the few were more united. Boys and girls played together,
the girls joining in the fights and the rough games, the boys taking
part in the dancing games and rings and make-belief of the girls.

Annie and Paul and Arthur loved the winter evenings,
when it was not wet. They stayed indoors till the colliers
were all gone home, till it was thick dark, and the street would
be deserted. Then they tied their scarves round their necks,
for they scorned overcoats, as all the colliers' children did,
and went out. The entry was very dark, and at the end the whole
great night opened out, in a hollow, with a little tangle of lights
below where Minton pit lay, and another far away opposite for Selby.
The farthest tiny lights seemed to stretch out the darkness for ever.
The children looked anxiously down the road at the one lamp-post,
which stood at the end of the field path. If the little,
luminous space were deserted, the two boys felt genuine desolation.
They stood with their hands in their pockets under the lamp,
turning their backs on the night, quite miserable, watching the
dark houses. Suddenly a pinafore under a short coat was seen,
and a long-legged girl came flying up.

"Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an' Eddie Dakin?"

"I don't know."

But it did not matter so much--there were three now. They set
up a game round the lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling.
Then the play went fast and furious.

There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop
of darkness, as if all the night were there. In front, another wide,
dark way opened over the hill brow. Occasionally somebody came
out of this way and went into the field down the path. In a dozen

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