He was a remarkably handy man—could make or mend anything. So she would say:
“I do like that coal-rake of your mother's—it is small and natty.”
“Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee one!”
“What! why, it's a steel one!”
“An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactly same.”
She did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy and happy.
But in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, she felt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity, took them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was married in: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning the papers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid.
“Look here,” she said at night, after he was washed and had had his dinner. “I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. Haven't you settled the bills yet?”
“No. I haven't had a chance.”
“But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottingham on Saturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's chairs and eating from an unpaid table.”
He did not answer.
“I can have your bank-book, can't I?”
“Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee.”
“I thought—” she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money left over. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigid with bitterness and indignation.
The next day she went down to see his mother.
“Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?” she asked.
“Yes, I did,” tartly retorted the elder woman.
“And how much did he give you to pay for it?”
The elder woman was stung with fine indignation.
“Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin',” she replied.
“Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!”
“I can't help that.”
“But where has it all gone?”
“You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look—beside ten pound as he owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down here.”
“Six pounds!” echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that, after her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six pounds more should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter's parents' house, at his expense.
“And how much has he sunk in his houses?” she asked.
“His houses—which houses?”
Gertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house he lived in, and the next one, was his own.
“I thought the house we live in—” she began.
“They're my houses, those two,” said the mother-in-law. “And not clear either. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid.”
Gertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now.
“Then we ought to be paying you rent,” she said coldly.
“Walter is paying me rent,” replied the mother.
“And what rent?” asked Gertrude.
“Six and six a week,” retorted the mother.
It was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect, looked straight before her.
“It is lucky to be you,” said the elder woman, bitingly, “to have a husband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free hand.”
The young wife was silent.
She said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towards him. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard as rock.
When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, at Christmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This Christmas she would bear him a child.
“You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?” asked her nearest neighbour, in October, when there was great talk of opening a dancing-class over the Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood.
“No—I never had the least inclination to,” Mrs. Morel replied.
“Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You know he's quite a famous one for dancing.”
“I didn't know he was famous,” laughed Mrs. Morel.
“Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners' Arms club-room for over five year.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, he did.” The other woman was defiant. “An' it was thronged every Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day—an' there WAS carryin's-on, accordin' to all accounts.”
This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel, and she had a fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first; for she was superior, though she could not help it.
He began to be rather late in coming home.
“They're working very late now, aren't they?” she said to her washer-woman.
“No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop to have their pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner stone cold—an' it serves 'em right.”
“But Mr. Morel does not take any drink.”
The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then went on with her work, saying nothing.
Gertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born. Morel was good to her, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely, miles away from her own people. She felt lonely with him now, and his presence only made it more intense.
The boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He was a beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes which changed gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him passionately. He came just when her own bitterness of disillusion was hardest to bear; when her faith in life was shaken, and her soul felt dreary and lonely. She made much of the child, and the father was jealous.
At last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned to the child; she turned from the father. He had begun to neglect her; the novelty of his own home was gone. He had no grit, she said bitterly to herself. What he felt just at the minute, that was all to him. He could not abide by anything. There was nothing at the back of all his show.
There began a battle between the husband and wife—a fearful, bloody battle that ended only with the death of one. She fought to make him undertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfill his obligations. But he was too different from her. His nature was purely sensuous, and she strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face things. He could not endure it—it drove him out of his mind.
While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become so irritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give a little trouble when the man began to bully. A little more, and the hard hands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed her husband, loathed him for days; and he went out and drank; and she cared very little what he did. Only, on his return, she scathed him with her satire.
The estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly, grossly to offend her where he would not have done.
William was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him, he was so pretty.