Sons and Lovers
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 Morel was home by ten
o’clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.
Walter Morel 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. Morel, 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’ll 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. Morel 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
affectedly.
“And you got it,” she said, still ignoring him.
He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the
table with one hand, and with the other 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 start.
“What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?” the mother cried.
“Then tha should get the flamin’ thing thysen. Tha should get up, like
other women have to, an’ wait on a man.”
“Wait on you—wait on you?” she cried. “Yes, I see myself.”
“Yis, an’ I’ll learn thee tha’s got to. Wait on _me_, yes tha sh’lt
wait on me—”
“Never, milord. I’d wait on a dog at the door first.”
“What—what?”
He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round.
His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent
second in threat.
“P-h!” she went quickly, in contempt.
He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut 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 to. 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 Morel 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, caught 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 the
catastrophe he had lost all balance.
“Go away,” she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind.
He hiccoughed. “Let’s—let’s look at it,” he said, hiccoughing again.
“Go away!” she cried.
“Lemme—lemme look at it, lass.”
She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his 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.
Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer back into its
cavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws, for the
scattered spoons.
Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and 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. She drew away
from the thrust of his face with its great moustache, averting her own
face as much as possible. As he looked at her, who was cold and
impassive as stone, with mouth shut tight, he sickened with feebleness
and hopelessness of spirit. He was turning drearily away, when he saw a
drop of blood 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
she singed before the fire, then put on her forehead, as she sat with
the baby on her lap.
“Now that clean pit-scarf.”
Again he rummaged and fumbled in the drawer, returning 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. Morel 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 Morel 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 2.30,
dinner, and bed; scarcely a word spoken. When Mrs. Morel 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 Morel 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 eternally “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.
Morel 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 sickened Mrs. Morel. As
she heard him sousing heartily in cold water, heard the eager scratch
of the steel comb on the side of the bowl, as he wetted his hair, she
closed her eyes in disgust. As he bent over, lacing his boots, there
was a certain vulgar gusto in his 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