她对丈夫没说什么，但她对他的态度变了，她那高傲、正直的心灵，变得冷如寒冰，硬似磐石。
转眼到了十月，她一心想着圣诞节。两年前的圣诞节，她遇见了他，去年圣诞节，她嫁给了他，今年圣诞节她将给他生孩子。
“你不去跳舞吗，太太？”她隔壁的一个邻居问她。十月里，在贝斯伍德“砖瓦酒店”里大家议论纷纷，说要举办一个舞蹈班。
“不，我从来没有想跳舞的欲望。”莫瑞尔太太回答。
“真怪！你嫁 给你丈夫可真有意思。你知道他是一个非常有名的舞棍。”
“我可不知道他这么有名。”莫瑞尔太太笑着回答。
“嗬，他才有名呢！(呕欠)，他主持矿工俱乐部的跳舞班都有五年多了。”
“是么？”“是的。”另一名妇女也带着蔑视的神情说，“那儿每星期二、四、六都挤满了人，据说还有丑态百出的事。”
莫瑞尔太太对这类事情又气又恨，女人们卿卿喳喳地伤害她，因为她不愿入乡随俗。其实她并不想这样，天性使然。
他开始很晚才回家。
“他们现在下班很晚吗？”她问洗衣女工。
“不比往常晚。他们在艾伦酒店喝酒聊天，就这么回事！晚饭都凉了——他们活该！”
“但是莫瑞尔先生已经戒酒了。”
这位女工放下衣服，看看莫瑞尔太太，然后一言不发地继续干她的活。
格特鲁德·莫瑞尔生儿子时病得很厉害，莫瑞尔对她体贴入微。不过她还是觉得远离娘家，备感孤独。现在，即使和他在一起依然寂寞，甚至，他的出现只能让她更寂寞。
儿子刚出生时又小又弱，但长得很快。他是个漂亮的孩子，金黄色的卷发，一双深蓝浅灰相间的眼睛，母亲深爱着他。在她幻想破灭，伤心欲绝，对生活的信念开始动摇，灵魂寂寞而孤独时，他来到世上。所以，她对儿子倾注了所有的热情，连做父亲的都妒嫉了。
莫瑞尔夫人终于看不起她的丈夫了。她的心从父亲身上转到儿子身上。他开始忽视她，小家庭的新奇感也早已消失。她伤心地暗自数落着丈夫，他没有毅力，缺乏恒心，凡事只求一时痛快，金玉其外，败絮其中。
一场可怕、残忍，你死我活的斗争开始在夫妻之间展开。她努力迫使他明白自己的责任，履行自己的义务。尽管他跟她天性殊异，他只注重纯感官上的享受，她却硬要他讲道德，信宗教。她努力让他面对现实，他受不了——这简直让他发疯。
孩子还很小的时候，父亲的脾气就变得急躁易怒，令人难以信赖。孩子稍微有一点吵闹声，他就蛮横地吓唬 他，再敢闹，那双矿工的拳头就朝孩子身上打去。然后，莫瑞尔太太就一连几天生丈夫的气。 他呢，就出去喝酒。她对他干些什么漠不关心，只是，等他回家时，就讽刺奚落他。
他们之间感情的疏远，使他有意无意地粗鲁地冒犯她，而以前他却不是这样。
威廉刚一岁时，就很漂亮，做母亲的为此而自豪。她那时生活困难，她的姐妹们包了孩子的衣服。儿子满头卷发，身着白衣，头戴白帽，帽子上还饰有一根驼鸟羽毛。母亲满心欢喜。一个星期天的早晨，莫瑞尔太太躺在床上听见父子俩在楼下闲聊。不一会，她睡着了。当她下楼时，炉火旺盛，屋里很热，早餐乱七八糟地摆着，莫瑞尔坐在靠壁炉的扶手椅上，有点怯懦，夹在他两腿中间的孩子——头发理得像刚剪了毛的羊一样难看——正莫名其妙地看着她。炉边地毯上铺着一张报纸，上面堆着一堆月牙形的卷发，红红的火光一照，像金盏草的花瓣一样。
莫瑞尔太太一动不动地站着，这哪儿像她的长子。她脸色苍白，话也说不出来。
“剃得怎样？”莫瑞尔尴尬地笑着。
她举起紧握的双拳，走上前来，莫瑞尔往后退了退。
“我想杀了你！”她高举双拳喊着，气得说不出话来。
“你不想把他打扮成女孩子吧！”莫瑞尔低着头，逃避她的眼神，胆怯地说，脸上努力挤出的一丝笑意消失了。
母亲低头看着儿子那长短不齐的秃头，伸出手疼爱地抚摸着他。
“(呕欠)，我的孩子！”她颤声说，嘴唇发抖脸色变了，她一把抱住孩子，把脸埋在孩子的肩上痛苦地哭了。她是个不轻易掉泪的女人，哭对她的伤害不亚于对男人的伤害。她撕裂肺腑般地哭泣着。莫瑞尔双肘支在膝盖上坐着，紧握双手，指关节都发白了。他呆呆地盯着火，好象被人打了一棒，连呼吸都不敢呼吸。
一会儿，她哭完了，哄住孩子，收拾了饭桌，她没管那张撒满卷发的、摊在炉边地毯上的报纸。最后，她的丈夫把报纸收拾起来，放在炉子后面。她闭着嘴默默地干她的活。莫瑞尔服服贴贴，整天垂头丧气，不思茶饭。她对他说话容客气气，从不提他干的那件事，但他觉得他俩的感情彻底破裂了。
过后，她觉得当时她太傻了，孩子的头发迟早都得剪。最后，她竟然对丈夫说他剪头发就像理发师似的。不过她明白，莫瑞尔也清楚这件事在她灵魂深处产生的重大影响，她一生都不会忘记那个场面，这是让她感到最痛苦的一件事。
男人的这个鲁莽行为好象一杆矛一样刺破了她对莫瑞尔的爱心。以前，她苦苦地跟他争吵，为他的离心离德而烦恼。现在她不再为他的爱烦恼了，他对她来说是个局外人，这样反而使她容易忍受一些。
然而，她仍然跟他不懈地争执着。她继承了世世代代清教徒的高尚和道德感。这已经成为一种宗教本能。她因为爱他，或者 说爱过他，在和他相处时她几乎成了一个狂热的信徒。如果他有过失。她就折磨他；如果他喝醉了或说了谎，她就毫不客气地骂他是懒汉，骂他是恶棍。
遗憾的是，她和他水火不容。她对他所做的一切都不能满意，她认为他应该做的更多更好。她竭力要他成为一个高尚的人，这个要求超越他所能及的水平，因此，反而毁了他，也伤害了自己。但她没有放弃自己的价值标准，孩子敬爱她。
他喝酒虽然很凶，但比不上其他矿工厉害，而且总是喝啤酒。尽管对健康有一定的影响，但没有多大的伤害。周末是他举杯畅饮的时候。每逢星期五、星期六、星期天晚上，他都在矿工酒馆坐到关门。星期一和星期二他不得不在10点左右极不情愿地离开酒馆。星期三、星期四晚上，他呆在家里，或只出去一个小时。实际上，他从来没有因为喝酒而误了工作。
尽管他工作踏实，但他的工资却不增反降。因为他多嘴多舌，爱说闲话，目无上级，谩骂矿井工头。他在帕马斯顿酒会上说：“工头今天早晨下到我们坑道里来了，他说：‘你知道，沃尔特，这不行，这些支柱是怎么回事？’‘这样决不行，’他说，‘总有一天会冒顶的。’我说：‘那你最好站在土堆上，用你的脑袋把它顶起来吧。’他气疯了，不停地骂人，别的人都大笑起来。”莫瑞尔很善于模仿，他努力用标标准准的英语模仿工头的短促刺耳的声音。
“我不能容忍这些的，沃尔特。我俩谁更在行？”我说：“我从未发现你懂得很多，艾弗德，还不如哄着你上床呢！”
莫瑞尔口若悬河地说着，酒友们兴高彩烈。不过他的话也是真实，这个矿井工头是一位没受过教育的人，曾是和莫瑞尔一类的人，因此，尽管两个人素不相和，但或多或少能容忍一些。不过，艾弗德·查尔斯沃斯对莫瑞尔在酒店中嘲笑自己，一直耿耿于怀。因此，尽管莫瑞尔是一个很能吃苦的矿工，他结婚那时，一星期还能挣5英镑，可现在他被分派到更杂更贫的矿井里，那里煤层很薄，而且难采，所以无法赚钱。
而且，夏天，矿井生意处于谈季。男人们常常在10点、11点、12点就排着队回家了，这时太阳还正高呢，没有空卡车停在矿井口等着装煤。山坡上的妇女们在篱笆旁一边拍打着地毯一边朝这儿张望，数着火车头拖进山谷的车皮有多少。孩子们，放学回家往下望见煤田上吊车轮子停着，就说：“敏顿关门了，我爸爸回家了。”
似乎有一种阴影笼罩着妇女、小孩和男人，因为这个星期末又缺钱花了。
莫瑞尔本应该每星期给他的妻子30先令，来支付各种东西——房租、食物、衣服、俱乐部会费、保险费、医疗费等等，偶尔，如果他比较宽裕，他就给她35先令。但是，这种情形远不及他给她25先令的次数多。冬天，在煤多的矿井里，他每星期就能挣50或55先令。这时他就高兴极了，星期五、六和星期天， 他会像贵族一样大大方方地花掉一个金镑左右。尽管这样，他很少多给孩子们分一个便士或给他们买一镑苹果，钱都用来喝酒了。在煤矿疲软的时候，生活艰难，但他倒不会经常地喝醉，因此莫瑞尔太太常说：
“我说不准我是不是宁愿钱少点，他稍微宽裕一点，就没有一刻的安宁了。”
如果他挣了40先令，就会留10先令，挣35就留5，挣32就留4，挣28就留3，挣24就留2，挣20先令就留1先令6便士，挣18先令就留1先令，挣16就留6便士。他从来没存过1便士，也不给妻子存钱的机会，相反，她偶尔还替他还帐，不是酒帐，因为那种帐从不让女人还，而是那些买了一只金丝雀或一根奇特的手杖而欠的帐。
节日期间，莫瑞尔入不敷出，莫瑞尔太太因为要坐月子，尽量地省钱。她一想到他在外面寻欢作乐，挥霍无度，而她却呆在家里发愁，便备觉凄凉。节日有两天。星期二早晨莫瑞尔起得很早，他兴致很高。六点以前，她就听到他吹着哨下楼去了。他吹得非常流畅，活泼而动听。他吹的几乎都是圣曲。他曾是唱诗班一员，嗓音纯正，还在萨斯威大教堂独唱过。他早晨的口哨声就显示出他的功夫。
妻子躺在床上，听着他在花园里叮当叮当，口哨声伴随 他锯锯锤锤声。在晴朗的早晨，孩子们还在梦乡，听他那男子汉的快乐声，她躲在床上，体验到一种温暖、安宁的感觉。
九点钟，孩子们光腿赤脚地坐在沙发上玩，母亲在厨房里洗洗涮涮。他拿着工具走进来，袖子卷得高高的，背心往上翻着。他仍然是一个英俊的男人，黑色波浪式卷发，黑黑的大胡子。他的脸也许太红了，这使他看上去有点暴躁。但是此刻他兴致勃勃，他径直走到妻子洗涮的水槽边。
“啊，你在这儿！”他兴高彩烈地说，“走开，让我洗澡。”
“你应该等我洗完。”妻子说。
“(呕欠)，要我等？如果我不呢？”
这种幽默的恐吓逗乐了莫瑞尔太太。
“那你就去洗澡盆里洗吧。”
“哈，行，你这个烦人的家伙。”
然后，他站在那里看了她一阵子才走开。
他用心收拾一下，还是英俊潇洒的男子。通常他喜欢在脖子上围一块围巾出去，可是现在，他得好好洗一下。他哗哗啦啦地洗脸，擤鼻子，又火急火燎地去厨房照照镜子。镜子太低，他弯下腰，仔细地分他那又黑又湿的头发，这情景激怒了莫瑞尔太太。他身穿翻领衬衫，打上黑领结，外面套上他的燕尾礼服，看起来风度潇洒，而且他那爱显示自己英俊潇洒的本能掩饰了他衣着的寒碜。
九点半时，杰里·帕迪来叫他的同伴。杰里是莫瑞尔的知心朋友，但莫瑞尔太太不喜欢他。他又瘦又高，一张狐狸般奸诈的脸，一双仿佛没长眼睫毛的眼睛。他走起路来昂首挺胸，很有气魄，好象脑袋安在一根木头般僵硬的弹簧上。他也挺大方的，他似乎很喜欢莫瑞尔，并且或多或少地有点照顾他。
莫瑞尔太太恨他。她认识他那个死于肺病的妻子，在她离开人世时也对她的丈夫恨透了。他一进屋子就气得她吐血，杰里对这些似乎都漠不关心。如今，15岁的大女儿照料着这个贫穷的家，照看着两个弟妹。
“一个吝啬、没心肝的家伙！”莫瑞尔太太说他。
“ 我一辈子都没发现杰里小气，”莫瑞尔反驳，“据 我所知，你在哪儿都找不到一个比 他更大方的人了。”
“对你大方，”莫瑞尔太太回答，“可他对他那几个可怜的孩子，就手攥得紧紧的。”
“可怜的孩子！我不知道，他们怎么可怜啦？”
但是，莫瑞尔太太一提到杰里就不能平静。
被议论的这个人，忽然 把他的细脖子从洗涤间窗帘外伸进来，看了看莫瑞尔太太。
“早上好，太太。先生在家吗？”
“嗯——在家。”
杰里径自走进来，站在厨房门口。 没有人让他坐，只好站在那里，表现出一副男子汉大丈夫特有的冷静。
“天色不错。”他对莫瑞尔太太说。
“嗯。”
“早晨外面真好，散散步。”
“你们要去散步吗？”她问。
“对，我们打算散步去诺丁汉。”他回答道。
“嗯，”
两个男子互相招呼着，都很高兴。杰里是洋洋自得，莫瑞尔却很一副自我抑制的神情，害怕在妻子面前显示出喜气洋洋的样子。但是，他精神抖擞迅速地系着靴子。他们将步行十里路，穿过田野去诺丁汉。他们从河川区爬上山坡，兴趣盎然地在朝阳下前进。在星月酒馆 他们干了第一杯酒，然后又到“老地点”酒馆。接着 他们准备滴酒不沾步行五里到布尔维尔，再美美喝上一品脱。但是，在途经田野休息时，遇到几个晒干草的人，带着满满一加仑酒。于是，等他们看到布尔维尔城时，莫瑞尔已经渴得昏昏欲睡了。城市出现在他们眼前，正午的阳光下，朦朦胧胧仿佛笼罩了层烟雾。在它往南方的山脊上，到处是房屋的尖顶和大片的工厂和林立的烟囱。在最后一片田地里，莫瑞尔躺倒在一棵棕树下，打着呼噜睡了一个多小时。当他爬起来准备继续赶路时，感觉到头脑昏昏沉沉的。
他们两个和杰里的姐姐在草场饭店用 过餐后，去了“碰池波尔”酒馆，那里热闹非凡，人们正在玩“飞鸽”游戏，他们也跟着玩。莫瑞尔认为牌有股邪气，称它是“恶魔照片”，因此他从不玩牌。不过，他可是玩九柱戏和多米诺骨牌的好手。他接受了一个从纽沃克来人赌九柱戏的挑战；所有在这个长方形酒馆里的人全下了注，分成了两方。莫瑞尔脱去上衣，杰里手里拿着装钱的帽子。其他人都在桌子旁观看，有些手里拿着酒杯站着。莫瑞尔小心地摸了一下他的大木球，然后掷了出来。九根柱子倒了，他赢到半克朗，又有钱付债了。
到了晚上7点，这两人才心满意足地踏上了七点半回家的火车。
下午，河川街真是难以忍受。每个人都呆在家门外。女人们不戴头巾，系着围裙，三两成群地在两排房子中间的小径上聊天。男人们蹲在地上谈论着，准备休息一会再喝。这地方空气污浊，石屋顶被晒得发光。
莫瑞尔太太领着小女儿来到离家不过二百英尺的草地上。走近小溪边，溪水在石头和破罐上飞流而过。母亲和孩子斜靠在古老的羊桥的栏杆上眺望着。莫瑞尔太太看见，在草地的另一边的一个小坑里，几个没穿衣服的男孩子在溪水边奔跑。她知道威廉也在这里，她担心威廉会掉进水里淹死。安妮在高高的旧村篱下玩耍，捡着她称之为葡萄干的枪果子。这个孩子更需要注意，而且苍蝇在嗡嗡叫着戏弄人。
She said very little to her husband, but her manner hadchanged towards him. Something in her proud, honourable soulhad crystallised out hard as rock.
When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago,at Christmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This Christmas she would bear him a child.
"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?" asked hernearest neighbour, in October, when there was great talkof opening a dancing-class over the Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood.
"No--I never had the least inclination to," Mrs. Morel replied.
"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You know he's quite a famous one for dancing."
"I didn't know he was famous," laughed Mrs. Morel.
"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners'Arms club-room for over five year."
"Did he?"
"Yes, he did." The other woman was defiant. "An' it wasthronged every Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAScarryin's-on, accordin' to all accounts."
This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel,and she had a fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first;for she was superior, though she could not help it.
He began to be rather late in coming home.
"They're working very late now, aren't they?" she said to herwasher-woman.
"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop tohave their pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner stone cold--an' it serves 'em right."
"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink."
The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then wenton 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-blueeyes which changed gradually to a clear grey. His mother lovedhim passionately. He came just when her own bitterness ofdisillusion 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 tothe 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 saidbitterly 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 backof 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 foughtto make him undertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfillhis obligations. But he was too different from her. His naturewas purely sensuous, and she strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face things. He could not endure it--itdrove him out of his mind.
While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had becomeso irritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only togive a little trouble when the man began to bully. A little more,and the hard hands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morelloathed 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 keptthe boy in clothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with anostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twiningwisps 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 glowedin 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--croppedlike a sheep, with such an odd round poll--looking wondering at her;and on a newspaper spread out upon the hearthrug, a myriad ofcrescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a marigold scattered in thereddening firelight.
Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She wentvery 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 afrightened 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 ofher child. She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondledhis head.
"Oh--my boy!" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke,and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulderand cried painfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry;whom it hurts as it hurts a man. It was like ripping somethingout of her, her sobbing.
Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands grippedtogether 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 awaythe breakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls,spread upon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and putit at the back of the fire. She went about her work with closedmouth 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 finalhad happened.
Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hairwould have had to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she evenbrought herself to say to her husband it was just as well he hadplayed barber when he did. But she knew, and Morel knew, that thatact had caused something momentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all her life, as one in which she hadsuffered the most intensely.
This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side ofher 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 stillhad her high moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now a religious instinct, and she was almost a fanaticwith 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 becontent with the little he might be; she would have him the much thathe 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 wasnever injured. The week-end was his chief carouse. He sat inthe Miners' Arms until turning-out time every Friday, every Saturday,and every Sunday evening. On Monday and Tuesday he had to get upand reluctantly leave towards ten o'clock. Sometimes he stayed at homeon 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 stall 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'stmean 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 imitatedthe 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 aneducated man. He had been a boy along with Morel, so that,while the two disliked each other, they more or less took eachother for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth did not forgivethe butty these public-house sayings. Consequently, although Morelwas a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five pounds a weekwhen 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 sunnymornings, the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelveo'clock. No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on thehillside look across as they shake the hearthrug against the fence,and count the wagons the engine is taking along the line up the valley. And the children, as they come from school at dinner-time, lookingdown 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 childrenand 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. Butthese occasions by no means balanced those when he gave hertwenty-five. In winter, with a decent stall, the miner mightearn fifty or fifty-five shillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, he spent royally, getting ridof his sovereign or thereabouts. And out of so much, he scarcelyspared 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 hekept 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 opportunityof 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 outtaking his pleasure and spending money, whilst she remainedat home, harassed. There were two days' holiday. On the Tuesdaymorning 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 witha 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 alwaysgave her a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she layin 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 feetwere sitting playing on the sofa, and the mother was washing up,he came in from his carpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoathanging open. He was still a good-looking man, with black,wavy hair, and a large black moustache. His face was perhaps toomuch inflamed, and there was about him a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straight to the sink where his wifewas washing up.
"What, are thee there!" he said boisterously. "Sluthe 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 awayto 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 wayhe puffed and swilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity withwhich he hurried to the mirror in the kitchen, and, bending becauseit 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 lookedspruce, and what his clothes would not do, his instinct for makingthe 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 kindof face that seems to lack eyelashes. He walked with a stiff,brittle dignity, as if his head were on a wooden spring. His naturewas cold and shrewd. Generous where he intended to be generous,he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or less to take chargeof him.
Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had diedof consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violentdislike of her husband, that if he came into her room it causedher haemorrhage. None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And nowhis 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 fistis shut tight enough to his children, poor things."
"Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I shouldlike to know."
But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score.
The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neckover 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 assertingthe 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 inpresence 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 intothe 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 carrythem into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter. But they stayedin a field with some haymakers whose gallon bottle was full, so that,when they came in sight of the city, Morel was sleepy. The townspread upwards before them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare,fridging the crest away to the south with spires and factory bulksand chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under an oak treeand slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go forward hefelt queer.
The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister,then repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitementof pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played cards, considering themas 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 inthe 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 intheir 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 caughtthe 7.30 train home.
In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitantremaining 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 ranquickly over stones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned onthe rail of the old sheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole,at the other end of the meadow, Mrs. Morel could see the nakedforms of boys flashing round the deep yellow water,or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over the blackishstagnant 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.
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