"Is there nothing to eat in the house?" he asked, insolently,as if to a servant. In certain stages of his intoxication heaffected the clipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morelhated 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 jerkedat the table drawer to get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because hepulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it, so that it flewout 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 thash'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 speechbe turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. 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 sharplyon his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.
One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawercrashed into the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned fromher chair. To her very soul she was sick; she clasped the childtightly to her bosom. A few moments elapsed; then, with an effort,she brought herself to. The baby was crying plaintively. Her leftbrow 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 tokeep equilibrium, so that the blood ran into her eye.
Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table withone hand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance,he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of herrocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then leaning forward over her,and swaying as he spoke, he said, in a 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 swayinggrasp 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 allher 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 shebathed 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 backinto 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 camecraning 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 graspedhis 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 fallfrom 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 soakthrough to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feeling itsoak 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 apad, 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 presentlywith a red, narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling fingersproceeded 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 shewent 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 Iwas 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 theunconscious tragedy they felt.
Walter Morel lay in bed next day until nearly dinner-time. Hedid not think of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thoughtof anything, but he would not think of that. He lay and suffered likea sulking dog. He had hurt himself most; and he was the more damagedbecause 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 saidto himself. Nothing, however, could prevent his inner consciousnessinflicting 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 himselfviolent 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'clockslightly 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 till2.30, dinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morelwent upstairs, towards four o'clock, to put on her Sunday dress,he was fast asleep. She would have felt sorry for him, if hehad once said, "Wife, I'm sorry." But no; he insisted to himselfit was her fault. And so he broke himself. So she merely lefthim alone. There was this deadlock of passion between them,and she was stronger.
The family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all satdown 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 childrenbreathed the air that was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They wererather disconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at.
Immediately Morel woke he got straight out of bed. That wascharacteristic 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 enteredwithout 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 aloudfrom "The Child's Own", Annie listening and asking eternally "why?" Both children hushed into silence as they heard the approachingthud 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 drankmore noisily than he had need. No one spoke to him. The familylife 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 sickenedMrs. 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 movementthat divided him from the reserved, watchful rest of the family. He always ran away from the battle with himself. Even in his ownheart's privacy, he excused himself, saying, "If she hadn't saidso-and-so, it would never have happened. She asked for what she's got." The children waited in restraint during his preparations. When hehad gone, they sighed with relief.
He closed the door behind him, and was glad. It was arainy evening. The Palmerston would be the cosier. He hastenedforward in anticipation. All the slate roofs of the Bottoms shoneblack with wet. The roads, always dark with coal-dust, were fullof blackish mud. He hastened along. The Palmerston windows were steamedover. 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 beerand smoke.
"What shollt ha'e, Walter?" cried a voice, as soon as Morelappeared 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 dreadedhis wife. Having hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what todo with himself that evening, having not even twopence with whichto go to the Palmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt. So, while his wife was down the garden with the child, he huntedin 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 lookedin the purse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes. Then she sat down and thought: "WAS there a sixpence? I hadn'tspent 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 sought, the conviction came into her heart that herhusband had taken it. What she had in her purse was all the moneyshe 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 hehad 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 takingthe clothes in."
"I'll may yer pay for this," he said, pushing back hischair in desperation. He bustled and got washed, then wentdeterminedly 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 marchedout of the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly,but her heart brimming with contempt. What would she do if he wentto 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.
"Where to?"
"Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handkerchief,and says he's not coming back."
"What shall we do?" cried the boy.
"Eh, never trouble, he won't go far."
"But if he doesn't come back," wailed Annie.
And she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morelsat and laughed.
"You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll see him beforethe night's out."
But the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on. Mrs. Morel grew anxious from very weariness. One part of her saidit would be a relief to see the last of him; another part frettedbecause of keeping the children; and inside her, as yet, she couldnot quite let him go. At the bottom, she knew very well he couldNOT go.
When she went down to the coal-place at the end of the garden,however, she felt something behind the door. So she looked. And there in the dark lay the big blue bundle. She sat on a pieceof coal and laughed. Every time she saw it, so fat and yetso ignominious, slunk into its corner in the dark, with its endsflopping like dejected ears from the knots, she laughed again. She was relieved.
Mrs. Morel sat waiting. He had not any money, she knew,so if he stopped he was running up a bill. She was very tired of him--tired to death. He had not even the courage to carry his bundlebeyond the yard-end.
As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the doorand came in, slinking, and yet sulky. She said not a word. He took off his coat, and slunk to his armchair, where he beganto take off his boots.
"You'd better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off,"she said quietly.
"You may thank your stars I've come back to-night," he said,looking up from under his dropped head, sulkily, trying to be impressive.
