 CHAPTER II. The birth of Paul and another battle. After such a scene as the last, Walter Morrill was for some days abashed and 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 pride and moral strength. But now he realized how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her work, and his sympathy quickened by penicents, hastened forward with his help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back again by ten o'clock, almost quite sober. He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early, and had plenty of time, he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out 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 his pit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs. Morrill raked. And the first sound in the house was the bang-bang of the poker against the raker, as Morrill smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the 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 toasted his 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 chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loathed the fork. It is a modern introduction which has still scarcely reached common people. What Morrill 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 food on the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper, what of it he could, spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight. It was the habit of the mine. At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, and put them in the white calico-snap bag. He filled his tin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt and put on 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 she was ill, and because it occurred to him. I've brought the a cup of tea, lass," he said. Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it, she replied. Drink it up, it'll pop you off to sleep again. She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it. I'll back my life there's no sugar in," she said. Yai! There's one bigon," he replied, injured. It's a wonder, she said, sipping again. She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to 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 slices of bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a 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 across the fields. So he appeared at the pit top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when he was in the field. Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle 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. There's no caissons for to stir a 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. Hey, I know not about the dinner. You'd know if there wasn't any. I happen 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 at that minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call, So, you keep your wagon on, then. I answered Mrs. Morrill deprecatingly. There's nothing else for it. Have you seen Hose? Called a very small woman from across the 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. Morrill. I wish he'd come. I've got a copper full of clothes, and I'm sure I heard his bell. Hark! He's at the end. The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the bottoms a man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of cream- colored stuff, while a cluster of women held up their arms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy undyed stockings hanging over her arm. I've done ten dozen this week, she said proudly to Mrs. Morrill. Tch! 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. Morrill, and how much shall you get for those many? Tupens, hey, penny, the dozen! replied the other. Well, said Mrs. Morrill, I'd starve before I'd sit down and seen twenty-four stockings for Tupens, huh, penny? Oh, I don't know, said Mrs. Anthony. You can rip along with them. Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the yard ends with their seam stockings hanging over their arms. The man, a common fellow, made jokes with him, tried to swindle them and bullied them. Mrs. Morrill went up her yard disdainfully. It was an understood thing that if one woman wandered her neighbor she should put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in the adjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started out of her skin as she heard the thud, thud in her grate. With her hands all flowery, she rushed to the fence. Did you knock, Mrs. Morrill? If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk. Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morrill's copper, and ran into her neighbor. Hey, dear, how are you feeling? she cried in concern. You might fetch Mrs. Bower, said Mrs. Morrill. Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong shrill voice and called, Aggie! Aggie! 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 neighbor. Mrs. Morrill went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house. Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make him an apple-charlet pudding, said Mrs. Morrill. He may go without pudding this day, said Mrs. Bower. Morrill was not, as a rule, one of the first to appear at the bottom of the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o'clock, when the whistle blew loose all. But Morrill, 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'clock he looked at his watch by the light of the green candle. He was in a safe working, and again at half-past two, he was hewing at 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, Huzzah! Huzzah! he went. Shout to finish, sorry! cried Barker, his fellow buddy. Finish! Never while the world stands! growled Morrill. And he went on striking. He was tired. It's a heartbreaking job, said Barker. But Morrill was too exasperated at the end of his tether to answer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might. That might as well leave it, Walter, said Barker. It'll do to-morrow without the hackin' thy guts out. How lay no finger on this to-morrow, Israel? cried Morrill. Oh, well, if thou want to, somebody else'll have to, said Israel. That Morrill continued to strike. Hey, up there! Loosa! cried the men, leaving the next stall. Morrill continued to strike. Thou happened to catch me up, said Barker, departing. When he had gone, Morrill, left alone, felt savage. He had not 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. On the main road the lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground. He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. Morrill gave his answers short and disagreeable. It's raining, sorry! said old Giles, who had had the news from the top. Morrill 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 got his umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one and six. He stood on the edge of the pit bank for a moment, looking out over the fields. Gray rain was falling. The truck stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the wagons over the white CW and company. Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, a gray, dismal host. Morrill put up his umbrella and took pleasure from the peppering of the drops thereon. All along the road to Bestwood the miners trapped, wet and gray and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morrill also walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen's. Morrill, feeling sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of Green Hill Lane. Mrs. Morrill lay in bed, listening to the rain and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their voices and the bang-bang of the gates as they went through the style up the field. There's some herb beer behind the pantry door, she said. The master will 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 the mother of men was warming to her heart. She looked at the child, it had blue eyes and a lot of fair hair and was bunny. Her love came up hot in spite of everything. She had it in bed with her. Morrill, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella and stood it in the sink, then he slothered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bauer appeared in the inner doorway. Well, she said, she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boychild. The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle on the dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, then came and dropped into his chair. When you got a drink? He asked. The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. She sat the mug with a little disgusted wrap on the table before Morrill. He drank, gasped, wiped his big mustache on the end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him again. She sat his dinner before him and went upstairs. Was that the master? asked Mrs. Morrill. I gave him his dinner, replied Mrs. Bauer. After he had sat with his arms on the table, he resented the fact that Mrs. Bauer put no cloth on for him and gave him a little plate instead of a full-sized dinner plate. He began to 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 wanted his dinner. He wanted to sit with his arms lying on the board. He did not like having Mrs. Bauer about. The fire was too small to please him. After he had finished his meal he sat for twenty minutes. Then he stoked up a big fire. Then, in his stocking to feet, he went reluctantly upstairs. It was a struggle to face his wife at this moment and he was tired. His face was black and smeared with sweat. His singlet had dried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round his throat. So he stood at the foot of the bed. Well, how art thou then? he asked. I should be all right, she answered. He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and this bother was rather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite know where he was. Oh, lad the says! he stammered. She turned down the sheet and showed the child. Bless him! he murmured, which made her laugh because he blessed by rote, pretending paternal emotion which he did not feel just then. Go now! she said. I will, my lass! he answered, turning away. Dismissed he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half wanted 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. Morrell had a visit every day from the congregational clergyman. Mr. Heaton was young and very poor. His wife had died at the birth of his first baby, so he remained alone in the mats. He was a bachelor of arts of Cambridge, very shy and no preacher. Mrs. Morrell was fond of him, and he depended on her. For hours he talked to her when she was well, he became the god-parent of the child. Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morrell. Then she laid the cloth early, got out her best cups with a little green rim, and hoped Morrell 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 Morrell needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby, whilst Mrs. Morrell beat up a batter pudding or peeled the potatoes, and he, watching her all the time, would discuss his next sermon. His ideas were quaint and fantastic. She brought him 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, came 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. Morrell thought to herself, yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead. That is why he makes his love into the Holy Ghost. They were half-way down their first cup of tea when they heard the slither of pit-boots. Could gracious! exclaimed Mrs. Morrell in spite of herself. The minister looked rather scared. Morrell entered. He was feeling rather savage. He nodded a how-do-you-do to the clergyman who rose to shake hands with him. Nay! said Morrell, showing his hand. Look thee at it! The never wants to shake hands with a hand like that, duster! There's too much pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it. The minister flushed with confusion and sat down again. Mrs. Morrell rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morrell took off his coat, dragged his arm-chair to table, and sat down heavily. Are you tired? asked the clergyman. Tired? I am that, replied Morrell. You don't know what it is to be tired, as I am tired. No, replied the clergyman. Why, look ye here! said the miner, showing the shoulders of his singlet. It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a clout with sweat even yet. Feel it! Goodness! cried Mrs. Morrell. Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feel your nasty singlet! the clergyman put out his hand gingerly. No, perhaps he doesn't, said Morrell. But it's all come out of me, whether or not. And every day I like my singlet's ring in wet. Haven't you got a drink, Mrs., for a man when he comes home barkelled up from the pit? You know you drank all of the beer, said Mrs. Morrell, pouring out his tea. And was there no more to be got? turning to the clergyman. A man gets that kicked up with the dust, you know, that clogged up down a coal mine. He needs a drink when he comes home. I'm sure he does, said the clergyman. But it's ten to one if there's out for him. There's water, and there's tea, said Mrs. Morrell. Water! It's not water as it clears his throat. He poured out a saucer full of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through his great black mustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out another saucer full, and stood his cup on the table. My cloth! cried Mrs. Morrell, putting it on a plate. A man as comes home as I do's too tired to care about cloths, said Morrell. Pity! exclaimed his wife sarcastically. The room was full of the smell of meat, and vegetables, and pick-clothes. He leaned over to the minister, his great mustache thrust forward, his mouth very red in his black face. Mr. Heaton! he said. A man as has been down the black hole all day, dingin' away at a coal face, a sight hotter than that wall. Needn't make a moan of it, put in Mrs. Morrell. She hated her husband, because whenever he had an audience he whined and played for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the 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. Morrell looked at her cloth. A fine mess, she said. Dost think I'm going to sit with my arms danglin', cause thou's got a parson for tea with thee? He bawled. They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, and Mrs. Morrell, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked Annie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine and Morrell to shout at her. In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the big glazed text over the mantelpiece, and read distinctly, God bless our home! Whereupon Mrs. Morrell, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up, rushed at him, boxed his ears, saying, What are you putting in for? And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran over her cheeks, while William kicked the stool he had been sitting on, and Morrell growled, How can I see what there is so much to laugh at? One evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unable to bear herself after another display from her husband, she took Annie and the baby and went out. Morrell had kicked William, and the mother would never forgive him. She went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of the meadow to the cricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space of ripe evening light, whispering with the distant mill-race. She sat on a seat under the alders in the cricket-ground, and fronted the evening. Before her, level and solid, spread the big green cricket field, like the bed of a sea of light. Children played in the bluest shadow of the pavilion. Many rooks, high up, came cawing home across the softly woven sky. They stooped in a long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing, wheeling, like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree-clump that made a dark boss among the pasture. A few gentlemen were practicing, and Mrs. Morrell could hear the chuck of the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused. Could see the white forms of men shifting silently over the green, upon which already the undershadows were smoldering. Away at the grange, one side of the haystacks was lit up, the other sides, blue-gray. A wagon of sheaves rocked small across the melting yellow light. The sun was going down. Every open evening the hills of Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morrell watched the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the bell-cast, flawless blue. The mountain ash-berries across the field stood fireily out from the dark leaves for a moment. A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive. She imagined them bowing. Perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west scarlet. The big haystacks on the hillside that butted into the glare went cold. With Mrs. Morrell it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again the swallow cut close to her. Now and again Annie came up with a handful of alder currents. The baby was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the light. Mrs. Morrell looked down at him. She had dreaded this baby like a catastrophe because of her feeling for her husband, and now she felt strangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavy because of the child, almost as if it were unhealthy or malformed. Yet it seemed quite well, but she noticed the peculiar knitting of the baby's brows and the peculiar heaviness of its eyes as if it were trying to understand something that was pain. She felt when she looked at her child's dark, brooding pupils as if a burden were on her heart. "'He looks as if he were thinking about something, quite sorrowful,' said Mrs. Kirk. Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart melted into a passionate grief. She bowed over him and a few tears shook swiftly out of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers. "'My lamb!' she cried softly. And at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul, that she and her husband were guilty.' The baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own, but its look was heavy, steady, as if it had realized something that had stunned some point of its soul. In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes, always looking up at her, unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her. She no longer loved her husband. She had not wanted this child to come. And there it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart. She felt as if the navel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had not been broken. A wave of hot love went over her to the infant. She held it close to her face and breast. With all her force, with all her soul, she would make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. She would love it all the more now it was here. Carry it in her love. Its clear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her? When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was there a reproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones with fear and pain. Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hill opposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands. Look, she said. Look, my pretty! She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun almost with relief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her bosom again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence he came. If he lives, she thought to herself, what will become of him? What will he be? Her heart was anxious. I will call him Paul. She said suddenly she knew not why. After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the deep green meadow darkening all. As she expected she found the house empty. But Moral was home by ten o'clock, and that day at least ended peacefully. Walter Moral was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemed to exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody. If the fire were rather low he bullied about that. He grumbled about his dinner. If the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that made their mother's blood boil and made them hate him. On the Friday he was not home by eleven o'clock. The baby was unwell and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Moral, tired to death and still weak, was scarcely under control. I wish the nuisance would come! She said wearily to herself. The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too tired to carry him to the cradle. But I don't say nothing, whatever time he comes. She said, It only works me up. I won't say anything. But I know if he does anything it'll make my blood boil. She added to herself. She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something she could not bear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kept her head bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But it went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing, he lurched against the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutched at the white pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat, then returned, stood glowering from a distance at her, as she sat bowed over the child. Is there nothing to eat in the house? he asked, insolently, as if to a servant. In certain stages of his intoxication he affected the clipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morrill hated 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 effectively. 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 jerked at the table drawer to get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it so that it flew out 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 dart. What are you doing, clumsy drunken fool? the mother cried. Then thou should get the flaming thing thy sin. Thou should get up like other women have to, and wait on a man. Wait on you? Wait on you? she cried. Yes, I see myself. Yes, and I'll learn thee that's got to. Wait on me. Yes, thou shalt wait on me. Never, my lord, I'd wait on a dog at the door first. What? What? He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent second in threat. She went quickly, and contempt. He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharply on his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her. One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer crashed into the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned from her chair. To her very soul she was sick. She clasped the child tightly to her bosom. A few moments elapsed. Then, with an effort, she brought herself too. The baby was crying plaintively. Her left brow 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 to keep equilibrium so that the blood ran into her eye. Walter Morrill remained as he had stood, leaning on the table with one hand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance, he went across to her, swayed, cut hold of the back of her rocking 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 a catastrophe he had lost all balance. "'Go away,' she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind. He hiccupped. "'Less—let's—look at it,' he said, hiccupping again. "'Go away,' she cried. "'Let me—let me look at it, lass!' She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swaying grasp 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 all her 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 she bathed 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. Moral, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back into its cavity, and was on his knees, groping with numb pause for the scattered spoons. Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Moral got up and came craning 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 grasped his legs just above the knee. He peered to look at the wound. He 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 fall from 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 soak through to the baby's scalp. He watched, fascinated, feeling it soak 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 a pad which he singed before the fire, then put on her forehead as she sat with a baby on her lap. "'Now that clean pit scarf!' Again he rummaged and fumbled in the drawer, returning presently with a red, narrow scarf. She took it and with trembling fingers proceeded 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 she went upstairs, telling him to rake the fire and lock the door. "'In the morning,' Mrs. Morrell said. "'I knocked against the latch of the coal-place when I was 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 the unconscious tragedy they felt. Walter Morrell lay in bed next day until nearly dinner time. He did not think of the previous evening's work. He scarcely thought of anything, but he would not think of that. He lay and suffered like a sulking dog. He had hurt himself most, and he was the more damaged because 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 said to himself. Nothing, however, could prevent his inner consciousness inflicting 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 himself violent 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'clock slightly 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 till two-thirty, dinner and bed, scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morrill went upstairs towards four o'clock to put on her Sunday dress he was fast asleep. She would have felt sorry for him if he had once said, Wife, I'm sorry. But no, he insisted to himself it was her fault. And so he broke himself, so she merely left him alone. There was this deadlock of passion between them and she was stronger. The family began tea. Sunday was the only day when all sat down 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 children breathed the air that was poisoned and they felt dreary. They were rather disconsolate, did not know what to do, what to play at. Immediately Morrill woke he got straight out of bed. That was characteristic 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 entered without 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 aloud from the child's own. Annie listening and asking internally, Why? Both children hushed into silence as they heard the approaching thud of their father's stockinged feet and shrank as he entered, yet he was usually indulgent to them. Morrill made the meal alone brutally. He ate and drank more noisily than he had need. No one spoke to him. The family life 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 sick and misses Morrill. As she heard him sowsing 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 movement that divided him from the reserved, watchful rest of the family. He always ran away from the battle with himself. Even in his own heart's privacy he excused himself, saying, If she hadn't said so and so, it would never have happened. She asked for what she's got. The children waited in restraint during his preparations. When he had gone, they sighed with relief. He closed the door behind him and was glad. It was a rainy evening. The Palmerston would be the cozier. He hastened forward in anticipation. All the slate roofs of the bottoms shone black with wet. The roads, always dark with cold dust, were full of blackish mud. He hastened along. The Palmerston windows were steamed over. The passage was paddled with wet feet. But the air was warm, if foul, and full of the sounds of voices and the smell of beer and smoke. What shall have, Walter? cried a voice as soon as moral appeared in the doorway. Oh, chimmala, wherever has thee sprung from? 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, moral was penniless. He dreaded his wife. Having hurt her, he hated her. He did not know what to do with himself that evening, having not even twopence with which to go to the Palmerston, and being already rather deeply in debt. So while his wife was down in the garden with the child, he hunted in the top drawer of the dresser where she kept her purse, found it, and looked inside. She contained a half-crown, two half-penis, 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 looked in the purse for her sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes. Then she sat down and thought, Was there a sixpence? I hadn't spent 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 her husband had taken it. What she had in her purse was all the money she 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 weekend he had put the shilling again into her purse. So that was how she had known he had taken it. The second time he had 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 offended way. No, I did not. I never clapped eyes on your purse. But she could detect the lie. Why, you know you did, she said quietly. I tell you I didn't. He shouted, You're at me again, are you? I've had about enough on it. So you filched sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking the clothes in. How may you pay for this? He said, pushing back his chair in desperation. He bustled and got washed, then went determinately upstairs. Suddenly he came down dressed and with a big bundle and 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 marched out of the house with his bundle. She sat trembling slightly, but her heart brimming with contempt. What would she do if he went to some other pit, obtained work, and got him 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 and 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. Morrill sat and laughed. You pair of gapies! she exclaimed. You'll see him before the night's out. But the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on. Mrs. Morrill grew anxious from very weariness. One part of her said it would be a relief to see the last of him. Another part fretted because of keeping the children. And inside her, as yet, she could not quite let him go. At the bottom she knew very well he could not 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 piece of coal and laughed. Every time she saw it, so fat and yet so ignominious, slunk into its corner in the dark, with its ends flopping like dejected ears from the knots, she laughed again. She was relieved. Mrs. Morrill 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 bundle beyond the yard end. As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he opened the door and came in, slinking and yet sulky. She said not a word. He took off his coat and slunk to his arm-chair, where he began to 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, sulkyly, trying to be impressive. Why, where should you have gone? You dare not even get your parcel out through the yard end, she said. He looked such a fool she was not even angry with him. He continued to take his boots off and prepare for bed. I don't know what's in your blue handkerchief, she said. But if you leave it, the children shall fetch it in the morning. Whereupon he got up and went out of the house, returning presently and crossing the kitchen with averted face, hurrying upstairs. As Mrs. Morrill saw him slink quickly through the inner doorway, holding his bundle, she laughed to herself. But her heart was bitter. Because she had loved him. End of chapter. Chapter 3 Of Sons and Lovers This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and it's read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 3 The Casting Off of Morrill, The Taking-On of William. During the next week Morrill's temper was almost unbearable. Like all minors, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, he would often pay for himself. You might get me a drop of laxivitral, he said. It's a window as we can have, a supple house. So Mrs. Morrill bought him an elixir of vitriol, his favorite first medicine, and he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging in the attic great bunches of dried herbs, wormwood, roux, whorehound, elderflowers, parsley-pert, marshmallow, hisip, dandelion, and centauri. Usually there was a jug of one or other decoctions 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 nutting him. Since then he had drunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morrill 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 the breadwinner, she never quite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him for herself. The neighbors were very good to her. Occasionally some had the children in to meals. Occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her. One would mine the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless. It was not every day the neighbors 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 buddy put by a portion of the stall's profits for Morrill's wife. And the neighbors made broths and gave eggs and such invalids' trifles. If they had not helped her so generously in those times, Mrs. Morrill would never have pulled through without incurring debts that would have dragged her down. The weeks passed. Morrill, 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 spoiled him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He often put his hand to his head, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and shamed 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 lacrimose!' That wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness. "'I wouldn't be such a Marty-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. Morrill was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost like a child, was rather happy. Never 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 herself 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 quites. 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 pluck 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 vigor, making the world glow again for her. And Moral 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. When 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. Moral 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. Moral was glad this child loved the father. Hearing the minors footsteps, the baby would put up his arms in crow. And if Moral were in a good temper, he called back immediately in his hearty, mellow voice, "'What, then, my beauty! I shall come to thee in a minute!' And as soon as he had taken off his pitcoat, Mrs. Moral 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 Moral laughed joyfully. "'He's a little collier, bless this bit of 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, how 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, where at last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, but they caused a shadow in Mrs. Morrill'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 barmed man, she heard a voice calling her. It was the thin little Mrs. Anthony in brown velvet. "'Here, Mrs. Morrill, I want to tell you about your willy.' "'Oh, do you?' replied Mrs. Morrill. "'Why, what's the matter?' "'A lad gets old of another and rips his clothes off in his back.' Mrs. Anthony said. "'Once showing something!' "'Your Alfred's as old as my William,' said Mrs. Morrill. "'Appin' he is, but that doesn't give him a right to get hold of the boy's collar and fair rip it clean off his back.' "'Well,' said Mrs. Morrill, "'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 to ripping a lad's clean collar off in his back a purpose.' "'I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose,' said Mrs. Morrill. "'Make me a liar!' shouted Mrs. Anthony.' Mrs. Morrill moved away and closed her gate. Her hand trembled as she held her mug of barma. "'But I shall let your Mr. 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, and it was torn already.' "'But you tore it more.' "'Well, I'd got a cobbler as had licks seventeen.' "'And now, if he Anthony, he says, Adam and Eve and Pinchme went down to a river to Bade. Adam and Eve got drownded. Who do you think got saved?' "'And so I says, Oh, Pinch, you!' And so I pinched him, and he was mad, and so he snatched my cobbler and run off with it. And so I run after him, and when I was getting old of him, he dodged, and it ripped his 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. Morrill, you know you've no right to rip his collar.' "'Well, our mother,' he answered, I never meant to have done it, and it was only an old indy-rubber collar as was torn already.' "'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. Morrill, who hated any bother with the neighbors, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over. But that evening Morrill came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. Then— "'Where's that Willie?' he asked. "'What do you want him for?' asked Mrs. Morrill, who had guessed. "'I'll let him know when I get him,' said Morrill, banging his pit-bottle onto the dresser. "'I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you about Alfie's collar,' said Mrs. Morrill, rather sneering. "'Never mind who's got hold of me,' said Morrill. "'When I get hold of him, I'll make his bones rattle.' "'It's a poor tale,' said Mrs. Morrill, that you're so ready to side with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own children. "'I'll learn him,' said Morrill. "'It none matters to me whose lad he is. He's none going ripping and tearing about just as he's a mind.' "'Ripping and tearing about,' repeated Mrs. Morrill. He was running after that Alfie who'd taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold of his collar because the other dodged, as an Anthony would. "'I know,' shouted Morrill, threateningly. "'You would, before you're told,' replied his wife, bitingly. "'Never you mind,' stormed Morrill. "'I know my business.' "'That's more than doubtful,' said Mrs. Morrill, supposing some loudmouth creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.' "'I know,' repeated Morrill. And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying, "'Can I have my team other?' "'I can have more than that,' shouted Morrill. "'Hold your noise, man,' said Mrs. Morrill, and don't look so ridiculous.' "'He'll look ridiculous before I'm done with him,' shouted Morrill, 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. Morrill commanded her son. William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morrill clenched his fists and crouched. "'Hell, give you go out!' he shouted like an insane thing. "'What?' cried Mrs. Morrill, panting with rage. "'You shall not touch him for hurt-telling. You shall not.' "'Shouldn't I?' shouted Morrill. "'Shouldn't I?' And glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morrill sprang in between them, with her fists 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 hypnotized by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morrill 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, my lord, to lay a finger on that child. You 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. Morrill joined the women's guild. It was a little club of women attached to the Cooperative 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. Mrs. Morrill 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 Clatfart 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. Morrill 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's this want to make a stull horse-jack on him for? said Morrill. All he'll do is wear his britches behind out and earn out what he's starting with. It doesn't matter what he's starting with, said Mrs. Morrill. He wouldn't, huh? Put him in the pit with me, and he'll earn an easy ten-shill in a week from the start. But six-shill and wear in his truck end out on a stool's better than ten-shill and in the pit with me, I know. He is not going in the pit, said Mrs. Morrill, and there's an end of it. It were good enough for me, but non-good enough for him. 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 were a sight before that. Whenever it was, said Mrs. Morrill. He 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 ink-stand of glass shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on the dresser and gave Mrs. Morrill 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, too, 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. He began to consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and the tradesman. 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 six-penny hops down Church Street to sports and billiards. Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like ladies, most of whom live like cut blooms in William's heart for a brief fortnight. Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morrill would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed the air. "'Is Mr. Morrill in?' the damsel would ask, appealingly. "'My husband is at home?' Mrs. Morrill replied. "'Ah, I mean young Mr. Morrill,' repeated the maiden, painfully. "'Which one? There are several.' Whereupon much-blushing and stammering from the fair one, "'I—I met Mr. Morrill 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. During 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 baggage 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 Tuckard, considered a low town, to a fancy dress-ball. He was to be a highlender. 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. Morrill 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. Morrill 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. He 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 nodding him. 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. Morrill 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. Morrill. Arthur, a spoiled 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 nodding him. William remained a year at his new post in nodding him. 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 teetotellers. 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. Use 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. Morrill felt everything go silent inside her. He read the letter. Then 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, mother! We shall all be rolling in money.� �We shall, my son� she answered, sadly. It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt it is 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, Apostle, let's go through my letters, and you can have the birds and flowers. His moral 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. Mmm! said Paul, breathing in. What do 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 creases. He owns property without end. She calls me Lafayette because I know French. You will see I've forgiven you. I'd 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. Morrill. Transpires! Oh, yes! Transpires! Read Mrs. Morrill 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 forever,' 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 them, mother. 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 note paper, swallows and forget-me-nots, and ivy sprays. And William went to London to start a new life.' End of chapter. CHAPTER IV His fair hair went reddish and then dark brown. His eyes were gray. He was a pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and with a full, dropping underlip. As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so conscious of what other people felt, particularly his mother. When she fredded he understood, and could have no peace. His soul seemed always attentive to her. As he grew older he became stronger. William was too far removed from him to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boy belonged at first almost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a flyby skyby, as her mother called her. But she was intensely fond of her second brother. So Paul was towed round at the heels of Annie, sharing her game. She raced wildly at lurky with the other young wild cats of the bottoms. And always Paul flew beside her, living her share of the game, having as yet no part of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister adored him. He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to. She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though not so fond. So she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with an Addie Macassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. And Paul must practice jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul remained quite still. "'You couldn't tell it was there, mother. You couldn't tell it was there.' He repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept for the doll, he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She forgave her brother. He was so much upset. But a day or two afterwards she was shocked. "'Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella,' he said, "'let's burn her.'" She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to see what the boy would do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some of the shavings out of Arabella's body, put the wax and fragments into the hollow face, poured on a little paraffin, and set the whole thing alight. He watched with wicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt off the broken forehead of Arabella, and drop like sweat into the flame. So long as the stupid big doll burned, he rejoiced in silence. At the end he poked among the embers with a stick, fished out the arms and legs, all blackened, and smashed them under stones. "'That's the sacrifice of Mrs. Arabella!' He said, "'And I'm glad there's nothing left of her.'" Which disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say nothing. He seemed to hate the doll so intensely because he had broken it. All the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarly against their father along with their mother. Moral continued to bully and to drink. He had periods, months at a time, when he made the whole life of the family a misery. Paul never forgot coming home from the band of hope one Monday evening and finding his mother with her eyes swollen and discoloured, his father standing on the hearth rug, feet astride, his head down, and William just home from work glaring at his father. There was a silence as the young children entered, but none of the elders looked round. William was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched. He waited until the children were silent, watching with children's rage and hate. Then he said, "'You coward, you daren't do it when I was in.'" But Moral's blood was up. He swung round on his son. William was bigger, but Moral was hard-muscled and mad with fury. "'Doesn't I?' he shouted. "'Doesn't I? How much more of thy chump, my young jockey, and I'll rattle my fist about thee! Ay! And I show that to see!' Moral crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly, almost beast-like fashion. William was white with rage. "'Wilier!' he said, quiet and intense. It'd be the last time, though." Moral danced a little nearer, crouching, drawing back his fist to strike. William put his fists ready. A light came into his blue eyes, almost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word, and the men would have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would. The three children sat pale on the sofa. "'Stop it, both of you!' cried Mrs. Moral in a hard voice. "'We've had enough for one night! And you!' she said, turning on to her husband. "'Look at your children!' Moral glanced at the sofa. "'Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!' he sneered. "'Why, what have I done to the children? I should like to know. But they're like yourself. You've put them up to your own tricks in nasty ways. You've learned a minute you have!' She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while he threw his boots onto the table and went to bed. "'Why didn't you let me have a go at him?' said William when his father was upstairs. I could easily have beaten him. "'A nice thing, your own father,' she replied. "'Father,' repeated William, "'call him my father.' "'Well, he is. And so? But why don't you let me settle him? I could do easily.' "'The idea!' she cried. "'It hasn't come to that yet.' "'No,' he said. "'It's come to worse. Look at yourself. Why didn't you let me give it him?' "'Because I couldn't bear it. So never think of it!' she cried quickly. And the children went to bed, miserably.' When William was growing up, the family moved from the bottoms to a house on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the valley, which spread out like a convex cockle-shell or a clamp-shell before it. In front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind, sweeping from Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force, and the tree shrieked again. Moral liked it. "'It's music,' he said. "'It sends me to sleep.' But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it became almost a demoniacal noise. The winter of their first year in the new house, their father was very bad. The children played in the street on the brim of the wide, dark valley until eight o'clock. Then they went to bed. Their mother sat sewing below. Having such a great space in front of the house gave the children a feeling of night, of vastness, and of terror. This terror came in from the shrieking of the tree and the anguish of the home discord. Often Paul would wake up, after he had been asleep a long time, aware of thuds downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then he heard the booming shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk. Then the sharp replies of his mother. Then the bang, bang, of his father's fist on the table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher. And then the hole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieks and cries from the great wind-swept ash tree. The children lay silent in suspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hear what their father was doing. He might hit their mother again. There was a feeling of horror, a kind of bristling in the darkness, and a sense of blood. They lay with their hearts in the grip of an intense anguish. The wind came through the tree fiercer and fiercer. All the cords of the great harp hummed, whistled, and shrieked. And then came the horror of the sudden silence, silence everywhere, outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it a silence of blood? What had he done? The children lay and breathed the darkness. And then at last they heard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairs in his stockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last, if the wind allowed, they heard the water of the tap drumming into the kettle, which their mother was filling for mourning, and they could go to sleep in peace. So they were happy in the morning, happy, very happy, playing, dancing at night round the lonely lamp post in the midst of the darkness. But they had one tight place of anxiety in their hearts, one darkness in their eyes, which showed all their lives. Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion. Make him stop drinking. He prayed every night, Lord, let my father die. He prayed very often. Let him not be killed at pit. He prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work? That was another time when the family suffered intensely. The children came from school and had their teas. On the hob the big black saucepan was simmering. The stew jar was in the oven, ready for Moral's dinner. He was expected at five o'clock. But for months he would stop and drink every night on his way from work. In the winter nights, when it was cold and grew dark early, Mrs. Moral would put a brass candlestick on the table, light a tallow candle to save the gas. The children finished their bread and butter, or dripping, and were ready to go out to play. But if Moral had not come home, they faltered, the sense of his sitting in all his pit dirt, drinking, after a long day's work, not coming home and eating and washing, but sitting, getting drunk on an empty stomach, made Mrs. Moral unable to bear herself. From her the feeling was transmitted to the other children. She never suffered alone any more. The children suffered with her. Paul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great trough of twilight, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were. A few last colliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamp-lighter came along. No more colliers came. Darkness shut down over the valley. Work was done. It was night. Then Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle still burned on the table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Moral sat alone. On the hob the saucepan steamed, the dinner-plate lay waiting on the table. All the room was full of the sense of waiting, waiting for the man who was sitting in his pit dirt, dinnerless, some mile away from home, across the darkness, drinking himself drunk. Paul stood in the doorway. "'Has my dad come?' he asked. "'You can see he hasn't,' said Mrs. Moral, cross with the futility of the question. Then the boy dawdled about near his mother. They shared the same anxiety. Presently Mrs. Moral went out and strained the potatoes. "'They're ruined in black,' she said. "'But what do I care?' Not many words were spoken. Paul almost hated his mother for suffering because his father did not come home from work. "'What do you bother yourself for?' he said. "'If he wants to stop and get drunk, why don't you let him?' "'Let him,' flashed Mrs. Moral. "'You may well say, let him.' She knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is on a quick way to ruining himself and his home. The children were yet young and depended on the breadwinner. William gave her the sense of relief, providing her at last with someone to turn to if Moral failed. But the tense atmosphere of the room on these waiting evenings was the same. The minutes ticked by. At six o'clock still the cloth lay on the table, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same sense of anxiety and expectation in the room. The boy could not stand it any longer. He could not go out and play, so he ran in to Mrs. Inger, next door but one, for her to talk to him. She had no children. Her husband was good to her, but was in a shop and came home late. So when she saw the lad at the door she called, Come in, Paul! The two sat talking for some time when suddenly the boy rose, saying, Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing. He pretended to be perfectly cheerful and did not tell his friend what ailed him. Then he ran indoors. Moral at these times came in churlish and hateful. This is a nice time to come home, said Mrs. Moral. Was it matter to you what time I come home? He shouted, and everybody in the house was still because he was dangerous. He ate his food in the most brutal manner possible and when he had done pushed all the pots and a heap away from him to lay his arms on the table, then he went to sleep. Paul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head with its black hair slightly soiled with gray, lay on the bare arms and the face dirty and inflamed with a fleshy nose and thin paltry brows was turned sideways, a sleep with beer and weariness and nasty temper. If anyone entered suddenly or a noise were made, the man looked up and shouted, How lay my fist about your head? I'm telling thee, if that does not stop that clatter. Tossed here. And the last two words, shouted in a bullying fashion, usually at Annie, made the family writhe with hate of the man. He was shut out from all family affairs, no one told him anything. The children, alone with their mother, told her all about the days happenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place in them until it was told to their mother. But as soon as the father came in, everything stopped. He was like the Scotch and the smooth, happy machinery of the home. But he was always aware of this fall of silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far to alter. He would dearly have liked the children to talk to him, but they could not. Sometimes Mrs. Morrill would say, You ought to tell your father. Paul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper. Everybody was highly jubilant. Now you'd better tell your father when he comes in, said Mrs. Morrill. You know how he carries on and says he's never told anything. All right, said Paul. But he would almost rather have forfeited the prize than have to tell his father. I've won a prize in a competition, dad, he said. Morrill turned round to him. Have you, my boy, what sort of competition? Oh, nothing about famous women. And how much a surprise, then, as you've got? It's a book. Oh, indeed, about birds. Hmm, hmm. And that was all. Conversation was impossible between the father and any other member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God in him. The only times when he entered again into the life of his own people was when he worked and was happy at work. Sometimes in the evening he cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Then he always wanted several attendants and the children enjoyed it. They united with him in the work in the actual doing of something when he was his real self again. He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in a good humour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years, of friction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again. It was nice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron into the scullery crying, How did my road, how did my road? Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose and made the shape he wanted, or he sat absorbed for a moment, soldering. Then the children watched with joy as the metal sank suddenly molten and was shoved about against the nose of the soldering iron, while the room was full of ascent of burnt resin and hot tin, and moral was silent and intent for a minute. He always sang when he mended boots because of the jolly sound of hammering, and he was rather happy when he sat putting great patches on his moleskin pit trousers, which he would often do, considering them too dirty and the stuff too hard for his wife to mend. But the best time for the young children was when he made fuses. Moral fetched a sheaf of long-sound wheat straws from the attic. These he cleaned with his hand till each one gleamed like a stalk of gold, after which he cut the straws into lengths of about six inches, leaving, if he could, a notch at the bottom of each piece. He always had a beautifully sharp knife that could cut a straw clean without hurting it. Then he sat in the middle of the table, a heap of gunpowder, a little pile of black grains upon the white-scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the straws while Paul and Annie rifled and plugged them. Paul loved to see the black grains trickle down a crack in his palm into the mouth of the straw, peppering jollily downwards till the straw was full. Then he bunged up the mouth with a bit of soap, which he got on his thumbnail from a pat in a saucer, and the straw was finished. "'Look, Dad!' he said. "'That's right, my beauty!' replied Moral, who was particularly lavish of endearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse into the powder tin, ready for the morning, when Moral would take it to the pit and use it to fire a shot that would blast the coal down. Then Arthur, still fond of his father, would lean on the arm of Moral's chair and say, "'Tell us about down-pit, Daddy!' This Moral loved to do. "'Well, there's one little us. We call him Taffy!' He would begin. "'And he's a Fawcyn!' Moral had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feel Taffy's cunning. "'He's a brownen!' he would answer, "'And not very high. "'Well, he come in the stall with a rattle, "'and then you hear him sneeze.' "'Hello, Taff,' you say. "'What art sneezing for? "'Pintaggin' some snuff?' "'And he sneezes again. "'Then he slives up and shoves his head on your, "'that cadence.' "'What's that, Taff?' you say. "'And what does he?' Arthur always asked. "'He wants a bit of back of my tucky.' This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybody loved it. Or sometimes it was a new tale. "'And what does think, my darling? When I went to put my coat on at snap-time, what should go running up my arm but a mouse? "'Hey, up there,' I shouts, "'and I were just in time to get him by the tail. "'And did you kill it?' "'I did, for there are nuisance. "'The place is fair snide with him. "'And what do they live on?' "'The corn is the Auss's drop, "'and they'll get in your pocket and eat your snap, "'if you let them. "'No matter where you hang your coat, "'the slavin' nibblin' little nuisances, for they are.' These happy evenings could not take place unless Moral had some job to do, and then he always went to bed very early, often before the children. There was nothing remaining for him to stay up for when he had finished tinkering, and had skimmed the headlines of the newspaper. And the children felt secure when their father was in bed. They lay and talk softly a while. Then they started as the lights went suddenly sprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swung in the hands of the colliers, tramping by outside, going to take the nine o'clock shift. They listened to the voices of the men, imagined them dipping down into the dark valley. Sometimes they went to the window and watched the three or four lamps growing tinier and tinier, swaying down the fields in the blackness. Then it was a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely in the warmth. Paul was a rather delicate boy, subject to bronchitis. The others were all quite strong, so this was another reason for his mother's difference in feeling for him. One day he came home at dinnertime, feeling ill, and it was not a family to make any fuss. What's the matter with you? His mother asked sharply. Nothing, he replied, but he ate no dinner. If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school, she said. Why? he asked. That's why. So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintz cushions the children loved. Then he fell into a kind of dose. That afternoon Mrs. Morrell was ironing. She listened to the small restless noise the boy made in his throat as she worked. Again rose in her heart the old, almost weary feeling towards him. She had never expected him to live, and yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would have been a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture of anguish in her love for him. He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware of the clatter of the iron on the iron stand, of the faint thud, thud on the ironing board. Once roused he opened his eyes to see his mother standing on the hearth rug with the hot iron near her cheek, listening, as it were, to the heat. Her still face, with the mouth closed tight from suffering and disillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, and her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract with love. When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life, but as if she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly this feeling about her that she had never had her life's fulfillment, and his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense of impotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childish aim. She spat on the iron, and the little ball of spit bounded, raced off the dark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the sack lining of the hearth rug vigorously. She was warm in the ruddy firelight. Paul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one side. Her movements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure to watch her. Nothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, could have been found fault with by her children. The room was warm and full of the scent of hot linen. Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her. Paul was laid up with an intact of bronchitis. He did not mine much. What happened, happened, and it was no good kicking against the pricks. He loved the evenings, after eight o'clock, when the light was put out and he could watch the fire flames spring over the darkness of the walls and ceiling, could watch huge shadows waving and tossing till the room seemed full of men who battled silently. On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sick room. He was always very gentle if anyone were ill, but he disturbed the atmosphere for the boy. Hard to sleep, my darling, Morrell asked softly. No, is my mother coming? She's just finishing folding the clothes. Do you want anything? Morrell rarely thee'd his son. I don't want nothing, but how long will she be? Not long, my ducky. The father waited undecidedly on the hearth rug for a moment or two. He felt his son did not want him. Then he went to the top of the stairs and said to his wife, this child's asking for thee how long aren't going to be? Until I finished, good gracious, tell him to go to sleep. She says you were to go to sleep. The father repeated gently to Paul. Well, I want her to come, insisted the boy. He says he can't go off till you come. Morrell called downstairs. Hey, dear, I shan't be long, and do stop shouting downstairs. There's the other children. Then Morrell came again and crouched before the bedroom fire. He loved the fire dearly. She says she won't be long, he said. He loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverish with irritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate Paul his sick and patience. At last Morrell, after having stood looking at his son a while, said softly, good night, my darling, good night. Paul replied, turning round in relief to be alone. Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect in spite of hygienist when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the other comfort from the touch of the other knits the sleep so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept and got better. Whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep that seemed to give her faith. In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffy horses feeding at the troughs in the field, scattering their hay on the trodden yellow snow, watch the miners troop home, small black figures trailing slowly in gangs across the white field. Then the night came up in dark blue vapor from the snow. In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes suddenly arriving on the window pane clung there a moment like swallows, then were gone and a drop of water was crawling down the glass. The snowflakes whirled round the corner of the house like pigeons dashing by. Away across the valley the little black train crawled doubtfully over the great whiteness. While they were so poor the children were delighted if they could do anything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Arthur went out early in the morning in summer looking for mushrooms hunting through the wet grass from which the larks were rising for the white-skinned wonderful naked bodies crouched secretly in the green. And if they got half a pound they felt exceedingly happy. There was the joy of finding something, the joy of accepting something straight from the hand of nature and the joy of contributing to the family exchequer. But the most important harvest after gleaning for frumenty was the blackberries. Mrs. Morrill must buy fruit for puddings on the Saturdays. Also she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur scoured the coppices in woods and old quarries, so long as a blackberry was to be found every weekend going on their search. In that region of mining villages blackberries became a comparative rarity. But Paul hunted far and wide. He loved being out in the country among the bushes. But he also could not bear to go home to his mother empty. That, he felt, would disappoint her and he would have died rather. Good gracious! She would exclaim as the lads came in late and tired to death and hungry. Where ever have you been? Well, replied Paul, there wasn't any, so we went over Miss Kills and look here, our mother. She peeped into the basket. Now those are fine ones, she exclaimed. And there's over two pounds. Isn't there over two pounds? She tried the basket. Yes, she answered doubtfully. Then Paul fished out a little spray. He always brought her one spray, the best he could find. Pretty, she said, in a curious tone of a woman accepting a love token. The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than own himself beaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never realized this whilst he was young. She was a woman who waited for her children to grow up and William occupied her chiefly. But when William went to nodding him and was not so much at home, the mother made a companion of Paul. The latter was unconsciously jealous of his brother and William was jealous of him. At the same time they were good friends. End of part A of chapter 4.