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.
The children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then sheworked awhile.
When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felta 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 damperon the men's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were already rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparationfor 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 indignantwith the drunken men that they must sing that hymn when theygot 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 tooka panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of whitesugar 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 thefeeling of irritability and pain, after having slept on the groundwhen he was so hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he nearedthe house. He did not know he was angry. But when the garden gateresisted his attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs outof 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 sugarinto the beer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table,and thrust his face forwards at her.
"'Say you're not drunk,'" he repeated. "Why, nobodybut 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 spongingon 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 savethe hatred of the other and the battle between them. She was fieryand 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 walkedin 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 tearsof 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 thinkit'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. "No," she cried loudly, "you shan'thave it ALL your own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've gotthose children to see to. My word," she laughed, "I should lookwell to leave them to you."
"Go," he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraidof her. "Go!"
"I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord,if I could get away from you," she replied.
He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes,thrust forward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him,struggled to be free. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushedher roughly to the outer door, and thrust her forth, slotting thebolt behind her with a bang. Then he went back into the kitchen,dropped into his armchair, his head, bursting full of blood,sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped gradually into a stupor,from exhaustion and intoxication.
The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel, seared with passion, shivered to find herself out therein a great white light, that fell cold on her, and gave a shockto her inflamed soul. She stood for a few moments helplesslystaring at the glistening great rhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She walked down the garden path,trembling in every limb, while the child boiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness; mechanically shewent over the last scene, then over it again, certain phrases,certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down onher soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each timethe brand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in,and the pain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half an hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came again to her. She glanced roundin fear. She had wandered to the side garden, where she was walkingup and down the path beside the currant bushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from the road, that cuttransversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn hedge.
She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where shecould stand as if in an immense gulf of white light, the moonstreaming high in face of her, the moonlight standing up from thehills in front, and filling the valley where the Bottoms crouched,almost blindingly. There, panting and half weeping in reactionfrom the stress, she murmured to herself over and over again: "The nuisance! the nuisance!"
She became aware of something about her. With an effort sheroused herself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tall white lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air wascharged with their perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gaspedslightly in fear. She touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals,then shivered. They seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into one white bin: the gold scarcely showedon her fingers by moonlight. She bent down to look at the binfulof yellow pollen; but it only appeared dusky. Then she drank a deepdraught of the scent. It almost made her dizzy.
Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and shelost herself awhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feeling of sickness, and her consciousness inthe child, herself melted out like scent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted with her in the mixing-potof moonlight, and she rested with the hills and lilies and houses,all swum together in a kind of swoon.
When she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly shelooked about her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spreadwith linen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden. Following it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw,strong scent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path,hesitating at the white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the white ruffles of the roses. Their fresh scentand cool, soft leaves reminded her of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she was tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt forlorn.
There was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had notbeen wakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away,roared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange,stretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-greyfog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake notfar off, sound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men.
Her quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hurrieddown the side garden to the back of the house. Softly she liftedthe latch; the door was still bolted, and hard against her. She rapped gently, waited, then rapped again. She must not rousethe children, nor the neighbours. He must be asleep, and he wouldnot wake easily. Her heart began to burn to be indoors. She clungto the door-handle. Now it was cold; she would take a chill,and in her present condition!
Putting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried againto the side garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the sill,she could just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spreadout on the table, and his black head on the board. He was sleepingwith his face lying on the table. Something in his attitude madeher feel tired of things. The lamp was burning smokily; she couldtell by the copper colour of the light. She tapped at the windowmore and more noisily. Almost it seemed as if the glass would break. Still he did not wake up.
After vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact withthe stone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn child,she wondered what she could do for warmth. She went down to thecoal-house, where there was an old hearthrug she had carried out forthe rag-man the day before. This she wrapped over her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy. Then she walked up and down the garden path,peeping every now and then under the blind, knocking, and tellingherself that in the end the very strain of his position must wake him.
