The
Casting Off Of Morel--The Taking On Of William
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!"
"Yes."
"I don't approve of the
girls my son meets at dances. And he is NOT at home."
Then he came home angry with
his mother for having turned the girl away so rudely. He was a careless,
yet eager-looking fellow, who walked with long strides, sometimes frowning,
often with his cap pushed jollily to the back of his head. Now he came in
frowning. He threw his cap on to the sofa, and took his strong jaw in his
hand, and glared down at his mother. She was small, with her hair taken
straight back from her forehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and
yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly.
"Did a lady call for me
yesterday, mother?" he asked.
"I don't know about a
lady. There was a girl came." "And why didn't you tell
me?"
"Because I forgot,
simply."
He fumed a little.
"A good-looking
girl--seemed a lady?"
"I didn't look at
her."
"Big brown eyes?"
"I did NOT look.
And tell your girls, my son, that when they're running after you, they're not
to come and ask your mother for you. Tell them that--brazen baggages you
meet at dancing-classes."
"I'm sure she was a nice
girl."
"And I'm sure she
wasn't."
There ended the
altercation. Over the dancing there was a great strife between the mother
and the son. The grievance reached its height when William said he was
going to Hucknall Torkard--considered a low town--to a fancy-dress ball.
He was to be a Highlander. There was a dress he could hire, which one of his
friends had had, and which fitted him perfectly. The Highland
suit came home. Mrs. Morel received it coldly and would not unpack it.
"My suit come?"
cried William.
"There's a parcel in the
front room."
He rushed in and cut the
string.
"How do you fancy your
son in this!" he said, enraptured, showing her the suit.
"You know I don't want
to fancy you in it."
On the evening of the dance,
when he had come home to dress, Mrs. Morel put on her coat and bonnet.
"Aren't you going to
stop and see me, mother?" he asked.
"No; I don't want to see
you," she replied.
She was rather pale, and her
face was closed and hard. She was afraid of her son's going the same way
as his father. He hesitated a moment, and his heart stood still with
anxiety. Then he caught sight of the Highland
bonnet with its ribbons. He picked it up gleefully, forgetting her.
She went out.
When he was nineteen he
suddenly left the Co-op. office and got a situation in Nottingham.
In his new place he had thirty shillings a week instead of eighteen. This
was indeed a rise. His mother and his father were brimmed up with
pride. Everybody praised William. It seemed he was going to get on
rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his aid, to help her younger sons.
Annie was now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also very clever, was
getting on well, having lessons in French and German from his godfather, the
clergyman who was still a friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and very
good-looking boy, was at the Board school, but there was talk of his trying to
get a scholarship for the High School in Nottingham.
William remained a year at
his new post in Nottingham. He was
studying hard, and growing serious. Something seemed to be fretting
him. Still he went out to the dances and the river parties. He did
not drink. The children were all rabid teetotallers. He came home
very late at night, and sat yet longer studying. His mother implored him
to take more care, to do one thing or another.
"Dance, if you want to
dance, my son; but don't think you can work in the office, and then amuse
yourself, and THEN study on top of all. You can't; the human frame won't
stand it. Do one thing or the other--amuse yourself or learn Latin; but
don't try to do both."
Then he got a place in London, at a hundred and
twenty a year. This seemed a fabulous sum. His mother doubted
almost whether to rejoice or to grieve.
"They want me in Lime Street on
Monday week, mother," he cried, his eyes blazing as he read the
letter. Mrs. Morel felt everything go silent inside her. He read
the letter: "'And will you reply by Thursday whether you
accept. Yours faithfully---' They want me, mother, at a hundred and
twenty a year, and don't even ask to see me. Didn't I tell you I could do
it! Think of me in London!
And I can give you twenty pounds a year, mater. We s'll all be rolling in
money."
"We shall, my son,"
she answered sadly.
It never occurred to him that
she might be more hurt at his going away than glad of his success. Indeed,
as the days drew near for his departure, her heart began to close and grow
dreary with despair. She loved him so much! More than that, she
hoped in him so much. Almost she lived by him. She liked to do
things for him: she liked to put a cup for his tea and to iron his
collars, of which he was so proud. It was a joy to her to have him proud
of his collars. There was no laundry. So she used to rub away at
them with her little convex iron, to polish them, till they shone from the sheer
pressure of her arm. Now she would not do it for him. Now he was
going away. She felt almost as if he were going as well out of her
heart. He did not seem to leave her inhabited with himself. That
was the grief and the pain to her. He took nearly all himself away.
A few days before his
departure--he was just twenty--he burned his love-letters. They had hung on a
file at the top of the kitchen cupboard. From some of them he had read
extracts to his mother. Some of them she had taken the trouble to read herself.
But most were too trivial.
Now, on the Saturday morning
he said:
"Come on, Postle, let's
go through my letters, and you can have the birds and flowers."
Mrs. Morel had done her
Saturday's work on the Friday, because he was having a last day's
holiday. She was making him a rice cake, which he loved, to take with
him. He was scarcely conscious that she was so miserable.
He took the first letter off
the file. It was mauve-tinted, and had purple and green thistles.
William sniffed the page.
"Nice scent!
Smell."
And he thrust the sheet under
Paul's nose.
"Um!" said Paul,
breathing in. "What d'you call it? Smell, mother."
His mother ducked her small,
fine nose down to the paper.
"I don't want to smell
their rubbish," she said, sniffing.
"This girl's
father," said William, "is as rich as Croesus. He owns property
without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French. 'You
will see, I've forgiven you'--I like HER forgiving me. 'I told mother about
you this morning, and she will have much pleasure if you come to tea on Sunday,
but she will have to get father's consent also. I sincerely hope he will
agree. I will let you know how it transpires. If, however,
you---'"
"'Let you know how it'
what?" interrupted Mrs. Morel.
"'Transpires'--oh
yes!"
"'Transpires!'"
repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. "I thought she was so well
educated!"
William felt slightly
uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving Paul the corner with the
thistles. He continued to read extracts from his letters, some of which
amused his mother, some of which saddened her and made her anxious for him.
"My lad," she said,
"they're very wise. They know they've only got to flatter your
vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched."
"Well, they can't go on
scratching for ever," he replied. "And when they've done, I
trot away."
"But one day you'll find
a string round your neck that you can't pull off," she answered.
"Not me! I'm equal
to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter themselves."
"You flatter
YOURSELF," she said quietly.
Soon there was a heap of
twisted black pages, all that remained of the file of scented letters, except
that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from the corners of the
notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots and ivy sprays. And William went
to London, to
start a new life.