Sons and Lovers
playing like hot breath on the clouds.
He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home, up two long hills,
down two short hills. He was often tired, and he counted the lamps
climbing the hill above him, how many more to pass. And from the
hilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he looked round on the villages five or
six miles away, that shone like swarms of glittering living things,
almost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered the
far-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally the black valley
space between was traced, violated by a great train rushing south to
London or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles
level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with
their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages
glittered in silence.
And then he came to the corner at home, which faced the other side of
the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose with
gladness as he entered. He put his eight shillings proudly on the
table.
“It’ll help, mother?” he asked wistfully.
“There’s precious little left,” she answered, “after your ticket and
dinners and such are taken off.”
Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story, like an Arabian
Nights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost as if
it were her own life.
CHAPTER VI
DEATH IN THE FAMILY
Arthur Morel was growing up. He was a quick, careless, impulsive boy, a
good deal like his father. He hated study, made a great moan if he had
to work, and escaped as soon as possible to his sport again.
In appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well made,
graceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh colouring,
and his exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with
his generous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite. But as he
grew older his temper became uncertain. He flew into rages over
nothing, seemed unbearably raw and irritable.
His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He thought only of
himself. When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way he hated,
even if it were she. When he was in trouble he moaned to her
ceaselessly.
“Goodness, boy!” she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said,
hated him, “if you don’t like it, alter it, and if you can’t alter it,
put up with it.”
And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he came
to detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body,
which had been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem
to ripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable. There
came over him a look of meanness and of paltriness. And when the
mean-looking elderly man bullied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was
furious. Moreover, Morel’s manners got worse and worse, his habits
somewhat disgusting. When the children were growing up and in the
crucial stage of adolescence, the father was like some ugly irritant to
their souls. His manners in the house were the same as he used among
the colliers down pit.
“Dirty nuisance!” Arthur would cry, jumping up and going straight out
of the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel persisted the
more because his children hated it. He seemed to take a kind of
satisfaction in disgusting them, and driving them nearly mad, while
they were so irritably sensitive at the age of fourteen or fifteen. So
that Arthur, who was growing up when his father was degenerate and
elderly, hated him worst of all.
Then, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptuous hatred
of his children.
“There’s not a man tries harder for his family!” he would shout. “He
does his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I’m not
going to stand it, I tell you!”
But for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as he
imagined, they would have felt sorry. As it was, the battle now went on
nearly all between father and children, he persisting in his dirty and
disgusting ways, just to assert his independence. They loathed him.
Arthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won a
scholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother decided to
let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only come home at
week-ends.
Annie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning about
four shillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since
she had passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in
the house.
Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But still
he stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everything
he did was for her. She waited for his coming home in the evening, and
then she unburdened herself of all she had pondered, or of all that had
occurred to her during the day. He sat and listened with his
earnestness. The two shared lives.
William was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her an
engagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped at such a
fabulous price.
“Eight guineas!” said Morel. “More fool him! If he’d gen me some on’t,
it ’ud ha’ looked better on ’im.”
“Given _you_ some of it!” cried Mrs. Morel. “Why give _you_ some of
it!”
She remembered _he_ had bought no engagement ring at all, and she
preferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But now the
young man talked only of the dances to which he went with his
betrothed, and the different resplendent clothes she wore; or he told
his mother with glee how they went to the theatre like great swells.
He wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should come at
the Christmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but with no
presents. Mrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing footsteps, she rose
and went to the door. William entered.
“Hello, mother!” He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to present a
tall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black-and-white
check, and furs.
“Here’s Gyp!”
Miss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a small smile.
“Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!” she exclaimed.
“I am afraid you will be hungry,” said Mrs. Morel.
“Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?”
William Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly.
“How should I?” he said.
“Then I’ve lost them. Don’t be cross with me.”
A frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced round the
kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glittering
kissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden chairs
and little deal table. At that moment Morel came in.
“Hello, dad!”
“Hello, my son! Tha’s let on me!”
The two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She gave the same
smile that showed her teeth.
“How do you do, Mr. Morel?”
Morel bowed obsequiously.
“I’m very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself very
welcome.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, rather amused.
“You will like to go upstairs,” said Mrs. Morel.
“If you don’t mind; but not if it is any trouble to you.”
“It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box.”
“And don’t be an hour dressing yourself up,” said William to his
betrothed.
Annie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, preceded
the young lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. and Mrs. Morel had
vacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by candlelight. The
colliers’ wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case of extreme illness.
“Shall I unstrap the box?” asked Annie.
“Oh, thank you very much!”
Annie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot water.
“I think she’s rather tired, mother,” said William. “It’s a beastly
journey, and we had such a rush.”
“Is there anything I can give her?” asked Mrs. Morel.
“Oh no, she’ll be all right.”
But there was a chill in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss
Western came down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, very fine
for the collier’s kitchen.
“I told you you’d no need to change,” said William to her.
“Oh, Chubby!” Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel.
“Don’t you think he’s always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?”
“Is he?” said Mrs. Morel. “That’s not very nice of him.”
“It isn’t, really!”
“You are cold,” said the mother. “Won’t you come near the fire?”
Morel jumped out of his armchair.
“Come and sit you here!” he cried. “Come and sit you here!”
“No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp,” said William.
“No, no!” cried Morel. “This cheer’s warmest. Come and sit here, Miss
Wesson.”
“Thank you _so_ much,” said the girl, seating herself in the collier’s
armchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of the
kitchen penetrate her.
“Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!” she said, putting up her mouth to him,
and using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made the
rest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The young
lady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures to
her for the present. William winced.
In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a lady
condescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainly
clownish—in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself?
“I’ll go,” said Annie.
Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when the
girl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: “Oh, thank
you!” in a gracious way.
She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been so
poor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, and
chattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twist
tobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as he
puffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answered
quietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence and
admiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best was
got out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth,
the best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand.
She felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how to
treat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable.
At about ten o’clock he said to her:
“Aren’t you tired, Gyp?”
“Rather, Chubby,” she answered, at once in the intimate tones and
putting her head slightly on one side.
“I’ll light her the candle, mother,” he said.
“Very well,” replied the mother.
Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel.
“Good-night, Mrs. Morel,” she said.
Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stone
beer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet,
and kissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the
lady, because the house was full.
“You wait a minute,” said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursing
the hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to
everybody’s discomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In
five minutes he was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did
not know why. He talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but
himself and his mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old
attitude on the hearthrug, and said hesitatingly:
“Well, mother?”
“Well, my son?”
She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, for
his sake.
“Do you like her?”
“Yes,” came the slow answer.
“She’s shy yet, mother. She’s not used to it. It’s different from her
aunt’s house, you know.”
“Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult.”
“She does.” Then he frowned swiftly. “If only she wouldn’t put on her
_blessed_ airs!”
“It’s only her first awkwardness, my boy. She’ll be all right.”