The Bottoms” succeeded to “Hell Row”.


Can I have my dinner, mother? ’Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so.


You can have your dinner as soon as it’s done,


Isn’t it done? Then I’m goin’ be-out it.


You’ll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It is only half-past twelve.


They’ll be beginnin’,


You won’t die if they do. Besides, it’s only half-past twelve, so you’ve a full hour.


I told you!


Take your pudding in your hand—and it’s only five past one, so you were wrong—you haven’t got your twopence,


I want to go, I want to go,


Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!


You never said you was coming—isn’t the’ a lot of things?—that lion’s killed three men—I’ve spent my tuppence—an’ look here. I got these from that stall where y’ave ter get them marbles in them holes. An’ I got these two in two goes-’aepenny a go-they’ve got moss-roses on, look here. I wanted these.


H’m! They are pretty!


Shall you carry ’em, ’cause I’m frightened o’ breakin’ ’em?


Well, are you coming now, or later?


Are you goin’ a’ready?


Already? It is past four, I know.


What are you goin’ a’ready for?


You needn’t come if you don’t want,


Has my dad been?


No,


He’s helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through that black tin stuff wi’ holes in, on the window, wi’ his sleeves rolled up.


Ha! He’s got no money. An’ he’ll be satisfied if he gets his ’lowance, whether they give him more or not.


What have I to do with it? What have I to do with all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn’t seem as if I were taken into account. I wait. I wait, and what I wait for can never come.


Oh! Oh! waitin’ for me, lass? I’ve bin ’elpin’ Anthony, an’ what’s think he’s gen me? Nowt b’r a lousy hae’f-crown, an’ that’s ivry penny—


He thinks you’ve made the rest up in beer,


An’ I ’aven’t—that I ’aven’t. You b’lieve me, I’ve ’ad very little this day, I have an’ all. Here, an’ I browt thee a bit o’ brandysnap, an’ a cocoanut for th’ children. Nay, tha niver said thankyer for nowt i’ thy life, did ter? It’s a good un, you may back yer life o’ that. I got it fra’ Bill Hodgkisson. ‘Bill,’ I says, ‘tha non wants them three nuts, does ter? Arena ter for gi’ein’ me one for my bit of a lad an’ wench?’ ‘I ham, Walter, my lad,’ ’e says; ‘ta’e which on ’em ter’s a mind.’ An’ so I took one, an’ thanked ’im. I didn’t like ter shake it afore ’is eyes, but ’e says, ‘Tha’d better ma’e sure it’s a good un, Walt.’ An’ so, yer see, I knowed it was. He’s a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e’s a nice chap!


A man will part with anything so long as he’s drunk, and you’re drunk along with him,


Eh, tha mucky little ’ussy, who’s drunk, I sh’d like ter know?


Now sit still. Now your hair, I don’t know what it is like! It’s as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, and it has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it’s brown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour.


But you say you don’t like business,


I don’t. I hate it!


And you would like to go into the ministry,


I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate preacher.


Then why don’t you—why don’t you? If I were a man, nothing would stop me.


But my father’s so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business, and I know he’ll do it.


But if you’re a man?


Being a man isn’t everything,


Now, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some experience of what being a man meant, she knew that it was not everything.


Now do come and have this one wi’ me. It’s easy, you know. I’m pining to see you dance.


No, I won’t dance. But you mustn’t miss your dance,


Nay, I don’t want to dance that—it’s not one as I care about.


Yet you invited me to it.


I never thought o’ that. Tha’rt not long in taking the curl out of me.


You don’t look as if you’d come much uncurled,


I’m like a pig’s tail, I curl because I canna help it,


And you are a miner!


Yes. I went down when I was ten.


When you were ten! And wasn’t it very hard?


You soon get used to it. You live like th’ mice, an’ you pop out at night to see what’s going on.


It makes me feel blind,


Like a moudiwarp!


Yi, an’ there’s some chaps as does go round like moudiwarps.


They dun though!


Tha niver seed such a way they get in. But tha mun let me ta’e thee down some time, an’ tha can see for thysen.


Shouldn’t ter like it?


’Appen not, it ’ud dirty thee.


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.


Look here,


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.


Tha can ha’e it, for what good it’ll be to thee.


I thought—


Didn’t you buy the furniture for Walter?


Yes, I did,


And how much did he give you to pay for it?


Eighty pound, if you’re so keen on knowin’,


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!


His houses—which houses?


I thought the house we live in—


They’re my houses, those two,


Then we ought to be paying you rent,


Walter is paying me rent,


And what rent?


Six and six a week,


It is lucky to be you,


to have a husband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free hand.


You don’t dance yourself, do you, missis?


No—I never had the least inclination to,


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,


Did he?


Yes, he did.


An’ it was thronged every Tuesday, and Thursday, an’ Sat’day—an’ there was carryin’s-on, accordin’ to all accounts.


They’re working very late now, aren’t they?


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.


What dost think o’ ’im?


I could kill you, I could!


Yer non want ter make a wench on ’im,


Oh—my boy!


Th’ gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an’ ’e says, ‘You know, Walter, this ’ere’ll not do. What about these props?’ An’ I says to him, ‘Why, what art talkin’ about? What d’st mean about th’ props?’ ‘It’ll never do, this ’ere,’ ’e says. ‘You’ll be havin’ th’ roof in, one o’ these days.’ An’ I says, ‘Tha’d better stan’ on a bit o’ clunch, then, an’ hold it up wi’ thy ’ead.’ So ’e wor that mad, ’e cossed an’ ’e swore, an’ t’other chaps they did laugh. 'I shan’t have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or you?’ So I says, ‘I’ve niver fun out how much tha’ knows, Alfred. It’ll ’appen carry thee ter bed an’ back.'


Minton’s knocked off. My dad’ll be at home.


I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather be short, for when he’s flush, there isn’t a minute of peace.


What, are thee there! Sluthe off an’ let me wesh mysen.


You may wait till I’ve finished,


Oh, mun I? An’ what if I shonna?


Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub.


Ha! I can’ an’ a’, tha mucky little ’ussy.


A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!


I’ve never known Jerry mean in my life. A opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn’t find anywhere, accordin’ to my knowledge.


Open-handed to you. But his fist is shut tight enough to his children, poor things.


Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know.


Mornin’, missis! Mester in?


Yes—he is.


A nice day,


Yes.


Grand out this morning—grand for a walk.


Do you mean you’re going for a walk?


Yes. We mean walkin’ to Nottingham,


H’m!


Lead, kindly Light. As if ‘Genevieve’ weren’t good enough,


Good gracious, coming home in his drunkenness!


Comin’ home in his what?


Say you’re not drunk!


'Say you’re not drunk,' Why, nobody but a nasty little bitch like you ’ud ’ave such a thought. There’s money to bezzle with, if there’s money for nothing else. I’ve not spent a two-shillin’ bit this day,


You don’t get as drunk as a lord on nothing. And, 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.


No. Don’t call me that—you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather.


You’re a liar! You’re a liar, you’re a liar.


The house is filthy with you,


Then get out on it—it’s mine. Get out on it! 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. 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 Do you think it’s for you I stop—do you think I’d stop one minute for you?


Go, then. Go!


No! No, 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. I should look well to leave them to you.


Go. Go!


I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I could get away from you,


The nuisance! the nuisance!


Open the door, Walter,


I don’t care who you are nor what you are, I shall have my own way.


I’ve brought thee a cup o’ tea, lass,


Well, you needn’t, for you know I don’t like it,


Drink it up; it’ll pop thee off to sleep again.


I’ll back my life there’s no sugar in,


Yi—there’s one big un,


It’s a wonder,


Now I’m cleaned up for thee: tha’s no ’casions ter stir a peg all day, but sit and read thy books.


And the dinner cooks itself?


Eh, I know nowt about th’ dinner.


You’d know if there weren’t any.


Ay, ’appen so,


So you keep wagging on, then?


Ay. There’s nothing else for it.


Have you seen Hose?


I haven’t,


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. I’ve done ten dozen this week,


T-t-t!


I don’t know how you can find time.


Eh! You can find time if you make time.


I don’t know how you do it. And how much shall you get for those many?


Tuppence-ha’penny a dozen,


Well. I’d starve before I’d sit down and seam twenty-four stockings for twopence ha’penny.


Oh, I don’t know. You can rip along with ’em.


Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?


If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Kirk.


Eh, dear, how are you feeling?


You might fetch Mrs. Bower,


Ag-gie—Ag-gie!


Hash some cold meat up for the master’s dinner, and make him an apple-charlotte pudding,


He may go without pudding this day,


Shall ter finish, Sorry?


Finish? Niver while the world stands!


It’s a heart-breaking job. Tha might as well leave it, Walter. It’ll do to-morrow, without thee hackin’ thy guts out.


I’ll lay no b—— finger on this to-morrow, Isr’el!


Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else’ll ha’e to,


Hey-up there—loose-a’!


Tha’ll happen catch me up,


It’s rainin’, Sorry,


There’s some herb beer behind the pantry door. Th’ master’ll want a drink, if he doesn’t stop. What is it?


A boy.


Well, she’s about as bad as she can be. It’s a boy childt.


Han yer got a drink?


Was that the master?


I’ve gave him his dinner,


Well, how are ter, then?


I s’ll be all right,


H’m! A lad, tha says. Bless him!


Go now,


I will, my lass,


When He changed the water into wine at Cana, 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.


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


How d’yer do Nay, 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.


Are you tired?


Tired? I ham that. You don’t know what it is to be tired, as I’m tired.


No,


Why, look yer ’ere. It’s a bit dry now, but it’s wet as a clout with sweat even yet. Feel it.


Goodness! Mr. Heaton doesn’t want to feel your nasty singlet.


No, perhaps he doesn’t, 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,


An’ was there no more to be got? 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,


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


There’s water—and there’s tea,


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


My cloth!


A man as comes home as I do ’s too tired to care about cloths,


Pity!


Mr. Heaton, 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. A fine mess!


Dos’t think I’m goin’ to sit wi’ my arms danglin’, cos tha’s got a parson for tea wi’ thee?


God Bless Our Home!


What are you putting in for?


I canna see what there is so much to laugh at.


He looks as if he was thinking about something—quite sorrowful,


My lamb!


Look! Look, my pretty! If he lives, what will become of him—what will he be? I will call him Paul,


I wish the nuisance would come. But I’ll say nothing, whatever time he comes. It only works me up; I won’t say anything. But I know if he does anything it’ll make my blood boil,


Is there nothing to eat in the house?


You know what there is in the house,


I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer,


And you got it. What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?


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? 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?


P-h!


Did it catch thee?


Go away,


Let’s—let’s look at it,


Go away!


Lemme—lemme look at it, lass.


What has it done to thee, lass?


You can see what it’s done,


What of this child? Get me some wadding out of the middle drawer. Now that clean pit-scarf.


Let me tie it for thee,


I can do it myself. I knocked against the latch of the coal-place, when I was getting a raker in the dark, because the candle blew out.


It was her own fault,


Isn’t my father going to get up?


Let him lie,


If she hadn’t said so-and-so, it would never have happened. She asked for what she’s got.


What shollt ha’e, Walter? Oh, Jim, my lad, wheriver has thee sprung frae?


Was there a sixpence? I hadn’t spent it, had I? And I hadn’t left it anywhere else?


Did you take sixpence out of my purse last night?


Me! No, I didna! I niver clapped eyes on your purse.


Why, you know you did,


I tell you I didna. 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. And now, you’ll see me again when you do.


It’ll be before I want to,


Where’s my dad?


He says he’s run away,


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?


Eh, never trouble, he won’t go far.


But if he doesn’t come back,


You pair of gabeys! You’ll see him before the night’s out.


You’d better fetch your bundle before you take your boots off,


You may thank your stars I’ve come back to-night,


Why, where should you have gone? You daren’t even get your parcel through the yard-end. I don’t know what’s in your blue handkerchief. But if you leave it the children shall fetch it in the morning.


You mun get me a drop o’ laxy vitral. It’s a winder as we canna ha’e a sup i’ th’ ’ouse. Grand! Grand! It’s better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews,


Goodness, man, don’t be so lachrymose. I wouldn’t be such a mardy baby,


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


What a sight the lad looks!


He’s a little collier, bless his bit o’ mutton!


What’s the matter? What’s the matter?


I don’t know,


If he doesn’t stop, I’ll smack him till he does.


You’ll do nothing of the sort. Now cry there, Misery!


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


Oh, do you? Why, what’s the matter?


A lad as gets ’old of another an’ rips his clothes off’n ’is back, wants showing something.


Your Alfred’s as old as my William,


’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. 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. 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,


Make me a liar! But I s’ll let your mester know,


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? 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 him, ’e dodged, an’ it ripped ’is collar. But I got my cobbler—


Well, you know you’ve got no right to rip his collar.


Well, our mother! I never meant tr’a done it—an’ it was on’y an old indirrubber collar as was torn a’ready.


Next time, 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.


No—well, you be more careful.


Wheer’s that Willy?


What do you want him for?


I’ll let ’im know when I get him,


I suppose Mrs. Anthony’s got hold of you and been yarning to you about Alfy’s collar,


Niver mind who’s got hold of me. When I get hold of ’im I’ll make his bones rattle.


It’s a poor tale, 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! 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! 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!


You would, before you’re told,


Niver you mind. I know my business.


That’s more than doubtful, supposing some loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.


I know,


Can I have my tea, mother?


Tha can ha’e more than that!


Hold your noise, man, and don’t look so ridiculous.


He’ll look ridiculous before I’ve done wi’ him!


Go out!


I’ll gi’e him ‘go out’!


What! You shall not touch him for her telling, you shall not!


Shonna I? Shonna I?


Don’t you dare!


What! What!


Go out of the house! Only dare! Only dare, milord, to lay a finger on that child! You’ll regret it for ever.


What dost want ter ma’e a stool-harsed Jack on ’im for? 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,


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, 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,


Look, mother!


How pretty!


Is Mr. Morel in?


My husband is at home,


I—I mean young Mr. Morel,


Which one? There are several.


I—I met Mr. Morel—at Ripley,


Oh—at a dance!


Yes.


I don’t approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is not at home.


Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?


I don’t know about a lady. There was a girl came.


And why didn’t you tell me?


Because I forgot, simply.


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.


My suit come?


There’s a parcel in the front room.


How do you fancy your son in this!


You know I don’t want to fancy you in it.


Aren’t you going to stop and see me, mother?


No; I don’t want to see you,


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.


They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother. 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,


Come on, ’Postle, let’s go through my letters, and you can have the birds and flowers. Nice scent! Smell.


Um! What d’you call it? Smell, mother.


I don’t want to smell their rubbish,


This girl’s father is as rich as Crœsus. 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?


‘Transpires’—oh yes!


Transpires! I thought she was so well educated! My lad, 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. 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,


Not me! I’m equal to any of ’em, mater, they needn’t flatter themselves.


You flatter yourself,


You couldn’t tell it was there, mother; you couldn’t tell it was there. Let’s make a sacrifice of Arabella. Let’s burn her.


That’s the sacrifice of Missis Arabella. An’ I’m glad there’s nothing left of her.


You coward, you daren’t do it when I was in.


Dossn’t I? Dossn’t I? Ha’e much more o’ thy chelp, my young jockey, an’ I’ll rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an’ I sholl that, dost see?


Will yer? It ’ud be the last time, though.


Stop it, both of you. We’ve had enough for one night. And you, look at your children!


Look at the children, you nasty little bitch! Why, what have I done to the children, I should like to know? But they’re like yourself; you’ve put ’em up to your own tricks and nasty ways—you’ve learned ’em in it, you ’ave.


Why didn’t you let me have a go at him? I could easily have beaten him.


A nice thing—your own father,


Father! Call him my father!


Well, he is—and so—


But why don’t you let me settle him? I could do, easily.


The idea! It hasn’t come to that yet.


No, it’s come to worse. Look at yourself. Why didn’t you let me give it him?


Because I couldn’t bear it, so never think of it,


It’s music. It sends me to sleep.


Make him stop drinking. Lord, let my father die. Let him not be killed at pit,


Has my dad come?


You can see he hasn’t. They’re ruined and black, but what do I care?


What do you bother yourself for? If he wants to stop and get drunk, why don’t you let him?


Let him! You may well say ‘let him’.


Come in, Paul.


Well, I’ll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing.


This is a nice time to come home,


Wha’s it matter to yo’ what time I come whoam?


I’ll lay my fist about thy y’ead, I’m tellin’ thee, if tha doesna stop that clatter! Dost hear?


You ought to tell your father. Now you’d better tell your father when he comes in. You know how he carries on and says he’s never told anything.


All right. I’ve won a prize in a competition, dad,


Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?


Oh, nothing—about famous women.


And how much is the prize, then, as you’ve got?


It’s a book.


Oh, indeed!


About birds.


Hm—hm!


Out of my road—out of my road!


Look, dad!


That’s right, my beauty,


Tell us about down pit, daddy.


Well, there’s one little ’oss—we call ’im Taffy. An’ he’s a fawce un! He’s a brown un, an’ not very high. Well, he comes i’ th’ stall wi’ a rattle, an’ then yo’ ’ear ’im sneeze. 'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin’ for? Bin ta’ein’ some snuff?' An’ ’e sneezes again. Then he slives up an’ shoves ’is ’ead on yer, that cadin’. What’s want, Taff?' yo’ say.


And what does he?


He wants a bit o’ bacca, my duckey. An’ what dost think, my darlin’? When I went to put my coat on at snap-time, what should go runnin’ up my arm but a mouse. Hey up, theer!' I shouts. An’ I wor just in time ter get ’im by th’ tail.


And did you kill it?


I did, for they’re a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi’ ’em.


An’ what do they live on?


The corn as the ’osses drops—an’ they’ll get in your pocket an’ eat your snap, if you’ll let ’em—no matter where yo’ hing your coat—the slivin’, nibblin’ little nuisances, for they are.


What’s the matter with you?


Nothing,


If you eat no dinner, you’re not going to school,


Why?


That’s why.


Are ter asleep, my darlin’?


No; is my mother comin’?


She’s just finishin’ foldin’ the clothes. Do you want anything?


I don’t want nothing. But how long will she be?


Not long, my duckie. This childt’s axin’ for thee; how long art goin’ to be?


Until I’ve finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep.


She says you’re to go to sleep,


Well, I want her to come,


He says he can’t go off till you come,


Eh, dear! I shan’t be long. And do stop shouting downstairs. There’s the other children—


She says she won’t be long. Good-night, my darling.


Good-night,


Good gracious! wherever have you been?


Well, there wasn’t any, so we went over Misk Hills. And look here, our mother!


Now, those are fine ones!


And there’s over two pounds—isn’t there over two pounds?


Yes. Pretty!


Spinney Park—Spinney Park.


Holliday. Bower—John Bower. John Bower!


It’s me,


Why, you used to ’ave a different nose than that,


How is it your father’s not come!


He’s badly,


You should tell him to keep off the drink,


An’ niver mind if he puts his foot through yer,


Fred Pilkington!


Walter Morel!


Here!


Morel—Walter Morel!


He’s here. Where is he? Morel’s lad? Here he is!


Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don’t you shout up when you’re called?


Sixteen an’ six. How much do you think you’ve given me? Haven’t you got a tongue in your head? Don’t they teach you to count at the Board-school?


Nowt but algibbra an’ French. An’ cheek an’ impidence,


Your father’s not come yet. Sit you down.


Hello! Have you bested me? Shall you have a drink of something?


I’m not going to the office any more,


Why, what’s the matter?


I’m not going any more,


Oh, very well, tell your father so.


I’m not—I’m not going to fetch the money.


Then one of Carlin’s children can go; they’d be glad enough of the sixpence,


They can have it, then! I don’t want it.


Oh, very well. But you needn’t bully me about it.


They’re hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I’m not going any more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his ‘h’s’, an’ Mr. Winterbottom says ‘You was’.


And is that why you won’t go any more?


They always stan’ in front of me, so’s I can’t get out,


Well, my lad, you’ve only to ask them,


An’ then Alfred Winterbottom says, ‘What do they teach you at the Board-school?’


They never taught him much, that is a fact—neither manners nor wit—and his cunning he was born with. What was the cheque?


Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and six stoppages. It’s a good week; and only five shillings stoppages for my father.


I wondered how much that little dish was,


Sevenpence to you.


Thank you.


Mother! don’t wear that nubbly little bonnet.


Then what else shall I wear. And I’m sure it’s right enough.


It looks rather come down. Couldn’t you give it a pick-me-up?


I’ll jowl your head for impudence,


Do you want it for fivepence?


I’ll have it,


Yer’ll do me the favour, like? Yer’d better spit in it, like yer do when y’ave something give yer.


I don’t see you give it me. You wouldn’t let me have it for fivepence if you didn’t want to.


In this flamin’, scrattlin’ place you may count yerself lucky if you can give your things away,


Yes; there are bad times, and good. Oh!


My word, you are loaded!


I am! Such a weight! Is the bread done?


The last one is soaking. You needn’t look, I’ve not forgotten it.


Oh, that pot man! You know what a wretch I’ve said he was? Well, I don’t think he’s quite so bad.


Don’t you?


No. I think he can’t make any money—well, it’s everybody’s cry alike nowadays—and it makes him disagreeable.


It would me,


Well, one can’t wonder at it. And he let me have—how much do you think he let me have this for?


Show me! I love cornflowers on things,


Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me—


One and three,


Fivepence!


It’s not enough, mother.


No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I’d been extravagant, I couldn’t afford any more. And he needn’t have let me have it if he hadn’t wanted to.


No, he needn’t, need he. We c’n have stewed fruit in it,


Or custard, or a jelly,


Or radishes and lettuce,


Don’t forget that bread,


It’s done,


Yes. Oh, and I’m a wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s’ll come to want.


Four penn’orth! How cheap!


Yes, but I couldn’t afford it this week of all weeks.


But lovely!


Aren’t they! Paul, look at this yellow one, isn’t it—and a face just like an old man!


Just! And smells that nice! But he’s a bit splashed. Now look at him now he’s wet!


Yes!


What, han’ yer knocked off? It’s a pity as they letn yer goo. Nay, you know you’re flig to come up again. I reckon Minton’s knocked off, missis,


Isn’t it sickenin’!


Ha! But I’n just seed Jont Hutchby.


They might as well have saved their shoe-leather,


Can I help it, woman? Then I’ll eat my bit o’ snap as I took with me,


What’s my dad eating his snap for now?


I should ha’e it holled at me if I didna,


What a story!


An’ is it goin’ to be wasted? I’m not such a extravagant mortal as you lot, with your waste. If I drop a bit of bread at pit, in all the dust an’ dirt, I pick it up an’ eat it.


It wouldn’t be wasted.


Good bread-an’-butter’s not for mice, either. Dirty or not dirty, I’d eat it rather than it should be wasted.


You might leave it for the mice and pay for it out of your next pint,


Oh, might I?


Just look, mother! Isn’t it lovely?


Now, don’t waste it,


What time dost say he’s coming?


The train gets in at half-past six. Then he’ll be here at ten past seven.


Eh, bless you, it’ll be hours late on the Midland,


Hadna you better be gettin’ him summat t’ eat ready?


There’s plenty of time,


There’s not so much as I can see on,


Ask him if the London train’s come,


I’m not. You be quiet—he might send us off.


It’s an hour an’ a half late,


Well, it’s Christmas Eve.


H’m! It’s an hour an’ a ha’ef.


And those children waiting!


Th’ train canna ha’ come in yet,


I tell you, on Christmas Eve they’re hours wrong.


Ha’s here!


Mater!


My boy! But how late you are!


Aren’t I! Well, dad!


Well, my lad! We thought tha’d niver be commin’,


Oh, I’d come!


But you look well,


Well! I should think so—coming home! By jove! mother, it’s not different!


Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!


Go, go, my boy. You may never have a chance again, and I should love to think of you cruising there in the Mediterranean almost better than to have you at home.


Is this Walter Morel’s? What is it?


Your mester’s got hurt,


Eh, dear me! It’s a wonder if he hadn’t, lad. And what’s he done this time?


I don’t know for sure, but it’s ’is leg somewhere. They ta’ein’ ’im ter th’ ’ospital.


Good gracious me! Eh, dear, what a one he is! There’s not five minutes of peace, I’ll be hanged if there is! His thumb’s nearly better, and now—Did you see him?


I seed him at th’ bottom. An’ I seed ’em bring ’im up in a tub, an’ ’e wor in a dead faint. But he shouted like anythink when Doctor Fraser examined him i’ th’ lamp cabin—an’ cossed an’ swore, an’ said as ’e wor goin’ to be ta’en whoam—’e worn’t goin’ ter th’ ’ospital.


He would want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thank you, my lad. Eh, dear, if I’m not sick—sick and surfeited, I am! And it must be pretty bad if they’ve taken him to the hospital. But what a careless creature he is! Other men don’t have all these accidents. Yes, he would want to put all the burden on me. Eh, dear, just as we were getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away, there’s no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know I s’ll have to go trailing to Keston. I s’ll have to leave that bedroom.


I can finish it,


You needn’t. I shall catch the seven o’clock back, I should think. Oh, my blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he’ll make! And those granite setts at Tinder Hill—he might well call them kidney pebbles—they’ll jolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can’t mend them, the state they’re in, an’ all the men as go across in that ambulance. You’d think they’d have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs, there’d be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trail them ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It’s a crying shame! Oh, and the fuss he’ll make! I know he will! I wonder who’s with him. Barker, I s’d think. Poor beggar, he’ll wish himself anywhere rather. But he’ll look after him, I know. Now there’s no telling how long he’ll be stuck in that hospital—and won’t he hate it! But if it’s only his leg it’s not so bad. I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!


There isn’t a train till four-twenty. You’ve time enough.


Oh no, I haven’t!


Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to take him? Eh, dear! His clean shirt—and it’s a blessing it is clean. But it had better be aired. And stockings—he won’t want them—and a towel, I suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else? A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,


Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,


Here you are,


I can’t be bothered!


Well, you’ve got to, so there, now it’s put out ready,


Is it bad?


It’s bad enough,


What?


Well, it’s not really dangerous, but the nurse says it’s a dreadful smash. You see, a great piece of rock fell on his leg—here—and it’s a compound fracture. There are pieces of bone sticking through—


Ugh—how horrid!


Of course, he says he’s going to die—it wouldn’t be him if he didn’t. ‘I’m done for, my lass!’ he said, looking at me. ‘Don’t be so silly,’ I said to him. ‘You’re not going to die of a broken leg, however badly it’s smashed.’ ‘I s’ll niver come out of ’ere but in a wooden box,’ he groaned. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you want them to carry you into the garden in a wooden box, when you’re better, I’ve no doubt they will.’ ‘If we think it’s good for him,’ said the Sister. She’s an awfully nice Sister, but rather strict. Of course, he is bad. And he will be. It’s a great shock, and he’s lost a lot of blood; and, of course, it is a very dangerous smash. It’s not at all sure that it will mend so easily. And then there’s the fever and the mortification—if it took bad ways he’d quickly be gone. But there, he’s a clean-blooded man, with wonderful healing flesh, and so I see no reason why it should take bad ways. Of course there’s a wound—


But he always gets better,


That’s what I tell him. And he really looked nearly done for. But the Sister says that is the pain. And he looked at me when I came away! I said: ‘I s’ll have to go now, Walter, because of the train—and the children.’ And he looked at me. It seems hard.


I found Barker at the hospital. He did look bad, poor little fellow! ‘Well,’ I said to him, ‘what sort of a journey did you have with him?’ ‘Dunna ax me, missis!’ he said. ‘Ay,’ I said, ‘I know what he’d be.’ ‘But it wor bad for him, Mrs. Morel, it wor that!’ he said. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘At ivry jolt I thought my ’eart would ha’ flown clean out o’ my mouth,’ he said. ‘An’ the scream ’e gives sometimes! Missis, not for a fortune would I go through wi’ it again.’ ‘I can quite understand it,’ I said. ‘It’s a nasty job, though,’ he said, ‘an’ one as’ll be a long while afore it’s right again.’ ‘I’m afraid it will,’ I said. I like Mr. Barker—I do like him. There’s something so manly about him. And of course, for a man like your father, the hospital is hard. He can’t understand rules and regulations. And he won’t let anybody else touch him, not if he can help it. When he smashed the muscles of his thigh, and it had to be dressed four times a day, would he let anybody but me or his mother do it? He wouldn’t. So, of course, he’ll suffer in there with the nurses. And I didn’t like leaving him. I’m sure, when I kissed him an’ came away, it seemed a shame.


What do you want to be?


Anything.


That is no answer,


Then, you must look in the paper for the advertisements.


I’ve got to go and look for advertisements for a job.


I wish. I was fat like him, and like a dog in the sun. I wish I was a pig and a brewer’s waggoner.


Yes, you may try.


I wonder if you would run, my boy, unless you saw all the other men chasing her too. You feel safe enough and vain enough in a crowd. But take care, and see how you feel when you find yourself alone, and in triumph.


If you saw her, mother, you would know how I feel. Tall and elegant, with the clearest of clear, transparent olive complexions, hair as black as jet, and such grey eyes—bright, mocking, like lights on water at night. It is all very well to be a bit satirical till you see her. And she dresses as well as any woman in London. I tell you, your son doesn’t half put his head up when she goes walking down Piccadilly with him.


But there. I am very likely a silly—meeting trouble halfway. There, you see! You’ve only written four letters, and the third is answered. You’re lucky, my boy, as I always said you were.


Now look at that silly cow! careering round as if it thought it was a circus.


It’s most likely a bottfly,


A what?


It’s just like Venice,


Perhaps. Now you see that blouse, wouldn’t that just suit our Annie? And for one-and-eleven-three. Isn’t that cheap?


And made of needlework as well,


Yes.


Here it is! But now where is it?


It’s up the entry,


Can I see Mr. Jordan?


I’ll fetch him,


Good-morning!


Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call this morning.


Come this way. Sit down! Did you write this letter?


Yes,


Where did you learn to write?


He is a bad writer,


And you say you know French?


What school did you go to?


The Board-school.


And did you learn it there?


No—I—


His godfather gave him lessons,


Read that,


'Monsieur,' It’s the—it’s the— Sir,—Please send me two pairs—gris fil bas—grey thread stockings sans—without doigts—fingers


'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without toes.'


Well, 'doigts’ means ‘fingers’—as well—as a rule—


Fingers to stockings!


Well, it does mean fingers,


And when could he come?


Well, as soon as you wish. He has finished school now.


He would live in Bestwood?


Yes; but he could be in—at the station—at quarter to eight.


H’m!


I think you’ll like it,


'Doigts’ does mean ‘fingers’, mother, and it was the writing. I couldn’t read the writing.


Never mind, my boy. I’m sure he’ll be all right, and you won’t see much of him. Wasn’t that first young fellow nice? I’m sure you’ll like them.


But wasn’t Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?


I suppose he was a workman who has got on. You mustn’t mind people so much. They’re not being disagreeable to you—it’s their way. You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don’t.


Where should we go for dinner?


We oughtn’t to have come here, mother,


Never mind. We won’t come again.


I don’t want it, mother,


Yes, you’ll have it. Brazen hussy! Look now, she’s taking that man his pudding, and he came long after us.


It doesn’t matter, mother. Should we go, mother?


Will you bring one currant tart?


Directly,


We have waited quite long enough. It’s the last time I go there for anything! We’ll go, and look at Keep’s and Boot’s, and one or two places, shall we? Now, just look at those black grapes! They make your mouth water. I’ve wanted some of those for years, but I s’ll have to wait a bit before I get them. Oh! oh! Isn’t it simply lovely!


They’re looking at you,


But what is it?


Stocks! Look, there’s a tubful.


So there is—red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smell like it! Paul! Paul! Just look here! Now, just look at that fuchsia!


H’m! You’d think every second as the flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an’ heavy.


And such an abundance!


And the way they drop downwards with their threads and knots!


Lovely!


I wonder who’ll buy it!


I wonder! Not us.


It would die in our parlour.


Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every bit of a plant you put in, and the kitchen chokes them to death.


Won’t it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times? I can go all round here and see everything. I s’ll love it.


You will,


He says it’ll be here on Saturday. About one pound eleven,


It’s no more than I thought,


An’ I s’ll earn eight shillings a week,


That William promised me, when he went to London, as he’d give me a pound a month. He has given me ten shillings—twice; and now I know he hasn’t a farthing if I asked him. Not that I want it. Only just now you’d think he might be able to help with this ticket, which I’d never expected.


He earns a lot,


He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But they’re all alike. They’re large in promises, but it’s precious little fulfilment you get.


He spends over fifty shillings a week on himself,


And I keep this house on less than thirty, and am supposed to find money for extras. But they don’t care about helping you, once they’ve gone. He’d rather spend it on that dressed-up creature.


She should have her own money if she’s so grand,


She should, but she hasn’t. I asked him. And I know he doesn’t buy her a gold bangle for nothing. I wonder whoever bought me a gold bangle. the photograph of Louie is very striking, and I can see she must be attractive. But do you think, my boy, it was very good taste of a girl to give her young man that photo to send to his mother—the first? Certainly the shoulders are beautiful, as you say. But I hardly expected to see so much of them at the first view.


Who dost reckon this is?


It’s the girl our William is going with,


H’m! ’Er’s a bright spark, from th’ look on ’er, an’ one as wunna do him owermuch good neither. Who is she?


Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western.


An’ come again to-morrer! An’ is ’er an actress?


She is not. She’s supposed to be a lady.


I’ll bet! A lady, is she? An’ how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o’ game on?


On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what bit of money’s given her.


Then he’s a fool to ha’ ta’en up wi’ such a one as that.


Dear Mater. I’m sorry you didn’t like the photograph. It never occurred to me when I sent it, that you mightn’t think it decent. However, I told Gyp that it didn’t quite suit your prim and proper notions, so she’s going to send you another, that I hope will please you better. She’s always being photographed; in fact, the photographers ask her if they may take her for nothing.


I wonder if she ever wears anything except evening clothes. I’m sure I ought to be impressed.


You are disagreeable, mother. I think the first one with bare shoulders is lovely.


Do you? Well, I don’t.


Good-morning. Good-morning, mother,


Good-morning,


Yes,


H’m!


Paul Morel. All right,


You want the letters for the Spiral department, Thomas?


Will you please send me at once a pair of lady’s silk spiral thigh-hose, without feet, such as I had from you last year; length, thigh to knee, etc. Major Chamberlain wishes to repeat his previous order for a silk non-elastic suspensory bandage.


You my new lad? Fetched the letters?


Yes.


Copied ’em?


No.


Well, come on then, let’s look slippy. Changed your coat?


You want to bring an old coat and leave it here. Sit down. Now look here. You want to copy these letters in here. See that?


Think you can do it all right?


All right then, let’s see you. Now then, how’r’ yer getting on? Done ’em? Strike my bob, lad, but you’re a beautiful writer! Ne’er mind, how many h’yer done? Only three! I’d ’a eaten ’em. Get on, my lad, an’ put numbers on ’em. Here, look! Get on! Yes? you’d better get some of your back work done, then. I’ve not time to stand here while you talk. Come, my lad, there’s Polly crying out for them orders. Can’t you buck up a bit? Here, come out! You’d better watch me. Come on with me,


Here y’are!


I think it is ‘here you are’! The girls have been here nearly half an hour waiting. Just think of the time wasted!


You think of getting your work done and not talking so much. You could ha’ been finishing off.


You know quite well we finished everything off on Saturday!


Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter! Here’s your new lad. Don’t ruin him as you did the last.


As we did the last! Yes, we do a lot of ruining, we do. My word, a lad would take some ruining after he’d been with you.


It’s time for work now, not for talk,


It was time for work some time back,


Have you nothing else to do but talk?


Only wait for you,


Well, get on, get on. Come on, my lad. You’ll know your road down here again.


Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire! Didn’t they teach you any better than that while they were at it? If you put ‘Mr.’ you don’t put ‘Esquire’—a man can’t be both at once. Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman? I don’t know what they do teach in schools. You’ll have to write better than that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry and play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?


Yes; prime, isn’t it? Let’s see, what’s your name?


Paul Morel.


Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them things there, and then—


Can’t you make a bit less row? Folk’ll think we keep cats.


They’re all tom-cats then.


Well, you needn’t come blaming it on to me. It’s not my fault.


I never said it was your fault. Will you do as I tell you?


You don’t say it’s my fault, but you’d like to make out as it was. Yes, I’ll do it for you, but you needn’t be snappy.


Here’s your new lad,


Oh!


Yes; don’t make a softy of him between you.


It’s not us as ’ud make a softy of him,


Come on then, Paul,


Au revoy, Paul,


Well, and how was it?


Ever so funny, mother. You don’t have to work a bit hard, and they’re nice with you.


And did you get on all right?


Yes: they only say my writing’s bad. But Mr. Pappleworth—he’s my man—said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I’m Spiral, mother; you must come and see. It’s ever so nice.


Haven’t you done that yet? Go on, be a month of Sundays. I’m going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch to-morrow,


What’s a Yorkshire terrier?


Don’t know what a Yorkshire terrier is? Don’t know a Yorkshire—


Is it a little silky one—colours of iron and rusty silver?


That’s it, my lad. She’s a gem. She’s had five pounds’ worth of pups already, and she’s worth over seven pounds herself; and she doesn’t weigh twenty ounces.


Put your pen in your ear, if you’re going to be a clerk. Pen in your ear! Why don’t you hold your shoulders straighter? Come down here,


When you sit winding, it looks as if you were spinning at a spinning-wheel—it looks ever so nice. You remind me of Elaine in the ‘Idylls of the King’. I’d draw you if I could. How do you put needles in?


Go away and don’t bother.


But I ought to know how to put needles in.


There are many things you ought to know,


Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine.


Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, this is how you do it.


Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you’re going to be down here playing with the girls, Paul.


Good-bye!


It wasn’t me who wanted him to play with the machine,


I know you’ve been laughing at me.


Don’t be so soft, Fanny!


Fanny’s is better, to my fancy,


You needn’t try to make a fool of me,


No, but she has, Paul; she’s got beautiful hair.


It’s a treat of a colour. That coldish colour like earth, and yet shiny. It’s like bog-water.


Goodness me!


How I do but get criticised,


But you should see it down, Paul. It’s simply beautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants something to paint.


Then I’ll take it down myself,


Well, you can if you like,


What a lovely lot! It’s splendid! I’ll bet it’s worth pounds.


I’ll leave it you when I die, Paul,


You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair,


It’ll help, mother?


There’s precious little left, after your ticket and dinners and such are taken off.


Goodness, boy! if you don’t like it, alter it, and if you can’t alter it, put up with it.


Dirty nuisance!


There’s not a man tries harder for his family! He does his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I’m not going to stand it, I tell you!


Eight guineas! More fool him! If he’d gen me some on’t, it ’ud ha’ looked better on ’im.


Given you some of it! Why give you some of it!


Hello, mother! Here’s Gyp!


Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!


I am afraid you will be hungry,


Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?


How should I?


Then I’ve lost them. Don’t be cross with me.


Hello, dad!


Hello, my son! Tha’s let on me!


How do you do, Mr. Morel?


I’m very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself very welcome.


Oh, thank you,


You will like to go upstairs,


If you don’t mind; but not if it is any trouble to you.


It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box.


And don’t be an hour dressing yourself up,


Shall I unstrap the box?


Oh, thank you very much!


I think she’s rather tired, mother. It’s a beastly journey, and we had such a rush.


Is there anything I can give her?


Oh no, she’ll be all right. I told you you’d no need to change,


Oh, Chubby! Don’t you think he’s always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?


Is he? That’s not very nice of him.


It isn’t, really!


You are cold. Won’t you come near the fire?


Come and sit you here! Come and sit you here!


No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp,


No, no! This cheer’s warmest. Come and sit here, Miss Wesson.


Thank you so much,


Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!


I’ll go,


Oh, thank you!


Aren’t you tired, Gyp?


Rather, Chubby,


I’ll light her the candle, mother,


Very well,


Good-night, Mrs. Morel,


You wait a minute,


Well, mother?


Well, my son?


Do you like her?


Yes,


She’s shy yet, mother. She’s not used to it. It’s different from her aunt’s house, you know.


Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult.


She does. If only she wouldn’t put on her blessed airs!


It’s only her first awkwardness, my boy. She’ll be all right.


That’s it, mother. You know, she’s not like you, mother. She’s not serious, and she can’t think.


She’s young, my boy.


Yes; and she’s had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a child. Since then she’s lived with her aunt, whom she can’t bear. And her father was a rake. She’s had no love.


No! Well, you must make up to her.


And so—you have to forgive her a lot of things.


What do you have to forgive her, my boy?


I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she’s never had anybody to bring her deeper side out. And she’s fearfully fond of me.


Anybody can see that.


But you know, mother—she’s—she’s different from us. Those sort of people, like those she lives amongst, they don’t seem to have the same principles.


You mustn’t judge too hastily,


Hello! Are you getting up?


Merry Christmas!


Was she really getting up when she said she was?


Yes, she was,


Happy New Year,


Thank you, Chubby dear!


Buck up!


Well, it’s a winder!


Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?


Have you really been all this time getting ready?


Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. Morel?


Oh, Annie, do you know where I left my muff?


You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie? Is it as late as that, mother?


It is not late, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up.


Won’t you go to bed, then?


And leave you two? No, my boy, I don’t believe in it.


Can’t you trust us, mother?


Whether I can or not, I won’t do it. You can stay till eleven if you like, and I can read.


Go to bed, Gyp. We won’t keep mater waiting.


Annie has left the candle burning, Lily. I think you will see.


Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel.


My boy, I tell you I don’t believe in leaving two young things like you alone downstairs when everyone else is in bed.


You know, mother, when I’m away from her I don’t care for her a bit. I shouldn’t care if I never saw her again. But, then, when I’m with her in the evenings I am awfully fond of her.


It’s a queer sort of love to marry on, if she holds you no more than that!


It is funny! But yet—there’s so much between us now I couldn’t give her up.


You know best. But if it is as you say, I wouldn’t call it love—at any rate, it doesn’t look much like it.


Oh, I don’t know, mother. She’s an orphan, and—


I think it will be a fine day. You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, he asked me last week if I wouldn’t go and see Mrs. Leivers, and I promised to bring you on Monday if it’s fine. Shall we go?


I say, little woman, how lovely! And we’ll go this afternoon?


Are we going?


When I’m ready,


Go and get dressed while I wash up,


Oh, my stars! What a bobby-dazzler!


It’s not a bobby-dazzler at all! It’s very quiet. Well, do you like it?


Awfully! You are a fine little woman to go jaunting out with! Well, if I was walking down the street behind you, I should say: ‘Doesn’t that little person fancy herself!”’


Well, she doesn’t. She’s not sure it suits her.


Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped in burnt paper. It does suit you, and I say you look nice.


Well, it’s cost me just three shillings. You couldn’t have got it ready-made for that price, could you?


I should think you couldn’t,


And, you know, it’s good stuff.


Awfully pretty,


Too young for me, though, I’m afraid,


Too young for you! Why don’t you buy some false white hair and stick it on your head.


I s’ll soon have no need. I’m going white fast enough.


Well, you’ve no business to. What do I want with a white-haired mother?


I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one, my lad. Now look at that!


You sit a minute, mother,


The world is a wonderful place, and wonderfully beautiful.


And so’s the pit. Look how it heaps together, like something alive almost—a big creature that you don’t know.


Yes. Perhaps!


And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to be fed,


And very thankful I am they are standing, for that means they’ll turn middling time this week.


But I like the feel of men on things, while they’re alive. There’s a feel of men about trucks, because they’ve been handled with men’s hands, all of them.


Yes,


It’s a wild road, mother. Just like Canada.


Isn’t it beautiful!


See that heron—see—see her legs?


Here’s a bit of new-mown hay. Come, let me help you.


No, go away. I will do it in my own way.


What a way to climb!


Hateful stiles!


Duffer of a little woman, who can’t get over ’em.


Oh! you’ve come, then. I am glad to see you.


Now are you sure we’re not a bother to you? I know what a farming life is.


Oh no! We’re only too thankful to see a new face, it’s so lost up here.


I suppose so,


I suppose these are cabbage-roses? I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?


I don’t know,


Then they’re maiden-blush.


You don’t have much in your garden,


This is our first year here,


Tea is ready, mother. Would you care to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?


Of course. Whenever it’s ready.


Durst you do it?


Let’s see. Rap, rap, rap! She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts,


Now, Miriam, you come an ’ave a go.


No,


Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!


It doesn’t hurt a bit. It only just nips rather nicely.


She dursn’t. She niver durst do anything except recite poitry.


Dursn’t jump off a gate, dursn’t tweedle, dursn’t go on a slide, dursn’t stop a girl hittin’ her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin’ herself somebody. ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ Yah!


I dare do more than you. You’re never anything but cowards and bullies.


Not such a clown shall anger me, A boor is answered silently


I wouldn’t get the apple-blossom,


I wasn’t going to get it. It won’t hurt you. See, it doesn’t hurt. It only makes you laugh. Why, I’d let her take corn from my face, only she bumps a bit. She’s ever so neat. If she wasn’t, look how much ground she’d peck up every day. There, you see. It doesn’t hurt, does it?


But it is a beautiful place,


it’s a nice little place, if only it weren’t for the rabbits. The pasture’s bitten down to nothing. I dunno if ever I s’ll get the rent off it.


Would you believe it!


Wasn’t it lovely, mother?


Now wouldn’t I help that man! Wouldn’t I see to the fowls and the young stock! And I’d learn to milk, and I’d talk with him, and I’d plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the farm would be run, I know! But there, she hasn’t the strength—she simply hasn’t the strength. She ought never to have been burdened like it, you know. I’m sorry for her, and I’m sorry for him too. My word, if I’d had him, I shouldn’t have thought him a bad husband! Not that she does either; and she’s very lovable.


Now you look like a young witch-woman. Doesn’t she, William?


Has he made a sight of me? That he has! You look nice enough, if that’s what you want to know,


Oh, would you mind, washing me these two blouses, and these things?


Which? My new black suède. Look here, mother, that’s the fourth pair she’s lost since Christmas—at five shillings a pair!


You only gave me two of them,


Here is your book, Lily. Would you care to go on with it for a few minutes?


No. No, thank you,


I will sit still.


But it is so dull.


Read a book! Why, she’s never read a book in her life.


Oh, go along!


It’s true, mother—she hasn’t. She’s never read a book in her life.


’Er’s like me, ’Er canna see what there is i’ books, ter sit borin’ your nose in ’em for, nor more can I.


But you shouldn’t say these things,


But it’s true, mother—she can’t read. What did you give her?


Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan’s. Nobody wants to read dry stuff on Sunday afternoon.


Well, I’ll bet she didn’t read ten lines of it.


You are mistaken,


Did you read any?


Yes, I did,


How much?


I don’t know how many pages.


Tell me one thing you read. You know, mother, she’s no idea of money, she’s so wessel-brained. When she’s paid, she’ll suddenly buy such rot as marrons glacés, and then I have to buy her season-ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to get married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year. But at this rate—


A fine mess of a marriage it would be. I should consider it again, my boy.


Oh, well, I’ve gone too far to break off now, and so I shall get married as soon as I can.


Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there’s no stopping you; but I tell you, I can’t sleep when I think about it.


Oh, she’ll be all right, mother. We shall manage.


And she lets you buy her underclothing?


Well, she didn’t ask me; but one morning—and it was cold—I found her on the station shivering, not able to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: ‘I think so.’ So I said: ‘Have you got warm underthings on?’ And she said: ‘No, they were cotton.’ I asked her why on earth she hadn’t got something thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she had nothing. And there she is—a bronchial subject! I had to take her and get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn’t mind the money if we had any. And, you know, she ought to keep enough to pay for her season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find the money.


It’s a poor lookout,


But I can’t give her up now; it’s gone too far. And, besides, for some things I couldn’t do without her.


My boy, remember you’re taking your life in your hands. Nothing is as bad as a marriage that’s a hopeless failure. Mine was bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but it might have been worse by a long chalk.


I couldn’t give her up now,


Well, remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an engagement.


I can’t give her up now,


Well, go to bed, my son. You’ll feel better in the morning, and perhaps you’ll know better.


Well, if you don’t believe me, what she’s like, would you believe she has been confirmed three times?


Nonsense!


Nonsense or not, she has! That’s what confirmation means for her—a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.


I haven’t, Mrs. Morel! I haven’t! it is not true!


What! Once in Bromley, once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else.


Nowhere else!


It was! And if it wasn’t why were you confirmed twice?


Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,


Yes. I can quite understand it, child. Take no notice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things.


But it’s true. She’s religious—she had blue velvet Prayer-Books—and she’s not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, and that’s how she is in everything—everything! As for love! you might as well ask a fly to love you! It’ll love settling on you—


Now, say no more. If you want to say these things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, William! Why don’t you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with a girl, and then pretend you’re engaged to her!


You know, mother. Gyp’s shallow. Nothing goes deep with her.


William, I wish you wouldn’t say these things,


But it doesn’t, mother. She’s very much in love with me now, but if I died she’d have forgotten me in three months.


How do you know? You don’t know, and therefore you’ve no right to say such a thing.


He’s always saying these things!


In three months after I was buried you’d have somebody else, and I should be forgotten. And that’s your love!


he’ll never have any money to marry on, that I am sure of. And so she’ll save him that way. I’m afraid he’s ruining himself against that creature, who isn’t worthy of his love—no, no more than a rag doll.


No, I’ve not been well. I’ve seemed to have a dragging cold all the last month, but it’s going, I think.


You are doing too much,


And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she’d be broken-hearted for two months, and then she’d start to forget me. You’d see, she’d never come home here to look at my grave, not even once.


Why, William, you’re not going to die, so why talk about it?


But whether or not—


And she can’t help it. She is like that, and if you choose her—well, you can’t grumble,


Look, what a rash my collar’s made under my chin!


It ought not to do that. Here, put a bit of this soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars.


How is he?


No better,


Owing to a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and become converted into rock. It needed hacking—


He got home at six o’clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleep all day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning he asked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor.


Will you have a fire made?


I want my father; he’s got to go to London. Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an’ tell Joe Ward. I want my father; he’s got to go to London.


Thy feyther? Is he down? What’s his name?


Mr. Morel.


What, Walter? Is owt amiss?


He’s got to go to London.


Walter Morel’s wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat’s amiss; there’s his lad here. He’ll be up in a few minutes,


Is it thee, Paul? Is ’e worse?


You’ve got to go to London.


’E’s niver gone, child?


Yes.


When wor’t?


Last night. We had a telegram from my mother.


Mother! Paul!


I went to work, mother,


Did you?


Wheer s’ll we ha’e him when he does come?


In the front-room.


Then I’d better shift th’ table?


An’ ha’e him across th’ chairs?


You know there—Yes, I suppose so.


You niver seed such a length as he is! He’s here! Bring another candle,


Steady! Steady, steady! Now then!


Oh, my son—my son! Oh, my son—my son—my son!


Mother!


Oh, my son—my son!


My word, he’s a weight!


If only it could have been me!


Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of a colliery at work was beautiful. What’s a-matter, mother? What’s a-matter? Mother, what’s a-matter?


You know what’s the matter. What’s the matter?


I’m badly, mother! Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for a Christmas-box! You aren’t glad!


Where hurts you?


I feel badly, mother.


Might he never have had it if I’d kept him at home, not let him go to Nottingham?


He might not have been so bad,


I should have watched the living, not the dead,


I s’ll die, mother!


For some things, it was a good thing Paul was ill that Christmas. I believe it saved his mother.


I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I had every dance—did not sit out one.


I say, your daffodils are nearly out. Isn’t it early? But don’t they look cold?


Cold!


The green on their buds—


Let me take the rug,


I can carry it,


I’m sure you’re tired and cold. Let me take your coat. It is heavy. You mustn’t walk far in it.


Why, mother, you’ve got almost more than you can manage there.


Won’t you lie down?


Oh no; I’m not tired. Isn’t it lovely coming out, don’t you think? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I’m glad it’s sunny.


Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?


No, thank you.


How’s your mother?


I think she’s tired now. I think she’s had too much to do. Perhaps in a little while she’ll go to Skegness with me. Then she’ll be able to rest. I s’ll be glad if she can.


Yes. It’s a wonder she isn’t ill herself.


Oh dear, Miriam, these potatoes have boiled dry!


Have they, mother?


I shouldn’t care, Miriam, if I hadn’t trusted them to you.


Well. I’m sure I looked at them five minutes since.


Yes. I know it’s easily done.


They’re not much burned. It doesn’t matter, does it?


It wouldn’t matter but for the boys. Only Miriam knows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are ‘caught’.


you shouldn’t let them make a trouble.


Dinner ready?


Nearly, Edgar,


I’m ready for mine,


These potatoes are burnt, mother.


Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you’ll have bread if you can’t eat them.


What was Miriam doing that she couldn’t attend to them?


I’m sure she was trying hard,


She hasn’t got sense even to boil the potatoes. What is she kept at home for?


On’y for eating everything that’s left in th’ pantry,


They don’t forget that potato-pie against our Miriam,


You disappointed me at dinner-time, Miriam.


They are such brutes!


But hadn’t you promised not to answer them? And I believed in you. I can’t stand it when you wrangle.


But they’re so hateful! and—and low.


Yes, dear. But how often have I asked you not to answer Edgar back? Can’t you let him say what he likes?


But why should he say what he likes?


Aren’t you strong enough to bear it, Miriam, if even for my sake? Are you so weak that you must wrangle with them?


I do want you to see this,


It’s almost as if you were feeling inside the live body of the bird, it’s so warm. They say a bird makes its nest round like a cup with pressing its breast on it. Then how did it make the ceiling round, I wonder? I like them, when their petals go flat back with the sunshine. They seemed to be pressing themselves at the sun.


Will you come with me on to the fallow?


Have you seen the swing?


No. Where?


In the cowshed,


Come on, then. It’s something like a rope! Come on, then, and have first go,


See, we put some bags on the seat;


Come on, then,


No, I won’t go first,


Why?


You go,


All right. Mind out! It’s a treat of a swing,


Yes.


I didn’t know a bird was watching. Now I’ll die. I’ve had a long turn. But it’s a treat of a swing—it’s a real treat of a swing!


No; you go on,


Why, don’t you want one?


Well, not much. I’ll have just a little.


It’s so ripping! Keep your heels up, or they’ll bang the manger-wall.


Ha! No higher!


But you’re not a bit high,


But no higher.


Won’t you really go any farther? Should I keep you there?


No; let me go by myself,


Why, you’re scarcely moving. They say if you can swing you won’t be sea-sick. I don’t believe I should ever be sea-sick.


Why do I like this so?


Why do you?


I don’t know. It seems so true.


It’s because—it’s because there is scarcely any shadow in it; it’s more shimmery, as if I’d painted the shimmering protoplasm in the leaves and everywhere, and not the stiffness of the shape. That seems dead to me. Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really. There you are! I wanted that. Now, look at them and tell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals, standing-up pieces of fire in that darkness? There’s God’s burning bush for you, that burned not away. Why are you always sad?


Sad!


Yes. You are always sad.


I am not—oh, not a bit!


But even your joy is like a flame coming off of sadness. You’re never jolly, or even just all right.


No. I wonder—why?


Because you’re not; because you’re different inside, like a pine-tree, and then you flare up; but you’re not just like an ordinary tree, with fidgety leaves and jolly—


Eh, my Hubert! Eh, my Hubert!


Don’t! don’t, Miriam!


Yes; you love me, don’t you?


Don’t!


You love me, don’t you?


What do you make such a fuss for? Why can’t you be ordinary with him?


No! no!


You shall!


Ah!


Don’t you like being at home?


Who would? What is it? I’m all day cleaning what the boys make just as bad in five minutes. I don’t want to be at home.


What do you want, then?


I want to do something. I want a chance like anybody else. Why should I, because I’m a girl, be kept at home and not allowed to be anything? What chance have I?


Chance of what?


Of knowing anything—of learning, of doing anything. It’s not fair, because I’m a woman.


But it’s as well to be a woman as a man,


Ha! Is it? Men have everything.


I should think women ought to be as glad to be women as men are to be men,


No! no! Everything the men have.


But what do you want?


I want to learn. Why should it be that I know nothing?


What! such as mathematics and French?


Why shouldn’t I know mathematics? Yes! Yes!


Well, you can learn as much as I know. I’ll teach you, if you like. Would you?


Yes,


I’m going to teach Miriam algebra,


Well. I hope she’ll get fat on it.


Hello! I knew it was you.


How?


I knew your step. Nobody treads so quick and firm.


Ready to do some algebra?


But—


You said you wanted,


To-night, though?


But I came on purpose. And if you want to learn it, you must begin. Well, my goodness! Take the ashes and come.


You know you like them,


Sit down. Here. It’s only letters for figures. You put down ‘a’ instead of ‘2’ or ‘6’. Do you see? Don’t you?


Hello! What are you doing?


Algebra,


Algebra!


You don’t give me time to learn it,


All right. What do you tremble your soul before it for? You don’t learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can’t you look at it with your clear simple wits?


Paul, don’t be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick, but I’m sure she tries.


I can’t help it. I go off like it. You don’t mind me, Miriam, do you?


No, no, I don’t mind.


Don’t mind me; it’s my fault. I didn’t—


After all, if the land were nationalised, Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same.


I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking-chair, mother,


I’m sure!


Nine o’clock!


The wood is so lovely now. I wanted you to see it.


They grumble so if I’m late,


But you’re not doing anything wrong,


Where?


Down the middle path. Ah!


They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shake themselves. Let us go. Till Sunday,


She is one of those who will want to suck a man’s soul out till he has none of his own left, and he is just such a gaby as to let himself be absorbed. She will never let him become a man; she never will. You have been far enough to-night. You must have been right home with her. She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can’t get away from her, but must go trailing eight miles at this time of night.


I do like to talk to her,


Is there nobody else to talk to?


You wouldn’t say anything if I went with Edgar.


You know I should. You know, whoever you went with, I should say it was too far for you to go trailing, late at night, when you’ve been to Nottingham. Besides it is disgusting—bits of lads and girls courting.


It is not courting,


I don’t know what else you call it.


It’s not! Do you think we spoon and do? We only talk.


Till goodness knows what time and distance,


What are you so mad about? Because you don’t like her.


I don’t say I don’t like her. But I don’t hold with children keeping company, and never did.


But you don’t mind our Annie going out with Jim Inger.


They’ve more sense than you two.


Why?


Our Annie’s not one of the deep sort.


Well, it’s so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleath asked about you. He said he’d missed you. Are you a bit better?


I ought to have been in bed a long time ago,


Why, mother, you know you wouldn’t have gone before quarter-past ten.


Oh, yes, I should!


Oh, little woman, you’d say anything now you’re disagreeable with me, wouldn’t you? Don’t let me be late to-night—not later than ten o’clock. My mother gets so upset.


Why does she get upset?


Because she says I oughtn’t to be out late when I have to get up early.


Very well!


Paul! Paul! come and look!


Come here!


What for?


Come and see. To think, that here I might never have seen them! Now, just see those! I was looking at the currant bushes, when, thinks I to myself, ‘There’s something very blue; is it a bit of sugar-bag?’ and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories of the snow, and such beauties! But where on earth did they come from?


I don’t know,


Well, that’s a marvel, now! I thought I knew every weed and blade in this garden. But haven’t they done well? You see, that gooseberry-bush just shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!


They’re a glorious colour!


Aren’t they! I guess they come from Switzerland, where they say they have such lovely things. Fancy them against the snow! But where have they come from? They can’t have blown here, can they?


And you never told me,


No! I thought I’d leave it till they might flower.


And now, you see! I might have missed them. And I’ve never had a glory of the snow in my garden in my life.


You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six! Lad, but she doesn’t half buzz!


See, what a quiet garden!


Why, have you waited for me!


What is it?


The spring broken here;


It is only an old umbrella, isn’t it?


But it was William’s an’ my mother can’t help but know. Come on. I can’t do it; You know, if one person loves, the other does.


Ah! Like mother said to me when I was little, ‘Love begets love.’


Yes, something like that, I think it must be.


I hope so, because, if it were not, love might be a very terrible thing,


Yes, but it is—at least with most people,


Think of the Queen going up here!


If she could get up, for she had rheumatism like anything. I reckon they treated her rottenly.


You don’t think she deserved it?


No, I don’t. She was only lively.


Supposing you could have that farm,


Yes!


Wouldn’t it be lovely to come and see you!


We might be going there—folk easily might think we’re going that far,


Paul’s come!


Aren’t you glad?


Well, aren’t you?


Yes, but I’m not going to let him see it, and think I wanted him.


Well, Jimmy my lad, how are ter? Nobbut sick an’ sadly, like? Why, then, it’s a shame, my owd lad.


O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, if I ought not to love him. But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love him—as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me love him splendidly, because he is Thy son.


Why?


Nothing. Only I’d rather not.


Very well.


But, if you’d care to meet me, we could still go together.


Meet you where?


Somewhere—where you like.


I shan’t meet you anywhere. I don’t see why you shouldn’t keep calling for me. But if you won’t, I don’t want to meet you.


We aren’t lovers, we are friends. We know it. Let them talk. What does it matter what they say.


Come and look at the sweet-peas,


Come here, and let me pin them in for you. You know, a woman ought always to arrange her flowers before her glass. Some women do—those who look decent. Don’t let mater know,


Good-evening, Mrs. Morel,


Oh, is it you, Miriam?


But, what is the ‘Bride of Enderby’ that the bells are supposed to ring?


It’s an old tune they used to play on the bells for a warning against water. I suppose the Bride of Enderby was drowned in a flood,


And the people knew what that tune meant?


Yes—just like the Scotch when they heard ‘The Flowers o’ the Forest’—and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm.


How? A bell sounds the same whether it’s rung backwards or forwards.


But, if you start with the deep bell and ring up to the high one—der—der—der—der—der—der—der—der!


Hm! But I wish everything that’s written weren’t so sad.


I canna see what they want drownin’ theirselves for,


Let me help to wash up,


Certainly not. You sit down again. There aren’t many.


Here! Here! How much will it be to drive to Brook Cottage?


Two shillings.


Why, how far is it?


A good way.


I don’t believe it. You see, it’s only threepence each, and if it were a tram-car— Is it this? Now, this is it! I’m thankful it wasn’t that brute. I was frightened.


You, Paul, eat a piece of bread-and-butter.


All right. But you said you’d have a real holiday, and now you work.


Work! What are you talking about!


Such rot! there isn’t a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody with more gumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and listen. I suppose they’re at the ‘Coons’. Come down lover’s lane For a walk with me, talk with me.


Ah! What is it?


What is it?


It’s the moon,


Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?


Well, everybody else has been in long ago!


What does that matter! I can go a walk if I like, can’t I?


And I should have thought you could get in to supper with the rest,


I shall please myself. It’s not late. I shall do as I like.


Very well, then do as you like.


Do you know where Arthur is?


I do not,


He is a fool. And if he did anything I shouldn’t mind. But no, he simply can’t come away from a game of whist, or else he must see a girl home from the skating-rink—quite proprietously—and so can’t get home. He’s a fool.


I don’t know that it would make it any better if he did something to make us all ashamed,


Well, I should respect him more,


I very much doubt it,


Are you fearfully fond of him?


What do you ask that for?


Because they say a woman always like the youngest best.


She may do—but I don’t. No, he wearies me.


And you’d actually rather he was good?


I’d rather he showed some of a man’s common sense.


Give it here, blind eye! It’s from your son, Arthur,


What now—!


My dearest Mother, 'I don’t know what made me such a fool. I want you to come and fetch me back from here. I came with Jack Bredon yesterday, instead of going to work, and enlisted. He said he was sick of wearing the seat of a stool out, and, like the idiot you know I am, I came away with him. 'I have taken the King’s shilling, but perhaps if you came for me they would let me go back with you. I was a fool when I did it. I don’t want to be in the army. My dear mother, I am nothing but a trouble to you. But if you get me out of this, I promise I will have more sense and consideration. . . .'


Well, now, let him stop!


let him stop.


If I’m not sick!


Now, you’re not going to worry your soul out about this, do you hear.


I suppose I’m to take it as a blessing,


You’re not going to mount it up to a tragedy, so there,


The fool!—the young fool!


He’ll look well in uniform,


Oh, will he! Not in my eyes!


He should get in a cavalry regiment; he’ll have the time of his life, and will look an awful swell.


Swell!—swell!—a mighty swell idea indeed!—a common soldier!


Well, what am I but a common clerk?


A good deal, my boy!


What?


At any rate, a man, and not a thing in a red coat.


I shouldn’t mind being in a red coat—or dark blue, that would suit me better—if they didn’t boss me about too much.


Just as he was getting on, or might have been getting on, at his job—a young nuisance—here he goes and ruins himself for life. What good will he be, do you think, after this?


It may lick him into shape beautifully,


Lick him into shape!—lick what marrow there was out of his bones. A soldier!—a common soldier!—nothing but a body that makes movements when it hears a shout! It’s a fine thing!


I can’t understand why it upsets you,


No, perhaps you can’t. But I understand;


And shall you go to Derby?


Yes.


It’s no good.


I’ll see for myself.


And why on earth don’t you let him stop. It’s just what he wants.


Of course, you know what he wants! I’ve had to go to Derby to-day.


Has ter, lass. What took thee there?


That Arthur!


Oh—an’ what’s agate now?


He’s only enlisted.


Nay, that he niver ’as!


And is going down to Aldershot to-morrow.


Well! That’s a winder. H’m! I hope he may never set foot i’ my house again,


The idea! Saying such a thing!


I do. A fool as runs away for a soldier, let ’im look after ’issen; I s’ll do no more for ’im.


A fat sight you have done as it is,


Well, did you go?


I did.


And could you see him?


Yes.


And what did he say?


He blubbered when I came away.


H’m!


And so did I, so you needn’t ‘h’m’! But the doctor, said he was perfectly proportioned—almost exactly; all his measurements were correct. He is good-looking, you know.


He’s awfully nice-looking. But he doesn’t fetch the girls like William, does he?


No; it’s a different character. He’s a good deal like his father, irresponsible.


What do you think I’ve got for my pictures, mother?


Now, how should I know, my boy!


A first prize for those glass jars—


And a first prize for that sketch up at Willey Farm.


Both first?


It’s nice, isn’t it?


It is.


Why don’t you praise me up to the skies?


I should have the trouble of dragging you down again,


Hello! you didn’t tell me you were coming to town.


No. I drove in to Cattle Market with father. I’ve told you about Mrs. Dawes,


I think I’ve seen him before,


Where have you seen me?


Walking with Louie Travers,


Why, do you know her? Where are you going?


To the Castle.


What train are you going home by?


I am driving with father. I wish you could come too. What time are you free?


You know not till eight to-night, damn it!


What are yer lookin’ at? What’r yer lookin’ at, three hap’orth o’ pap?


He’s only one of your good little sops who can’t help it.


What did you think of Mrs. Dawes?


She doesn’t look very amiable,


Yes—in stature. But without a grain of taste. I like her for some things. Is she disagreeable?


I don’t think so. I think she’s dissatisfied.


What with?


Well—how would you like to be tied for life to a man like that?


Why did she marry him, then, if she was to have revulsions so soon?


Ay, why did she!


And I should have thought she had enough fight in her to match him,


Ay? What makes you think so?


Look at her mouth—made for passion—and the very setback of her throat—


Yes. And what were the things you liked about her?


I don’t know—her skin and the texture of her—and her—I don’t know—there’s a sort of fierceness somewhere in her. I appreciate her as an artist, that’s all.


Yes.


You don’t really like her, do you?


I do,


You don’t—you can’t—not really.


Then what?


Eh, I don’t know—perhaps you like her because she’s got a grudge against men. If you put red berries in your hair, why would you look like some witch or priestess, and never like a reveller?


I don’t know,


Why can’t you laugh? You never laugh laughter. You only laugh when something is odd or incongruous, and then it almost seems to hurt you.


I wish you could laugh at me just for one minute—just for one minute. I feel as if it would set something free. But I do laugh at you—I do.


Never! There’s always a kind of intensity. When you laugh I could always cry; it seems as if it shows up your suffering. Oh, you make me knit the brows of my very soul and cogitate.


I’m sure I don’t want to,


I’m so damned spiritual with you always!


Well, get that French and we’ll do some—some Verlaine.


Yes,


Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl. I shall be late, and then I s’ll catch it. There! Now, could you have done it quicker?


No! You are so fine!


That’s all right!


Did you have them mended?


No!


But why didn’t you?


The back one goes on a bit.


But it’s not safe.


I can use my toe.


I wish you’d had them mended,


Don’t worry—come to tea to-morrow, with Edgar.


Shall we?


Do—about four. I’ll come to meet you.


Very well.


Till to-morrow,


You’ll take care, won’t you?


Yes.


Here goes! See, mother!


H’m!


Aren’t they pretty?


Edgar and Miriam are coming to tea to-morrow. You don’t mind? Do you?


You know whether I mind or not.


I don’t see why you should. I have plenty of meals there.


You do.


Then why do you begrudge them tea?


I begrudge whom tea?


What are you so horrid for?


Oh, say no more! You’ve asked her to tea, it’s quite sufficient. She’ll come.


She exults—she exults as she carries him off from me. She’s not like an ordinary woman, who can leave me my share in him. She wants to absorb him. She wants to draw him out and absorb him till there is nothing left of him, even for himself. He will never be a man on his own feet—she will suck him up.


Why don’t you like her, mother?


I don’t know, my boy. I’m sure I’ve tried to like her. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t—I can’t!


Don’t talk any more,


Why not? Are you tired?


Yes, and it wears you out.


Yet you always make me like it,


I don’t wish to,


Not when you’ve gone too far, and you feel you can’t bear it. But your unconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose I want it. If only you could want me, and not want what I can reel off for you!


I! I! Why, when would you let me take you?


Then it’s my fault,


I shan’t come and meet you,


Oh, very well; it’s not very nice out,


It’s not that—only they don’t like me to. They say I care more for you than for them. And you understand, don’t you? You know it’s only friendship.


Shut that doo-er! If tha oppens it again while I’m weshin’ me, I’ll ma’e thy jaw rattle. Oh, my sirs! Wheer’s my towel? F-ff-f!


Goodness, man, don’t be such a kid! It’s not cold.


Thee strip thysen stark nak’d to wesh thy flesh i’ that scullery, nowt b’r a ice-’ouse!


And I shouldn’t make that fuss,


No, tha’d drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi’ thy nesh sides.


Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?


Eh, I dunno; that’s what they say. But there’s that much draught i’ yon scullery, as it blows through your ribs like through a five-barred gate.


It would have some difficulty in blowing through yours,


Me! I’m nowt b’r a skinned rabbit. My bones fair juts out on me.


I should like to know where,


Iv’ry-wheer! I’m nobbut a sack o’ faggots.


I suppose, you had a good figure once.


Eh!


He had, if he didn’t hurtle himself up as if he was trying to get in the smallest space he could.


Me! me a good figure! I wor niver much more n’r a skeleton.


Man! don’t be such a pulamiter!


'Strewth! Tha’s niver knowed me but what I looked as if I wor goin’ off in a rapid decline.


You’ve had a constitution like iron, and never a man had a better start, if it was body that counted. You should have seen him as a young man,


Gi’e my back a bit of a wesh. Eh, tha mucky little ’ussy!


Goodness, man!


Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o’ water?


Evenin’, missis,


Good-evening,


Tha’s made thy heels crack,


I dunno as I have,


How’s missis?


We’re expectin’ us third just now, you see. Well,


Let’s see—when?


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?


I’m come be-out th’ market-bag. Nay, you’ll be wantin’ that yourself.


I shan’t. I take a string bag always. Barker’s little, but he’s ten times the man you are,


I see you’ve kested me,


Yes,


I’m afraid you’re cold, Mr. Wesson,


It’s a bit nippy,


Then come to the fire.


Nay, I s’ll do where I am.


Go thy ways i’ th’ armchair,


Nay, thank yer; I’m very nicely here.


Yes, come, of course. And how’s that chest of yours?


Oh, it’s very middlin’,


Wi’ a rattle in it like a kettle-drum,


T-t-t-t!


Not yet,


Then, why didn’t you?


It’ll come,


Ah, an’ Doomsday!


Count it, boy,


A measly twenty-five shillings!


Ten pounds eleven,


And he gives me a scrattlin’ twenty-five, an’ his club this week! But I know him. He thinks because you’re earning he needn’t keep the house any longer. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I’ll show him!


Oh, mother, don’t!


Don’t what, I should like to know?


Don’t carry on again. I can’t work.


Yes, it’s all very well,


Well, it won’t make it any better to whittle about it.


I should like to know what you’d do if you had it to put up with.


It won’t be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell.


The two loaves at the top,


All alone?


Yes. What is it? Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery.


Ah, how beautiful! Why does it seem cruel?


What?


There seems a feeling of cruelty about it,


It’s jolly good, whether or not,


And what will you do with it?


Send it to Liberty’s. I did it for my mother, but I think she’d rather have the money.


Yes,


I did that for you. You do like it?


Take your things off. I shouldn’t have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers,


Why not?


If tha doesna tha durs’na. Glory! You’re a positive muck-heap,


I clean them myself.


Then you wanted a job,


Inter alia,


Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean, Miriam?


‘Among other things,’ I believe,


‘Among other things,’ ’Postle?


In fact, it’s one big smile,


Up its sleeve, ’Postle Morel—you believe me,


Are you still at school?


Yes.


You’ve not had your notice, then?


I expect it at Easter.


Isn’t it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you didn’t pass the exam?


I don’t know,


Agatha says you’re as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me ridiculous. I wonder why you didn’t pass.


Short of brains, eh, ’Postle?


Only brains to bite with,


Nuisance!


Beat! I hate you!


Mind!


I’d as lief be neighbours with a vixen,


Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then! And his nice little moustache! It’s a wicked moustache, ’Postle. And fancy me having Connie’s last cig.. Thanks so much, darling. Don’t you think he does it nicely, Miriam?


Oh, very!


Light, old boy? Sweet boy!


I s’ll kiss thee back, Beat,


Tha wunna!


Quite,


By the way, aren’t you forgetting the bread?


By Jove!


Oh, golly! This is what comes of the oblivion of love, my boy.


Poor mater!


You want to grate it. My word, Miriam! you’re in for it this time,


I!


You’d better be gone when his mother comes in. I know why King Alfred burned the cakes. Now I see it! ’Postle would fix up a tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she’d have boxed the brazen thing’s ears who made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred’s.


Smell of burning!


It’s the cigarettes,


I suppose he’s left you to settle it between you. No,


he’s gone off with number nine.


I just met number five inquiring for him,


Yes—we’re going to share him up like Solomon’s baby,


Oh, ay,


I don’t know,


An’ you’d have the leavings, like?


This bread’s a fine sight, our Paul,


Then you should stop an’ look after it,


You mean you should do what you’re reckoning to do,


He should, shouldn’t he!


I s’d think he’d got plenty on hand,


You had a nasty walk, didn’t you, Miriam?


Yes—but I’d been in all week—


And you wanted a bit of a change, like,


Well, you can’t be stuck in the house for ever. Don’t forget that bread, our Paul. Good-night, Miriam. I don’t think it will rain.


It’s a mess!


But, what is it, after all—twopence, ha’penny.


Yes, but—it’s the mater’s precious baking, and she’ll take it to heart. However, it’s no good bothering.


Half-past eight! We’d better buck up. Where’s your French?


Ce matin les oiseaux m’ont éveillé. Il faisait encore un crépuscule. Mais la petite fenêtre de ma chambre était blême, et puis, jaûne, et tous les oiseaux du bois éclatèrent dans un chanson vif et résonnant. Toute l’aûbe tressaillit. J’avais rêvé de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l’aûbe? Les oiseaux m’éveillent presque tous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des grives. Il est si clair— Look, the past participle conjugated with avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes.


You’ve done well this week. You really do blossom out sometimes. You ought to write poetry.


I don’t trust myself,


You should try! Shall we read, or is it too late?


It is late—but we can read just a little,


Behold her singing in the field Yon solitary highland lass. Fair Ines It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, And breathing holy quiet like a nun. Tu te rappelleras la beaûté des caresses. Mater needn’t know till morning. It won’t upset her so much then as at night.


I forgot that bread, mother. Well, it’s only twopence ha’penny. I can pay you for that.


Yes, you don’t know how badly my mother is!


Why is she badly?


Well! She could scarcely get home.


Why could you scarcely get home?


I found her as white as a sheet sitting here,


Well, why?


It was enough to upset anybody, hugging those parcels—meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains—


Well, why did you hug them; you needn’t have done.


Then who would?


Let Annie fetch the meat.


Yes, and I would fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came.


And what was the matter with you?


I suppose it’s my heart,


And have you felt it before?


Yes—often enough.


Then why haven’t you told me?—and why haven’t you seen a doctor?


You’d never notice anything. You’re too eager to be off with Miriam.


Oh, am I—and any worse than you with Leonard?


I was in at a quarter to ten.


I should have thought, that she wouldn’t have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful of bread.


Beatrice was here as well as she.


Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt.


Why?


Because you were engrossed with Miriam,


Oh, very well—then it was not!


You’d better go to bed before your father comes in. And if you’re going to have anything to eat, you’d better get it.


I don’t want anything.


If I wanted you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the scene. But you’re never too tired to go if she will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then.


I can’t let her go alone.


Can’t you? And why does she come?


Not because I ask her.


She doesn’t come without you want her—


Well, what if I do want her—


Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go trapseing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go to Nottingham in the morning—


If I hadn’t, you’d be just the same.


Yes, I should, because there’s no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?


I do like her, but—


Like her! It seems to me you like nothing and nobody else. There’s neither Annie, nor me, nor anyone now for you.


What nonsense, mother—you know I don’t love her—I—I tell you I don’t love her—she doesn’t even walk with my arm, because I don’t want her to.


Then why do you fly to her so often?


I do like to talk to her—I never said I didn’t. But I don’t love her.


Is there nobody else to talk to?


Not about the things we talk of. There’s a lot of things that you’re not interested in, that—


What things?


Why—painting—and books. You don’t care about Herbert Spencer.


No. And you won’t at my age.


Well, but I do now—and Miriam does—


And how do you know, that I shouldn’t. Do you ever try me!


But you don’t, mother, you know you don’t care whether a picture’s decorative or not; you don’t care what manner it is in.


How do you know I don’t care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to me about these things, to try?


But it’s not that that matters to you, mother, you know it’s not.


What is it, then—what is it, then, that matters to me?


You’re old, mother, and we’re young.


Yes, I know it well—I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you—the rest is for Miriam.


You know it isn’t, mother, you know it isn’t!


It looks a great deal like it,


No, mother—I really don’t love her. I talk to her, but I want to come home to you.


I can’t bear it. I could let another woman—but not her. She’d leave me no room, not a bit of room— And I’ve never—you know, Paul—I’ve never had a husband—not really— And she exults so in taking you from me—she’s not like ordinary girls.


Well, I don’t love her, mother,


My boy! There, now go to bed. You’ll be so tired in the morning. There’s your father—now go. Perhaps I’m selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy.


Ha—mother!


At your mischief again?


At any rate, it is sober,


H’m—h’m! h’m—h’m!


Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than twenty-five shillings, I’m sure I’m not going to buy you pork-pie to stuff, after you’ve swilled a bellyful of beer.


Wha-at—wha-at! Wha-at—not for me?


Waste your own stuff!


What—what! I’ll show yer, yer young jockey!


All right! Show me!


Ussha!


Right! Father! Mother! Mother!


What’s a-matter with ’er?


Faint!


H’m!


Don’t be poorly, mother—don’t be poorly!


It’s nothing, my boy,


Can you go to bed, mother?


Yes, I’ll come.


Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him.


No. I’ll sleep in my own bed.


Don’t sleep with him, mother.


I’ll sleep in my own bed.


Good-night, mother.


Good-night!