All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen’s. Morel, feeling sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of Greenhill Lane.
Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as they went through the stile up the field.
“There’s some herb beer behind the pantry-door,” she said. “Th’ master ’ll want a drink, if he doesn’t stop.”
But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it was raining. What did he care about the child or her?
She was very ill when her children were born.
“What is it?” she asked, feeling sick to death.
“A boy.”
And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of men was warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes, and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of everything. She had it in bed with her.
Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the sink; then he sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the inner doorway.
“Well,” she said, “she’s about as bad as she can be. It’s a boy childt.”
The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle on the dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, then came and dropped into his chair.
“Han yer got a drink?” he asked.
The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. She set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel. He drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him again. She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs.
“Was that the master?” asked Mrs. Morel.
“I’ve gave him his dinner,” replied Mrs. Bower.
After he had sat with his arms on the table—he resented the fact that Mrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him
