Sons and Lovers (Version 2) — Chapter I - Part 2 - THE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS

The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then went on with her work, saying nothing.

Gertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born.

Morel was good to her, as good as gold.

But she felt very lonely, miles away from her own people.

She felt lonely with him now, and his presence only made it more intense.

The boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly.

He was a beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes which changed gradually to a clear grey.

His mother loved him passionately.

He came just when her own bitterness of disillusion was hardest to bear; when her faith in life was shaken, and her soul felt dreary and lonely.

She made much of the child, and the father was jealous.

At last Mrs. Morel despised her husband.

She turned to the child; she turned from the father.

He had begun to neglect her; the novelty of his own home was gone.

He had no grit, she said bitterly to herself.

What he felt just at the minute, that was all to him.

He could not abide by anything.

There was nothing at the back of all his show.

There began a battle between the husband and wife--a fearful, bloody battle that ended only with the death of one.

She fought to make him undertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfil his obligations.

But he was too different from her.

His nature was purely sensuous, and she strove to make him moral, religious.

She tried to force him to face things.

He could not endure it--it drove him out of his mind.

While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become so irritable that it was not to be trusted.

The child had only to give a little trouble when the man began to bully.

A little more, and the hard hands of the collier hit the baby.

Then Mrs. Morel loathed her husband, loathed him for days; and he went out and drank; and she cared very little what he did.

Only, on his return, she scathed him with her satire.

The estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly, grossly to offend her where he would not have done.

William was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him, he was so pretty.

She was not well off now, but her sisters kept the boy in clothes.

Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps of hair clustering round his head.

Mrs. Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning, to the chatter of the father and child downstairs.

Then she dozed off.

When she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in the grate, the room was hot, the breakfast was roughly laid, and seated in his armchair, against the chimney-piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing between his legs, the child--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round poll--looking wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out upon the hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a marigold scattered in the reddening firelight.

Mrs. Morel stood still.

It was her first baby.

She went very white, and was unable to speak.

"What dost think o' 'im?"

Morel laughed uneasily.

She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward.

Morel shrank back.

"I could kill you, I could!"

she said.

She choked with rage, her two fists uplifted.

"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im," Morel said, in a frightened tone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers.

His attempt at laughter had vanished.

The mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of her child.

She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head.

"Oh--my boy!"

she faltered.

Her lip trembled, her face broke, and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried painfully.

She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts as it hurts a man.

It was like ripping something out of her, her sobbing.

Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together till the knuckles were white.

He gazed in the fire, feeling almost stunned, as if he could not breathe.

Presently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared away the breakfast-table.

She left the newspaper, littered with curls, spread upon the hearthrug.

At last her husband gathered it up and put it at the back of the fire.

She went about her work with closed mouth, and very quiet.

Morel was subdued.

He crept about wretchedly, and his meals were a misery that day.

She spoke to him civilly, and never alluded to what he had done.

But he felt something final had happened.

Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would have had to be cut, sooner or later.

In the end, she even brought herself to say to her husband it was just as well he had played barber when he did.

But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had caused something momentous to take place in her soul.

She remembered the scene all her life, as one in which she had suffered the most intensely.

This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her love for Morel.

Before, while she had striven against him bitterly, she had fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her.

Now she ceased to fret for his love: he was an outsider to her.

This made life much more bearable.

Nevertheless, she still continued to strive with him.

She still had her high moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans.

It was now a religious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with him, because she loved him, or had loved him.

If he sinned, she tortured him.

If he drank, and lied, was often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she wielded the lash unmercifully.

The pity was, she was too much his opposite.

She could not be content with the little he might be; she would have him the much that he ought to be.

So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be, she destroyed him.

She injured and hurt and scarred herself, but she lost none of her worth.

She also had the children.

He drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners, and always beer, so that whilst his health was affected, it was never injured.

The week-end was his chief carouse.

He sat in the Miners' Arms until turning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday evening.

On Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and reluctantly leave towards ten o'clock.

Sometimes he stayed at home on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, or was only out for an hour.

He practically never had to miss work owing to his drinking.

But although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off.

He was blab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger.

Authority was hateful to him, therefore he could only abuse the pit-managers.

He would say, in the Palmerston: "Th' gaffer come down to our stal this morning, an' 'e says, 'You know, Walter, this 'ere'll not do.

What about these props?'

An' I says to him, 'Why, what art talkin' about?

What d'st mean about th' props?'

'It'll never do, this 'ere,' 'e says.

'You'll be havin' th' roof in, one o' these days.'

An' I says, 'Tha'd better stan' on a bit o' clunch, then, an' hold it up wi' thy 'ead.'

So 'e wor that mad, 'e cossed an' 'e swore, an' t'other chaps they did laugh."

Morel was a good mimic.

He imitated the manager's fat, squeaky voice, with its attempt at good English.

"'I shan't have it, Walter.

Who knows more about it, me or you?'

So I says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred.

It'll 'appen carry thee ter bed an' back.'

" So Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon companions.

And some of this would be true.

The pit-manager was not an educated man.

He had been a boy along with Morel, so that, while the two disliked each other, they more or less took each other for granted.

But Alfred Charlesworth did not forgive the butty these public-house sayings.

Consequently, although Morel was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five pounds a week when he married, he came gradually to have worse and worse stalls, where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and unprofitable.

Also, in summer, the pits are slack.

Often, on bright sunny mornings, the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock.

No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth.

The women on the hillside look across as they shake the hearthrug against the fence, and count the waggons the engine is taking along the line up the valley.

And the children, as they come from school at dinner-time, looking down the fields and seeing the wheels on the headstocks standing, say: "Minton's knocked off.

My dad'll be at home."

And there is a sort of shadow over all, women and children and men, because money will be short at the end of the week.

Morel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week, to provide everything--rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors.

Occasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five.

But these occasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty-five.

In winter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or fifty-five shillings a week.

Then he was happy.

On Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts.

And out of so much, he scarcely spared the children an extra penny or bought them a pound of apples.

It all went in drink.

In the bad times, matters were more worrying, but he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs. Morel used to say: "I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush, there isn't a minute of peace."

If he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from thirty-five he kept five; from thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three;

from twenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one-and-six; from eighteen he kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence.

He never saved a penny, and he gave his wife no opportunity of saving; instead, she had occasionally to pay his debts; not public-house debts, for those never were passed on to the women, but debts when he had bought a canary, or a fancy walking-stick.

At the wakes time, Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel was trying to save against her confinement.

So it galled her bitterly to think he should be out taking his pleasure and spending money, whilst she remained at home, harassed.

There were two days' holiday.

On the Tuesday morning Morel rose early.

He was in good spirits.

Quite early, before six o'clock, she heard him whistling away to himself downstairs.

He had a pleasant way of whistling, lively and musical.

He nearly always whistled hymns.

He had been a choir-boy with a beautiful voice, and had taken solos in Southwell cathedral.

His morning whistling alone betrayed it.

His wife lay listening to him tinkering away in the garden, his whistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away.

It always gave her a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she lay in bed, the children not yet awake, in the bright early morning, happy in his man's fashion.

At nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were sitting playing on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he came in from his carpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat hanging open.

He was still a good-looking man, with black, wavy hair, and a large black moustache.

His face was perhaps too much inflamed, and there was about him a look almost of peevishness.

But now he was jolly.

He went straight to the sink where his wife was washing up.

"What, are thee there!"

he said boisterously.

"Sluther off an' let me wesh mysen."

"You may wait till I've finished," said his wife.

"Oh, mun I?

An' what if I shonna?"

This good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel.

"Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub."

"Ha!

I can an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy."

With which he stood watching her a moment, then went away to wait for her.

When he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant.

Usually he preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck.

Now, however, he made a toilet.

There seemed so much gusto in the way he puffed and swilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity with which he hurried to the mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel.

He put on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat.

As such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his instinct for making the most of his good looks would.

At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal.

Jerry was Morel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him.

He was a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack eyelashes.

He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were on a wooden spring.

His nature was cold and shrewd.

Generous where he intended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or less to take charge of him.

Mrs. Morel hated him.

She had known his wife, who had died of consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislike of her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her hæmorrhage.

None of which Jerry had seemed to mind.

And now his eldest daughter, a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the two younger children.

"A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!"

Mrs. Morel said of him.

"I've never known Jerry mean in _my_ life," protested Morel.

"A opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find anywhere, accordin' to my knowledge."

"Open-handed to you," retorted Mrs. Morel.

"But his fist is shut tight enough to his children, poor things."

"Poor things!

And what for are they poor things, I should like to know?"

But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score.

The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over the scullery curtain.

He caught Mrs. Morel's eye.

"Mornin', missis!

Mester in?"

"Yes--he is."

Jerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway.

He was not invited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of men and husbands.

"A nice day," he said to Mrs. Morel.

"Yes."

"Grand out this morning--grand for a walk."

"Do you mean _you're_ going for a walk?"

she asked.

"Yes.

We mean walkin' to Nottingham," he replied.

"H'm!"

The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, full of assurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in presence of his wife.

But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit.

They were going for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham.

Climbing the hillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the morning.

At the Moon and Stars they had their first drink, then on to the Old Spot.

Then a long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter.

But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whose gallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city, Morel was sleepy.

The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spires and factory bulks and chimneys.

In the last field Morel lay down under an oak-tree and slept soundly for over an hour.

When he arose to go forward he felt queer.

The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing.

Morel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some occult, malevolent power--"the devil's pictures," he called them!

But he was a master of skittles and of dominoes.

He took a challenge from a Newark man, on skittles.

All the men in the old, long bar took sides, betting either one way or the other.

Morel took off his coat.

Jerry held the hat containing the money.

The men at the tables watched.

Some stood with their mugs in their hands.

Morel felt his big wooden ball carefully, then launched it.

He played havoc among the nine-pins, and won half-a-crown, which restored him to solvency.

By seven o'clock the two were in good condition.

They caught the 7. 30 train home.

In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable.

Every inhabitant remaining was out of doors.

The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in white aprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks.

Men, having a rest between drinks, sat on their heels and talked.

The place smelled stale; the slate roofs glistered in the arid heat.

Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, which were not more than two hundred yards away.

The water ran quickly over stones and broken pots.

Mother and child leaned on the rail of the old sheep-bridge, watching.

Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of the meadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round the deep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over the blackish stagnant meadow.

She knew William was at the dipping-hole, and it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned.

Annie played under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called currants.

The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing.

The children were put to bed at seven o'clock.

Then she worked awhile.

When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load off their minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put the finishing touches to a glorious day.

They entered the Nelson with the satisfaction of returned travellers.

The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on the men's spirits.

Most of them, moreover, had spent their money.

Some were already rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow.

Mrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing, went indoors.

Nine o'clock passed, and ten, and still "the pair" had not returned.

On a doorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl, "Lead, kindly Light."

Mrs. Morel was always indignant with drunken men that they must sing that hymn when they got maudlin.

"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough," she said.

The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops.

On the hob a large black saucepan steamed slowly.

Mrs. Morel took a panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom, and, then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor.

Just then Morel came in.

He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but coming home had grown irritable.

He had not quite got over the feeling of irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he was so hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house.

He did not know he was angry.

But when the garden gate resisted his attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch.

He entered just as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan.

Swaying slightly, he lurched against the table.

The boiling liquor pitched.

Mrs. Morel started back.

"Good gracious," she cried, "coming home in his drunkenness!"

"Comin' home in his what?"

he snarled, his hat over his eye.

Suddenly her blood rose in a jet.

"Say you're _not_ drunk!"

she flashed.

She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into the beer.

He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his face forward at her.

"'Say you're not drunk,'" he repeated.

"Why, nobody but a nasty little bitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought."

He thrust his face forward at her.

"There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else."

"I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day," he said.

"You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing," she replied.

"And," she cried, flashing into sudden fury, "if you've been sponging on your beloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it."

"It's a lie, it's a lie.

Shut your face, woman."

They were now at battle-pitch.

Each forgot everything save the hatred of the other and the battle between them.

She was fiery and furious as he.

They went on till he called her a liar.

"No," she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe.

"Don't call me that--you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather."

She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs.

"You're a liar!"

he yelled, banging the table with his fist.

"You're a liar, you're a liar."

She stiffened herself, with clenched fists.

"The house is filthy with you," she cried.

"Then get out on it--it's mine.

Get out on it!"

he shouted.

"It's me as brings th' money whoam, not thee.

It's my house, not thine.

Then ger out on't--ger out on't!"

"And I would," she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence.

"Ah, wouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those children.

Ay, haven't I repented not going years ago, when I'd only the one"--suddenly drying into rage.

"Do you think it's for _you_ I stop--do you think I'd stop one minute for _you_?"

"Go, then," he shouted, beside himself.

"Go!"

"No!"

she faced round.