Sons and Lovers (Version 2) — Chapter II - Part 2 - THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE
The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes.
He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward, his mouth very red in his black face.
"Mr. Heaton," he said, "a man as has been down the black hole all day, dingin' away at a coal face, yi, a sight harder than that wall----" "Needn't make a moan of it," put in Mrs. Morel.
She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, he whined and played for sympathy.
William, sitting nursing the baby, hated him, with a boy's hatred for false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment of his mother.
Annie had never liked him; she merely avoided him.
When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth.
"A fine mess!"
she said.
"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha's got a parson for tea wi' thee?"
he bawled.
They were both angry, but she said nothing.
The baby began to cry, and Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked Annie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel to shout at her.
In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the big glazed text over the mantelpiece and read distinctly: "God Bless Our Home!"
Whereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up, rushed at him, boxed his ears, saying: "What are _you_ putting in for?"
And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her cheeks, while William kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and Morel growled: "I canna see what there is so much to laugh at."
One evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unable to bear herself after another display from her husband, she took Annie and the baby and went out.
Morel had kicked William, and the mother would never forgive him.
She went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of the meadow to the cricket-ground.
The meadows seemed one space of ripe, evening light, whispering with the distant mill-race.
She sat on a seat under the alders in the cricket-ground, and fronted the evening.
Before her, level and solid, spread the big green cricket-field like the bed of a sea of light.
Children played in the bluish shadow of the pavilion.
Many rooks, high up, came cawing home across the softly woven sky.
They stooped in a long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling, like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree-clump that made a dark boss among the pasture.
A few gentlemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear the chock of the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused; could see the white forms of men shifting silently over the green, upon which already the under shadows were smouldering.
Away at the grange, one side of the haystacks was lit up, the other sides blue-grey.
A waggon of sheaves rocked small across the melting yellow light.
The sun was going down.
Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset.
Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the bell cast flawless blue.
The mountain-ash berries across the field stood fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment.
A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps her son would be a Joseph.
In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west's scarlet.
The big haystacks on the hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold.
With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself.
Now and again, a swallow cut close to her.
Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants.
The baby was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the light.
Mrs. Morel looked down at him.
She had dreaded this baby like a catastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband.
And now she felt strangely towards the infant.
Her heart was heavy because of the child, almost as if it were unhealthy, or malformed.
Yet it seemed quite well.
But she noticed the peculiar knitting of the baby's brows, and the peculiar heaviness of its eyes, as if it were trying to understand something that was pain.
She felt, when she looked at the child's dark, brooding pupils, as if a burden were on her heart.
"He looks as if he was thinking about something--quite sorrowful," said Mrs. Kirk.
Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart melted into passionate grief.
She bowed over him, and a few tears shook swiftly out of her very heart.
The baby lifted his fingers.
"My lamb!"
she cried softly.
And at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul, that she and her husband were guilty.
The baby was looking up at her.
It had blue eyes like her own, but its look was heavy, steady, as if it had realized something that had stunned some point of its soul.
In her arms lay the delicate baby.
Its deep blue eyes, always looking up at her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her.
She no longer loved her husband; she had not wanted this child to come, and there it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart.
She felt as if the navel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had not been broken.
A wave of hot love went over her to the infant.
She held it close to her face and breast.
With all her force, with all her soul she would make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved.
She would love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love.
Its clear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear.
Did it know all about her?
When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then?
Was there a reproach in the look?
She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with fear and pain.
Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hill opposite.
She suddenly held up the child in her hands.
"Look!"
she said.
"Look, my pretty!"
She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, almost with relief.
She saw him lift his little fist.
Then she put him to her bosom again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence he came.
"If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will become of him--what will he be?"
Her heart was anxious.
"I will call him 'Paul,'" she said suddenly; she knew not why.
After a while she went home.
A fine shadow was flung over the deep green meadow, darkening all.
As she expected, she found the house empty.
But Morel was home by ten o'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.
Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable.
His work seemed to exhaust him.
When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody.
If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about his dinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that made their mother's blood boil, and made them hate him.
On the Saturday, he was not home by eleven o'clock.
The baby was unwell, and was restless, crying if he were put down.
Mrs. Morel, tired to death, and still weak, was scarcely under control.
"I wish the nuisance would come," she said wearily to herself.
The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms.
She was too tired to carry him to the cradle.
"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes," she said.
"It only works me up; I won't say anything.
But I know if he does anything it'll make my blood boil," she added to herself.
She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could not bear.
He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk.
She kept her head bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him.
But it went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurched against the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at the white pot knobs for support.
He hung up his hat and coat, then returned, stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child.
"Is there nothing to eat in the house?"
he asked, insolently, as if to a servant.
In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the clipped, mincing speech of the towns.
Mrs. Morel hated him most in this condition.
"You know what there is in the house," she said, so coldly, it sounded impersonal.
He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle.
"I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer," he said affectedly.
"And you got it," she said, still ignoring him.
He glowered again.
Then he came unsteadily forward.
He leaned on the table with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer to get a knife to cut bread.
The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways.
In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons, forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and a clang upon the brick floor.
The baby gave a little convulsed start.
"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?"
the mother cried.
"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen.
Tha should get up, like other women have to, an' wait on a man."
"Wait on you--wait on you?"
she cried.
"Yes, I see myself."
"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to.
Wait on _me_, yes, tha sh'lt wait on me----" "Never, milord.
I'd wait on a dog at the door first."
"What--what?"
He was trying to fit in the drawer.
At her last speech he turned round.
His face was crimson, his eyes blood-shot.
He stared at her one silent second in threat.
"P-h!"
she went quickly, in contempt.
He jerked at the drawer in his excitement.
It fell, cut sharply on his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.
One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed into the fireplace.
She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair.
To her very soul she was sick; she clasped the child tightly to her bosom.
A few moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she brought herself to.
The baby was crying plaintively.
Her left brow was bleeding rather profusely.
As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, some drops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was at least not hurt.
She balanced her head to keep equilibrium, so that the blood ran into her eye.
Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table with one hand, looking blank.
When he was sufficiently sure of his balance, he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of her rocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then, leaning forward over her, and swaying as he spoke, he said, in 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 thought, 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 make 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.
