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CHAPTER II |
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THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE（I） AFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashedand ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically even, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank from his erect,assertive bearing, his physique seemed to contract along with his prideand moral strength. But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to dragabout at her work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence,hastened forward with his help. He came straight home from the pit,and stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could not remainat home. But he was back again by ten o'clock, almost quite sober. He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose earlyand had plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wifeout of bed at six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke,got straight out of bed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep,his wife lay waiting for this time, as for a period of peace.The only real rest seemed to be when he was out of the house. He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into hispit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the firstsound in the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker,as Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle,which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knifeand fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready onthe table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea,packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught,piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toastedhis bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread;then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunkswith a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loatheda fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely reachedcommon people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then,in solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather,on a little stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his foodon the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the lastnight's newspaper--what of it he could--spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when itwas daylight; it was the habit of the mine. At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of breadand butter, and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled histin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drinkhe preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and puton his pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck,and with short sleeves like a chemise. Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because shewas ill, and because it occurred to him. "I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass," he said. "Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it," she replied. "Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again." She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take itand sip it. "I'll back my life there's no sugar in," she said. "Yi--there's one big 'un," he replied, injured. "It's a wonder," she said, sipping again. She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved herto grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went,without any sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slicesof bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange wasa treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat,with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea,and went forth into the fresh morning air, closing, without locking,the door behind him. He loved the early morning, and the walk acrossthe fields. So he appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalkfrom the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keephis mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when hewas in the field. Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he wouldbustle round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes,rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very self-righteous, he went upstairs. "Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stira peg all day, but sit and read thy books." Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation. "And the dinner cooks itself?" she answered. "Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner." "You'd know if there weren't any." "Ay, 'appen so," he answered, departing. When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy,but dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned;so she went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk,spying her, would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place atthat minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call: "So you keep wagging on, then?" "Ay," answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. "There's nothingelse for it." "Have you seen Hose?" called a very small woman from acrossthe road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body,who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting. "I haven't," said Mrs. Morel. "Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an'I'm sure I heered his bell." "Hark! He's at the end." The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottomsa man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundlesof cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up theirarms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heapof creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm. "I've done ten dozen this week," she said proudly to Mrs. Morel. "T-t-t!" went the other. "I don't know how you can find time." "Eh!" said Mrs. Anthony. "You can find time if you make time." "I don't know how you do it," said Mrs. Morel. "And how muchshall you get for those many?" "Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen," replied the other. "Well," said Mrs. Morel. "I'd starve before I'd sit downand seam twenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny." "Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Anthony. "You can rip alongwith 'em." Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting atthe yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them,and bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully. It was an understood thing that if one woman wantedher neighbour, she should put the poker in the fire and bang atthe back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back,would make a great noise in the adjoining house. One morningMrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started out of her skin as sheheard the thud, thud, in her grate. With her hands all floury,she rushed to the fence. "Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?" "If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk." Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wallon to Mrs. Morel's copper, and ran in to her neighbour. "Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried in concern. "You might fetch Mrs. Bower," said Mrs. Morel. Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice,and called: "Ag-gie--Ag-gie!" The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower,whilst Mrs. Kirk left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour. Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and Williamfor dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house. "Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make himan apple-charlotte pudding," said Mrs. Morel. "He may go without pudding this day," said Mrs. Bower. Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottomof the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o'clock,when the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one,was at this time about a mile and a half away from the bottom,worked usually till the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the miner was sick of the work. At two o'clockhe looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle--hewas in a safe working--and again at half-past two. He was hewingat a piece of rock that was in the way for the next day's work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard blows with his pick,"Uszza--uszza!" he went. "Shall ter finish, Sorry?" cried Barker, his fellow butty. "Finish? Niver while the world stands!" growled Morel. And he went on striking. He was tired. "It's a heart-breaking job," said Barker. But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether,to answer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might. "Tha might as well leave it, Walter," said Barker. "It'll do to-morrow, without thee hackin' thy guts out." "I'll lay no b--- finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel. "Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else'll ha'e to," said Israel. Then Morel continued to strike. "Hey-up there--LOOSE-A'!" cried the men, leaving the next stall. Morel continued to strike. "Tha'll happen catch me up," said Barker, departing. When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He hadnot finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat,blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main roadthe lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollowsound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground. He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of waterfell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up,talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable. "It's rainin', Sorry," said old Giles, who had had the newsfrom the top. Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved,in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair,and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and gothis umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. Hestood on the edge of the pit-bank for a moment, looking out overthe fields; grey rain was falling. The trucks stood full of wet,bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the waggons, over thewhite "C.W. and Co.". Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain,were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering ofthe drops thereon. All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet andgrey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frownedpeevishly as he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or intoEllen's. Morel, feeling sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation,trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park wall,and down the mud of Greenhill Lane. Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feetof the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang ofthe gates as they went through the stile up the field. "There's some herb beer behind the pantry door," she said. "Th' master'll want a drink, if he doesn't stop." But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink,since it was raining. What did he care about the child or her? She was very ill when her children were born. "What is it?" she asked, feeling sick to death. "A boy." And she took consolation in that. The thought of being themother of men was warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes, and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of everything. She had it in bedwith her. Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path,wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in thesink; then he sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the inner doorway. "Well," she said, "she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy childt." The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottleon the dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat,then came and dropped into his chair. "Han yer got a drink?" he asked. The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the popof a cork. She set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on thetable before Morel. He drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache onthe end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him again. She set his dinner before him,and went upstairs. "Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel. "I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs. Bower. After he had sat with his arms on the table--he resentedthe fact that Mrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave hima little plate, instead of a full-sized dinner-plate--he beganto eat. The fact that his wife was ill, that he had another boy,was nothing to him at that moment. He was too tired; he wantedhis dinner; he wanted to sit with his arms lying on the board;he did not like having Mrs. Bower about. The fire was too smallto please him. After he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes;then he stoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet,he went reluctantly upstairs. It was a struggle to face his wifeat this moment, and he was tired. His face was black, and smearedwith sweat. His singlet had dried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round his throat. So he stood at the footof the bed. "Well, how are ter, then?" he asked. "I s'll be all right," she answered. "H'm!" He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and thisbother was rather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite knowwhere he was. "A lad, tha says," he stammered. She turned down the sheet and showed the child. "Bless him!" he murmured. Which made her laugh, because heblessed by rote--pretending paternal emotion, which he did not feeljust then. "Go now," she said. "I will, my lass," he answered, turning away. Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She halfwanted him to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any sign. She only breathed freely when he was gone out of the room again,leaving behind him a faint smell of pit-dirt. Mrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational clergyman. Mr. Heaton was young, and very poor. His wife had died at thebirth of his first baby, so he remained alone in the manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, and he depended on her. For hourshe talked to her, when she was well. He became the god-parentof the child. Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then shelaid the cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim,and hoped Morel would not come too soon; indeed, if he stayed for a pint,she would not mind this day. She had always two dinners to cook,because she believed children should have their chief meal at midday,whereas Morel needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would holdthe baby, whilst Mrs. Morel beat up a batter-pudding or peeledthe potatoes, and he, watching her all the time, would discusshis next sermon. His ideas were quaint and fantastic. She broughthim judiciously to earth. It was a discussion of the wedding at Cana. "When He changed the water into wine at Cana," he said,"that is a symbol that the ordinary life, even the blood,of the married husband and wife, which had before been uninspired,like water, became filled with the Spirit, and was as wine, because,when love enters, the whole spiritual constitution of a man changes,is filled with the Holy Ghost, and almost his form is altered." Mrs. Morel thought to herself: "Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why hemakes his love into the Holy Ghost." They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heardthe sluther of pit-boots. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself. The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He wasfeeling rather savage. He nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman,who rose to shake hands with him. "Nay," said Morel, showing his hand, "look thee at it! Tha niver wants ter shake hands wi' a hand like that, does ter? There's too much pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it." The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took offhis coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily. "Are you tired?" asked the clergyman. "Tired? I ham that," replied Morel. "YOU don't know what itis to be tired, as I'M tired." "No," replied the clergyman. "Why, look yer 'ere," said the miner, showing the shouldersof his singlet. "It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a cloutwith sweat even yet. Feel it." "Goodness!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feelyour nasty singlet." The clergyman put out his hand gingerly. "No, perhaps he doesn't," said Morel; "but it'sall come out of me, whether or not. An' iv'ry dayalike my singlet's wringin' wet. 'Aven't you gota drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from the pit?" "You know you drank all the beer," said Mrs. Morel, pouring outhis tea. "An' was there no more to be got?" Turning to the clergyman--"Aman gets that caked up wi' th' dust, you know,--that clogged updown a coal-mine, he NEEDS a drink when he comes home." "I am sure he does," said the clergyman. "But it's ten to one if there's owt for him." "There's water--and there's tea," said Mrs. Morel. "Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat." He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it upthrough his great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then hepoured out another saucerful, and stood his cup on the table. "My cloth!" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate. "A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths,"said Morel. "Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically. The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetablesand 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 blackhole all day, dingin' away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harderthan 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 nursingthe 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'sgot a parson for tea wi' thee?" he bawled. |
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