The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some occult, malevolent power—“the devil's pictures,” he called them! But he was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge from a Newark man, on skittles. All the men in the old, long bar took sides, betting either one way or the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry held the hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Some stood with their mugs in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball carefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and won half a crown, which restored him to solvency.
By seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caught the 7.30 train home.
In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant remaining was out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in white aprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a rest between drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale; the slate roofs glistered in the arid heat.
Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, which were not more than two hundred yards away. The water ran quickly over stones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned on the rail of the old sheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of the meadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round the deep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over the blackish stagnant meadow. She knew William was at the dipping-hole, and it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie played under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called currants. The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing.
The children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then she worked awhile.
When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load off their minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put the finishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with the satisfaction of returned travellers.
The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on the men's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were already rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow. Mrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing, went indoors. Nine o'clock passed, and ten, and still “the pair” had not returned. On a doorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl: “Lead, kindly Light.” Mrs. Morel was always indignant with the drunken men that they must sing that hymn when they got maudlin.
“As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough,” she said.
The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On the hob a large black saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel took a panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom, and then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor.
Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but coming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over the feeling of irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he was so hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house. He did not know he was angry. But when the garden gate resisted his attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan. Swaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquor pitched. Mrs. Morel started back.
“Good gracious,” she cried, “coming home in his drunkenness!”
“Comin' home in his what?” he snarled, his hat over his eye.
Suddenly her blood rose in a jet.
“Say you're NOT drunk!” she flashed.
She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into the beer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his face forwards at her.
“'Say you're not drunk,'” he repeated. “Why, nobody but a nasty little bitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought.”
He thrust his face forward at her.
“There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else.”
“I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day,” he said.
“You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing,” she replied. “And,” she cried, flashing into sudden fury, “if you've been sponging on your beloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it.”
“It's a lie, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman.”
They were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the hatred of the other and the battle between them. She was fiery and furious as he. They went on till he called her a liar.
“No,” she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. “Don't call me that—you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather.” She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs.
“You're a liar!” he yelled, banging the table with his fist. “You're a liar, you're a liar.”
She stiffened herself, with clenched fists.
“The house is filthy with you,” she cried.
“Then get out on it—it's mine. Get out on it!” he shouted. “It's me as brings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. Then ger out on't—ger out on't!”
“And I would,” she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence. “Ah, wouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those children. Ay, haven't I repented not going years ago, when I'd only the one”—suddenly drying into rage. “Do you think it's for YOU I stop—do you think I'd stop one minute for YOU?”
“Go, then,” he shouted, beside himself. “Go!”
“No!” She faced round. “No,” she cried loudly, “you shan't have it ALL your own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've got those children to see to. My word,” she laughed, “I should look well to leave them to you.”
“Go,” he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. “Go!”
“I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I could get away from you,” she replied.
He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, thrust forward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled to be free. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her roughly to the outer door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt behind her with a bang. Then he went back into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair, his head, bursting full of blood, sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped gradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and intoxication.
The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel, seared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a great white light, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her inflamed soul. She stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the glistening great rhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She walked down the garden path, trembling in every limb, while the child boiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness; mechanically she went over the last scene, then over it again, certain phrases, certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down on her soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each time the brand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and the pain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half an hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came again to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered to the side garden, where she was walking up and down the path beside the currant bushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from the road, that cut transversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn hedge.
She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could stand as