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Chapter: THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE

AFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel 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 realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her
work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, 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. Morel raked. And the first sound in
the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel
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 a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely
reached common people. What Morel 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 thee a cup o' tea, lass," he said.

"Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it," she replied.

"Drink it up; it'll pop thee 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.

"Yi--there's one big 'un," 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: tha's no 'casions ter 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.

"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner."

"You'd know if there weren't any."

"Ay, 'appen 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 wagging on, then?"

"Ay," answered Mrs. Morel 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. Morel.

"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm sure I
heered 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-coloured 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. Morel.

"T-t-t!" 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. Morel. "And how much shall you
get for those many?"

"Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen," replied the other.

"Well," said Mrs. Morel. "I'd starve before I'd sit down and seam
twenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny."

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Anthony. "You can rip along with 'em."

Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the
yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The
man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, and
bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully.

It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, 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 floury, she rushed to the fence.

"Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk."

Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morel's
copper, and ran in to her neighbour.

"Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried in concern.

"You might fetch Mrs. Bower," said Mrs. Morel.

Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, and
called:

"Ag-gie--Ag-gie!"

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 neighbour.

Mrs. Morel 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-charlotte pudding," said Mrs. Morel.

"He may go without pudding this day," said Mrs. Bower.

Morel 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 Morel, 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, "Uszza--uszza!" he went.

"Shall ter finish, Sorry?" cried Barker, his fellow butty.

"Finish? Niver while the world stands!" growled Morel.

And he went on striking. He was tired.

"It's a heart-breaking job," said Barker.

But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer.
Still he struck and hacked with all his might.

"Tha might as well leave it, Walter," said Barker. "It'll do to-morrow,
without thee hackin' thy guts out."

"I'll lay no b---- finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel.

"Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else'll ha'e to," said Israel.

Then Morel continued to strike.

"Hey-up there--LOOSE-A'!" cried the men, leaving the next stall.

Morel continued to strike.

"Tha'll happen catch me up," said Barker, departing.

When he had gone, Morel, 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. Down 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.
Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable.

"It's rainin', Sorry," said old Giles, who had had the news from the
top.

Morel 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; grey rain was
falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the
sides of the waggons, over the white "C.W. and Co.". Colliers, walking
indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field,
a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from
the peppering of the drops thereon.

All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and
dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel 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. Morel, feeling
sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under
the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of
Greenhill Lane.

Mrs. Morel 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 stile up the field.

"There's some herb beer behind the pantry door," she said. "Th'
master'll 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 bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of
everything. She had it in bed with her.

Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearily
and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the sink; then he
sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the
inner doorway.

"Well," she said, "she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy childt."

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.

"Han yer got a drink?" he asked.

The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. She
set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel. He
drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank,
gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him
again. She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs.

"Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel.

"I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs. Bower.

After he had sat with his arms on the table--he resented the fact that
Mrs. Bower 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. Bower 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 stockinged 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 are ter, then?" he asked.

"I s'll be all right," she answered.

"H'm!"

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.

"A lad, tha 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. Morel 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 manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts
of Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel 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. Morel. Then she laid
the cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim, and
hoped Morel 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
Morel needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby,
whilst Mrs. Morel 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, became 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. Morel thought to herself:

"Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why he makes his love
into the Holy Ghost."

They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heard the
sluther of pit-boots.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself.

The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He was feeling rather
savage. He nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman, who rose to shake
hands with him.

"Nay," said Morel, showing his hand, "look thee at it! Tha niver
wants ter shake hands wi' a hand like that, does ter? There's too much
pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it."

The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel
rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his coat,
dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily.

"Are you tired?" asked the clergyman.

"Tired? I ham that," replied Morel. "YOU don't know what it is to be
tired, as I'M tired."

"No," replied the clergyman.

"Why, look yer 'ere," 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. Morel. "Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feel your
nasty singlet."

The clergyman put out his hand gingerly.

"No, perhaps he doesn't," said Morel; "but it's all come out of me,
whether or not. An' iv'ry day alike my singlet's wringin' wet. 'Aven't
you got a drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from
the pit?"

"You know you drank all the beer," said Mrs. Morel, pouring out his tea.

"An' was there no more to be got?" Turning to the clergyman--"A man gets
that caked up wi' th' dust, you know,--that clogged up down a coal-mine,
he NEEDS a drink when he comes home."

"I am sure he does," said the clergyman.

"But it's ten to one if there's owt for him."

"There's water--and there's tea," said Mrs. Morel.

"Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat."

He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through his
great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out another
saucerful, and stood his cup on the table.

"My cloth!" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate.

"A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths," said
Morel.

"Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically.

The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes.

He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache 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, yi, a sight harder than that wall--"

"Needn't make a moan of it," put in Mrs. Morel.

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. Morel looked at her cloth.

"A fine mess!" she said.

"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha's got a
parson for tea wi' thee?" he bawled.

They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, and
Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked
Annie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel 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. Morel, 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 Morel growled:

"I canna 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. Morel 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 bluish 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 practising, and Mrs. Morel could hear the chock
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
under shadows were smouldering. Away at the grange, one side of the
haystacks was lit up, the other sides blue-grey. A waggon 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. Morel 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
fierily 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's scarlet. The big haystacks on the
hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold.

With Mrs. Morel 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, a swallow cut close to her.
Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby
was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the
light.

Mrs. Morel 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 was thinking about something--quite sorrowful," said
Mrs. Kirk.

Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heart melted
into 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 realised 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 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
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 cosier. He hastened forward in anticipation. All
the slate roofs of the Bottoms shone black with wet. The roads, always
dark with coal-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 sound of voices and
the smell of beer and smoke.

"What shollt ha'e, Walter?" cried a voice, as soon as Morel appeared in
the doorway.

"Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?"

The men made a seat for him, and took him in warmly. He was glad. In a
minute or two they had thawed all responsibility out of him, all shame,
all trouble, and he was clear as a bell for a jolly night.

On the Wednesday following, Morel was penniless. He 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 the garden with the child, he hunted in the top drawer of
the dresser where she kept her purse, found it, and looked inside. It
contained a half-crown, two halfpennies, and a sixpence. So he took the
sixpence, put the purse carefully back, and went out.

The next day, when she wanted to pay the greengrocer, she 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 week-end he
had put the shilling again into her purse. So that was how she had known
he had taken it. The second time 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 an offended way. "No, I didna! I niver
clapped eyes on your purse."

But she could detect the lie.

"Why, you know you did," she said quietly.

"I tell you I didna," he shouted. "Yer at me again, are yer? I've had
about enough on't."

"So you filch sixpence out of my purse while I'm taking the clothes in."

"I'll may yer pay for this," he said, pushing back his chair in
desperation. He bustled and got washed, then went determinedly upstairs.
Presently he came down dressed, and with a big bundle in a blue-checked,
enormous handkerchief.

"And now," he said, "you'll see me again when you do."

"It'll be before I want to," she replied; and at that he 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 in with another woman? But she knew him too
well--he couldn't. She was dead sure of him. Nevertheless her heart was
gnawed inside her.

"Where's my dad?" said William, coming in from school.

"He says he's run away," replied the mother.

"Where to?"

"Eh, I don't know. He's taken a bundle in the blue handkerchief, and
says he's not coming back."

"What shall we do?" cried the boy.

"Eh, never trouble, he won't go far."

"But if he doesn't come back," wailed Annie.

And she and William retired to the sofa and wept. Mrs. Morel sat and
laughed.

"You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll see him before the night's
out."

But the children were not to be consoled. Twilight came on. Mrs. Morel
grew anxious from very weariness. One part of her 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. Morel sat waiting. He had not any money, she knew, so if he stopped
he was running up a bill. She was very tired of him--tired to death. He
had not even the courage to carry his 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 armchair, 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, sulkily, trying to be impressive.

"Why, where should you have gone? You daren't even get your parcel
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. Morel
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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After that first night back on the old sauce, Walter's confidence starts to shrink, along with "his pride and moral strength" . He still goes to the bar on Fridays, but doesn't come home quite so drunk. He makes his own breakfast and brings his wife a cup of tea when he's done. Mrs. Morel, though, just criticizes the tea and makes him leave. During this time, Mrs. Morel spends her days mostly going outside to the ash pit and talking to other wives. It's their regular Ash Pit and Dish Circle. One day, Mrs. Morel summons her neighbor Mrs. Kirk and asks for a woman named Aggie Bower. It looks like the baby is coming. Not so fast. That itty bitty infant ain't coming out easy. Mrs. Morel experiences difficulty in giving birth to this kid, just like she has with her other kids. And Walter isn't home for the birth, of course. She figures he stopped at the pub. When dude finally does get home, Mrs. Morel tells him to leave, though she actually wants him to kiss her. He wants to kiss her, too, but neither one of them will make a move. Ugh, relationships. Use your words, people. After the birth, Mrs. Morel hangs out during the day with Mr. Heaton, the local preacher, a widower who likes to talk to her. Walter comes home and half-embarrasses Heaton with his rude miner-talk. After Heaton leaves, Mrs. Morel and Walter have another argument. Are you getting the gist of their extremely functional relationship yet? One night, after Heaton has been over, Mrs. Morel goes out with the children. Walter has kicked William, and she'll never forgive him for it. The new baby seems to have a face that's always sad, and this weighs on Mrs. Morel. She begins to wonder what the future holds for her little boy, and suddenly decides to name him Paul. Probably not because she's obsessed with Peter, Paul, and Mary. That was us. On another night, Walter comes home surly and wants to know if there's food. Mrs. Morel tells him to do things for himself--really, come on. But as he goes about doing that, he drops a drawer of kitchen stuff, and kicks it before it hits the ground, sending it flying into Mrs. Morel's face. Ouchies. She starts bleeding badly from her brow. Walter feels terrible and tries to help her. The next day, Mrs. Morel tells William and Annie that she banged her head on a kitchen latch when a candle blew out. The children seem to know better, though. When Walter gets out of bed the next Sunday, he decides that he no longer cares what his family thinks of him. Whenever he enters a room in the house, the family shrinks away from him. When he goes to the pub, though, people welcome him like a brother and make a seat for him. So he starts going with the second option more and more often. The next Wednesday, Walter sneaks into the house, completely broke, and takes money from Mrs. Morel's purse to go drinking. Still, because Walter is a Grade A Class Act, he pretends to be offended when his wife accuses him of taking the money. Then he makes himself a hobo-style bindle, saying that he's going to leave the house forever. Mrs. Morel is mad, but also a little frightened by the idea that Walter might go live with another woman and work in some other pit. At the end of the day, she depends on the little income he brings home. This is not a good situation for anyone. Mrs. Morel knows that she once loved her husband, and doesn't anymore. We're pretty sure they should get a divorce, but it doesn't look like things are headed that way, does it?


prompt:
Chapter: THE CASTING OFF OF MOREL--THE TAKING ON OF WILLIAM

DURING the next week Morel's temper was almost unbearable. Like all
miners, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, he
would often pay for himself.

"You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral," he said. "It's a winder as we
canna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse."

So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite first
medicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging in
the attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue, horehound, elder
flowers, parsley-purt, marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury.
Usually there was a jug of one or other decoction 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 Nottingham. Since then he had
drunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel 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 breadwinner, she never
quite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him for
herself.

The neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had the children
in to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her, one
would mind the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless.
It was not every day the neighbours 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 butty put by a portion
of the stall's profits for Morel's wife. And the neighbours made broths,
and gave eggs, and such invalids' trifles. If they had not helped her so
generously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled through,
without incurring debts that would have dragged her down.

The weeks passed. Morel, 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 spoilt him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He often
put his band to his head, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and
shammed 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 lachrymose."

That wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness.

"I wouldn't be such a mardy 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. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost
like a child, was rather happy. Neither 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, her self 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 quoits. 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 "cluck" 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 vigour, making the
world glow again for her.

And Morel 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. Soon 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. Morel 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. Morel was glad this
child loved the father. Hearing the miner's footsteps, the baby would
put up his arms and crow. And if Morel were in a good temper, he called
back immediately, in his hearty, mellow voice:

"What then, my beauty? I sh'll come to thee in a minute."

And as soon as he had taken off his pit-coat, Mrs. Morel 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 Morel laughed joyfully.

"He's a little collier, bless his bit o' 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, I'll 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, or
at last he cried himself to sleep. These fits were not often, but they
caused a shadow in Mrs. Morel'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 barm-man, she heard a voice calling her. It was the thin little
Mrs. Anthony in brown velvet.

"Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about your Willie."

"Oh, do you?" replied Mrs. Morel. "Why, what's the matter?"

"A lad as gets 'old of another an' rips his clothes off'n 'is back,"
Mrs. Anthony said, "wants showing something."

"Your Alfred's as old as my William," said Mrs. Morel.

"'Appen 'e is, but that doesn't give him a right to get hold of the
boy's collar, an' fair rip it clean off his back."

"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "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 ter rippin' a lad's clean collar off'n 'is
back a-purpose--"

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose," said Mrs. Morel.

"Make me a liar!" shouted Mrs. Anthony.

Mrs. Morel moved away and closed her gate. Her hand trembled as she held
her mug of barm.

"But I s'll let your mester 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--an' it was torn a'ready."

"But you tore it more."

"Well, I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked seventeen--an' Alfy Ant'ny 'e
says:

     'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me,
     Went down to a river to bade.
     Adam an' Eve got drownded,
     Who do yer think got saved?'

An' so I says: 'Oh, Pinch-YOU,' an' so I pinched 'im, an' 'e was mad,
an' so he snatched my cobbler an' run off with it. An' so I run after
'im, an' when I was gettin' hold of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it ripped 'is
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. Morel, "you know you've got no right to rip his
collar."

"Well, our mother!" he answered. "I never meant tr'a done it--an' it was
on'y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a'ready."

"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. Morel, who hated any
bother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony,
and the business would be over.

But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood
in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes.
Then:

"Wheer's that Willy?" he asked.

"What do you want HIM for?" asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.

"I'll let 'im know when I get him," said Morel, banging his pit-bottle
on to the dresser.

"I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you about
Alfy's collar," said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.

"Niver mind who's got hold of me," said Morel. "When I get hold of 'IM
I'll make his bones rattle."

"It's a poor tale," said Mrs. Morel, "that you're so ready to side
with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own
children."

"I'll learn 'im!" said Morel. "It none matters to me whose lad 'e is;
'e's none goin' rippin' an' tearin' about just as he's a mind."

"'Ripping and tearing about!'" repeated Mrs. Morel. "He was running
after that Alfy, who'd taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold
of his collar, because the other dodged--as an Anthony would."

"I know!" shouted Morel threateningly.

"You would, before you're told," replied his wife bitingly.

"Niver you mind," stormed Morel. "I know my business."

"That's more than doubtful," said Mrs. Morel, "supposing some
loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children."

"I know," repeated Morel.

And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William
ran in, saying:

"Can I have my tea, mother?"

"Tha can ha'e more than that!" shouted Morel.

"Hold your noise, man," said Mrs. Morel; "and don't look so ridiculous."

"He'll look ridiculous before I've done wi' him!" shouted Morel, 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. Morel commanded her son.

William had not the wit to move. Suddenly Morel clenched his fist, and
crouched.

"I'll GI'E him 'go out'!" he shouted like an insane thing.

"What!" cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage. "You shall not touch him
for HER telling, you shall not!"

"Shonna I?" shouted Morel. "Shonna I?"

And, glaring at the boy, he ran forward. Mrs. Morel sprang in between
them, with her fist 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 hypnotised by her, turned suddenly and was gone. Morel
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, milord, to
lay a finger on that child! You'll 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. Morel joined
the Women's Guild. It was a little club of women attached to the
Co-operative 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. Sometimes Mrs. Morel 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
"clat-fart" 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. Morel 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 dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed Jack on 'im for?" said Morel.
"All he'll do is to wear his britches behind out an' earn nowt. What's
'e startin' wi'?"

"It doesn't matter what he's starting with," said Mrs. Morel.

"It wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we me, an' 'ell earn a easy ten shillin'
a wik from th' start. But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end out on a
stool's better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi'me, I know."

"He is NOT going in the pit," said Mrs. Morel, "and there's an end of
it."

"It wor good enough for me, but it's non good enough for 'im."

"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 wor a sight afore that!"

"Whenever it was," said Mrs. Morel.

She 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 inkstand of glass, shaped like an anvil. It stood proudly on the
dresser, and gave Mrs. Morel 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 two 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. Willam began
to consort with the sons of the chemist, the schoolmaster, and
the tradesmen. 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 sixpenny-hops down Church Street, to sports and
billiards.

Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like
ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart for a
brief fortnight.

Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs.
Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed
the air.

"Is Mr. Morel in?" the damsel would ask appealingly.

"My husband is at home," Mrs. Morel replied.

"I--I mean YOUNG Mr. Morel," repeated the maiden painfully.

"Which one? There are several."

Whereupon much blushing and stammering from the fair one.

"I--I met Mr. Morel--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.
Knowing 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 baggages 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 Torkard--considered a low town--to
a fancy-dress ball. He was to be a Highlander. 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. Morel 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. Morel
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.

She 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 Nottingham. 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. Morel 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. Morel.
Arthur, a spoilt 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
Nottingham.

William remained a year at his new post in Nottingham. 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 teetotallers. 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--amuse
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. Morel felt everything go silent
inside her. He read the letter: "'And 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,
mater. We s'll all be rolling in money."

"We shall, my son," she answered sadly.

It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt at his 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, Postle, let's go through my letters, and you can have the
birds and flowers."

Mrs. Morel 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.

"Um!" said Paul, breathing in. "What d'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 Croesus. He owns
property without end. She calls me Lafayette, because I know French.
'You will see, I've forgiven you'--I 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. Morel.

"'Transpires'--oh yes!"

"'Transpires!'" repeated Mrs. Morel 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 for ever," 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 'em, mater, 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 notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots
and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next week, Walter's temper is worse than ever. He starts using his money to buy all kinds of gimmicky medicines and vitamins. If only he'd lived in the age of Red Bull. Right on cue, Walter Morel gets sick and needs Mrs. Morel to take care of him. The problem is, he wants her to keep doing everything for him even after he gets better. So what does Walter start doing? He starts faking being sick. This is basically a case of Munchausen Syndrome. Anyway, Mrs. Morel goes along with the ruse, and, for a while, the house is actually fairly peaceful. The sad reality is that Mrs. Morel only starts treating Walter better because she really doesn't care about him anymore. Seventeen months after Paul is born, Mrs. Morel has another baby. Little William grows bigger and becomes more active, while Paul gets thinner and more delicate, following his mother around like a shadow. What a nerd. Paul is also prone to bouts of depression. One day, a neighbor named Mrs. Anthony says that William ripped the collar of her son's shirt. She's pretty upset about this business, but Mrs. Morel defends William. He's her kid, after all. When she asks William about the incident that night, William claims that Alfred ran off with his "cobbler" and William chased after him for it and accidentally ripped off his collar when reaching for him. But just when things seem resolved, Walter comes home that night looking for William. It's clear that Mrs. Anthony has told him what happened, and he's ready to hit his son for it. Mrs. Morel scolds Walter for siding so readily against his own son. But when William enters the house, Walter jumps up to hit him anyway. Mrs. Morel leaps between Walter and William and tells her husband he'll have to fight her to get to William. This relationship just keeps getting better and better. When the children are old enough to be left alone, Mrs. Morel joins a group of women in the "Co-operative Wholesale Society," and starts writing papers to read aloud at public meetings. The narrator tells us that some husbands don't like this club because it gives women too much independence. When William turns thirteen, Mrs. Morel gets him a job in the Co-op office. Walter says William will make more money in the mine, but Mrs. Morel says there's no way William's following his father into the pit. Soon, William starts to hang out with all the fancy people of Bestwood. He tells his younger brother Paul about all the pretty girls he meets. Sometimes, girls will come to the Morels' door and ask for William, and Mrs. Morel will give them a hard time. Like any good parent would, really. But she's going to have to let him have his own life eventually. Right? Right? When he's nineteen, William leaves the Co-op office and gets another job in Nottingham for nearly double the pay. Both Mrs. And Mr. Morel brim with pride. Then he gets a job in London for four times the money, which is incredible. His mother doesn't know whether to rejoice or grieve, though, because she's worried about how hard he's working. Also, she's obviously creepily attached to the dude, so she doesn't want him to leave. As the days count down to William's departure, Mrs. Morel grows more depressed.