Morel watched her shyly. He saw again the passion she had had for him. It blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy, rather scared, and humble. Yet again he felt his old glow. And then immediately he felt the ruin he had made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away from it.
“Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh,” he asked her.
His wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped it on his shoulders. He gave a jump.
“Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!” he cried. “Cowd as death!”
“You ought to have been a salamander,” she laughed, washing his back. It was very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The children did those things.
“The next world won't be half hot enough for you,” she added.
“No,” he said; “tha'lt see as it's draughty for me.”
But she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion, and went upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. When he was dried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair on end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood warming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled them inside out, he scorched them.
“Goodness, man!” cried Mrs. Morel, “get dressed!”
“Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o' water?” he said.
At last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black. He did all this on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiar friends had been present.
Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the red earthenware panchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As she was doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little man, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hair was cropped short, his head was bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but healthy and taut.
“Evenin', missis,” he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seated himself with a sigh.
“Good-evening,” she replied cordially.
“Tha's made thy heels crack,” said Morel.
“I dunno as I have,” said Barker.
He sat, as the men always did in Morel's kitchen, effacing himself rather.
“How's missis?” she asked of him.
He had told her some time back:
“We're expectin' us third just now, you see.”
“Well,” he answered, rubbing his head, “she keeps pretty middlin', I think.”
“Let's see—when?” asked Mrs. Morel.
“Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now.”
“Ah! And she's kept fairly?”
“Yes, tidy.”
“That's a blessing, for she's none too strong.”
“No. An' I've done another silly trick.”
“What's that?”
Mrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly.
“I'm come be-out th' market-bag.”
“You can have mine.”
“Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself.”
“I shan't. I take a string bag always.”
She saw the determined little collier buying in the week's groceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. “Barker's little, but he's ten times the man you are,” she said to her husband.
Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven children. But his wife was a passionate woman.
“I see you've kested me,” he said, smiling rather vapidly.
“Yes,” replied Barker.
The newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muffler. His nose was pointed and red.
“I'm afraid you're cold, Mr. Wesson,” said Mrs. Morel.
“It's a bit nippy,” he replied.
“Then come to the fire.”
“Nay, I s'll do where I am.”
Both colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to the hearth. The hearth is sacred to the family.
“Go thy ways i' th' armchair,” cried Morel cheerily.
“Nay, thank yer; I'm very nicely here.”
“Yes, come, of course,” insisted Mrs. Morel.
He rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morel's armchair awkwardly. It was too great a familiarity. But the fire made him blissfully happy.
“And how's that chest of yours?” demanded Mrs. Morel.
He smiled again, with his blue eyes rather sunny.
“Oh, it's very middlin',” he said.
“Wi' a rattle in it like a kettle-drum,” said Barker shortly.
“T-t-t-t!” went Mrs. Morel rapidly with her tongue. “Did you have that flannel singlet made?”
“Not yet,” he smiled.
“Then, why didn't you?” she cried.
“It'll come,” he smiled.
“Ah, an' Doomsday!” exclaimed Barker.
Barker and Morel were both impatient of Wesson. But, then, they were both as hard as nails, physically.
When Morel was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to Paul.
“Count it, boy,” he asked humbly.
Paul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the bag upside down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns and loose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks—the written papers giving amount of coal—put the money in order. Then Barker glanced at the checks.
Mrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. Morel, as master of the house, sat in his armchair, with his back to the hot fire. The two butties had cooler seats. None of them counted the money.
“What did we say Simpson's was?” asked Morel; and the butties cavilled for a minute over the dayman's earnings. Then the amount was put aside.
“An' Bill Naylor's?”
This money also was taken from the pack.
Then, because Wesson lived in one of the company's houses, and his rent had been deducted, Morel and Barker took four-and-six each. And because Morel's coals had come, and the leading was stopped, Barker and Wesson took four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morel gave each of them a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns; each half a crown till there were no more half-crowns; each a shilling till there were no more shillings. If there was anything at the end that wouldn't split, Morel took it and stood drinks.
Then the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the house before his wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She looked hastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing on the table, she saw her money lying. Paul had been working all the time. But now he felt his mother counting the week's money, and her wrath rising,
“T-t-t-t-t!” went her tongue.
He frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted again.
“A measly twenty-five shillings!” she exclaimed. “How much was the cheque?”
“Ten