Selected Stories Read online

  She took out her sewing again.

  At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. One person! She watched for the door to open. It was an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a black woollen shawl—his mother. She was about sixty years old, pale, with blue eyes, and her face all wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the door and turned to her daughter-in-law peevishly.

  “Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!” she cried.

  Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply.

  “What is it, mother?” she said.

  The elder woman seated herself on the sofa.

  “I don’t know, child, I can’t tell you!”—she shook her head slowly. Elizabeth sat watching her, anxious and vexed.

  “I don’t know,” replied the grandmother, sighing very deeply. “There’s no end to my troubles, there isn’t. The things I’ve gone through, I’m sure it’s enough——!” She wept without wiping her eyes, the tears running.

  “But mother,” interrupted Elizabeth, “what do you mean? What is it?”

  The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The fountains of her tears were stopped by Elizabeth’s directness. She wiped her eyes slowly.

  “Poor child! eh, you poor thing!” she moaned. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, I don’t—and you as you are—it’s a thing, it is indeed!”

  Elizabeth waited.

  “Is he dead?” she asked, and at the words her heart swung violently, though she felt a slight flush of shame at the ultimate extravagance of the question. Her words sufficiently frightened the old lady, almost brought her to herself.

  “Don’t say so, Elizabeth! We’ll hope it’s not as bad as that; no, may the Lord spare us that, Elizabeth. Jack Rigley came just as I was sittin’ down to a glass afore going to bed, an’ ’e said, ‘ ’Appen you’ll go down th’ line, Mrs Bates. Walt’s had an accident. ’Appen you’ll go an’ sit wi’ ’er till we can get him home.’ I hadn’t time to ask him a word, afore he was gone. An’ I put my bonnet on an’ come straight down, Lizzie. I thought to myself, ‘Eh, that poor blessed child, if anybody should come an’ tell her of a sudden, there’s no knowin’ what’ll ’appen to ’er.’ You mustn’t let it upset you, Lizzie—or you know what to expect. How long is it, six months—or is it five, Lizzie? Ay!”—the old woman shook her head—“time slips on, it slips on! Ay!”

  Elizabeth’s thoughts were busy elsewhere. If he was killed—would she be able to manage on the little pension and what she could earn?—she counted up rapidly. If he was hurt—they wouldn’t take him to the hospital—how tiresome he would be to nurse!—but perhaps she’d get him away from the drink and his hateful ways. She would—while he was ill. The tears offered to come to her eyes at the picture. But what sentimental luxury was this she was beginning?—She turned to consider the children. At any rate she was absolutely necessary for them. They were her business.

  “Ay!” repeated the old woman, “it seems but a week or two since he brought me his first wages. Ay—he was a good lad, Elizabeth, he was, in his way. I don’t know why he got to be such a trouble, I don’t. He was a happy lad at home, only full of spirits. But there’s no mistake he’s been a handful o’ trouble, a handful o’ trouble, he has! I hope the Lord’ll spare him to mend his ways, I hope so, I hope so. You’ve had a sight o’ trouble with him, Elizabeth, you have indeed. But he was a jolly enough lad wi’ me, he was, I can assure you. I don’t know how it is ….”

  The old woman continued to muse aloud, a monotonous irritating sound, while Elizabeth thought concentratedly, startled once, when she heard the winding-engine chuff quickly and the brakes skirr with a shriek. Then she heard the engine more slowly, and the brakes made no sound. The old woman did not notice. Elizabeth waited in suspense. The mother-in-law talked, with lapses into silence.

  “But he wasn’t your son, Lizzie—an’ it makes a difference. Whatever he was, I remember him when he was little, an’ I learned to understand him and to make allowances. You’ve got to make allowances for them—”

  It was half past ten, and the old woman was saying: “But it’s trouble from beginning to end; you’re never too old for trouble, never too old for that——” when the gate banged back, and there were heavy feet on the steps.

  “I’ll go, Lizzie, let me go,” cried the old woman, rising. But Elizabeth was at the door. It was a man in pit-clothes.

  “They’re bringin’ ’im, Missis,” he said. Elizabeth’s heart halted a moment. Then it surged on again, almost suffocating her.

  “Is he—is it bad?” she asked.

  The man turned away, looking at the darkness:

  “The doctor says ’e’d been dead hours. ’E saw ’im i’ th’ lamp cabin.”

  The old woman, who stood just behind Elizabeth, dropped into a chair, and folded her hands, crying: “Oh, my boy, my boy!”

  “Hush!” said Elizabeth, with a sharp twitch of a frown. “Be still, mother, don’t waken th’ children: I wouldn’t have them down for anything!”

  The old woman moaned softly, rocking herself. The man was drawing away. Elizabeth took a step forward.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Well, I couldn’t say for sure,” the man replied, very ill at ease. “ ’E wor finishin’ a stint, an’ th’ butties ’ad gone, an’ a lot o’ stuff come down atop ’n ’im.”

  “And crushed him?” cried the widow, with a shudder.

  “No,” said the man, “it fell at th’ back of ’im. ’E wor under th’ face, an’ it niver touched ’im. It shut ’im in. It seems ’e wor smothered.”

  Elizabeth shrank back. She heard the old woman behind her cry:

  “What?—what did ’e say it was?”

  The man replied, more loudly: “ ’E wor smothered!”

  Then the old woman wailed aloud, and this relieved Elizabeth.

  “Oh, mother,” she said, putting her hand on the old woman, “don’t waken th’ children, don’t waken th’ children.”

  She wept a little, unknowing, while the old mother rocked herself and moaned. Elizabeth remembered that they were bringing him home, and she must be ready. “They’ll lay him in the parlour,” she said to herself, standing a moment pale and perplexed.

  Then she lighted a candle and went into the tiny room. The air was cold and damp, but she could not make a fire, there was no fireplace. She set down the candle and looked round. The candle-light glittered on the lustre-glasses, on the two vases that held some of the pink chrysanthemums, and on the dark mahogany. There was a cold, deathly smell of chrysanthemums in the room. Elizabeth stood looking at the flowers. She turned away, and calculated whether there would be room to lay him on the floor, between the couch and the chiffonier. She pushed the chairs aside. There would be room to lay him down and to step round him. Then she fetched the old red table-cloth, and another old cloth, spreading them down to save her bit of carpet. She shivered on leaving the parlour; so, from the dresser drawer she took a clean shirt and put it at the fire to air. All the time her mother-in-law was rocking herself in the chair and moaning.

  “You’ll have to move from there, mother,” said Elizabeth. “They’ll be bringing him in. Come in the rocker.”

  The old mother rose mechanically, and seated herself by the fire, continuing to lament. Elizabeth went into the pantry for another candle, and there, in the little pent-house under the naked tiles, she heard them coming. She stood still in the pantry doorway, listening. She heard them pass the end of the house, and come awkwardly down the three steps, a jumble of shuffling footsteps and muttering voices. The old woman was silent. The men were in the yard.

  Then Elizabeth heard Matthews, the manager of the pit, say: “You go in first, Jim. Mind!”

  The door came open, and the two women saw a collier backing into the room, holding one end of a stretcher, on which they could see the nailed pit-boots of the dead man. The two carriers halted, the man at the head stooping to the lintel of the door.

  “Wheer will you have him?” asked the manager, a
short, white-bearded man.

  Elizabeth roused herself and came away from the pantry, carrying the unlighted candle.

  “In the parlour,” she said.

  “In there Jim!” pointed the manager, and the carriers backed round into the tiny room. The coat with which they had covered the body fell off as they awkwardly turned through the two doorways, and the women saw their man, naked to the waist, lying stripped for work. The old woman began to moan in a low voice of horror.

  “Lay th’ stretcher at th’ side,” snapped the manager, “an’ put ’im on th’ cloths. Mind now, mind! Look you now——!”

  One of the men had knocked off a vase of chrysanthemums. He stared awkwardly, then they set down the stretcher. Elizabeth did not look at her husband. As soon as she could get in the room, she went and picked up the broken vase, and the flowers.

  “Wait a minute!” she said.

  The three men waited in silence while she mopped up the water with a duster.

  “Eh, what a job, what a job, to be sure!” the manager was saying, rubbing his brow with trouble and perplexity. “Never knew such a thing in my life, never! He’d no business to ha’ been left. I never knew such a thing in my life! Fell over him clean as a whistle, an’ shut him in. Not four foot of space, there wasn’t—yet it scarce bruised him.”

  He looked down at the dead man, lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust.

  “ ‘ ’Sphyxiated,’ the doctor said. It is the most terrible job I’ve ever known. Seems as if it was done o’ purpose. Clean over him, an’ shut ’im in, like a mouse-trap”—he made a sharp, descending gesture with his hand.

  The colliers standing by jerked aside their heads in hopeless comment.

  The horror of the thing bristled upon them all.

  Then they heard the girl’s voice upstairs calling shrilly: “Mother, mother—who is it? Mother!—who is it?”

  Elizabeth hurried to the foot of the stairs and opened the door:

  “Go to sleep!” she commanded sharply. “What are you shouting about? Go to sleep at once—there’s nothing——”

  Then she began to mount the stairs. They could hear her on the boards, and on the plaster floor of the little bedroom. They could hear her distinctly:

  “What’s the matter now?—what’s the matter with you, silly thing?”—her voice was much agitated, with an unreal gentleness.

  “I thought it was some men come,” said the plaintive voice of the child. “Has he come?”

  “Yes, they’ve brought him. There’s nothing to make a fuss about. Go to sleep now, like a good child.”

  They could hear her voice in the bedroom, they waited whilst she covered the children under the bedclothes.

  “Is he drunk?” the girl asked, timidly, faintly.

  “No! No—he’s not! He—he’s asleep.”

  “Is he asleep downstairs?”

  “Yes … and don’t make a noise.”

  There was silence for a moment, then the men heard the frightened child again:

  “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s nothing, I tell you, what are you bothering for?”

  The noise was the grandmother moaning. She was oblivious of everything, sitting on her chair rocking and moaning. The manager put his hand on her arm and bade her “Sh—sh!!”

  The old woman opened her eyes and looked at him. She was shocked by this interruption, and seemed to wonder.

  “What time is it?”—the plaintive thin voice of the child, sinking back unhappily into sleep, asked this last question.

  “Ten o’clock,” answered the mother more softly. Then she must have bent down and kissed the children.

  Matthews beckoned the men to come away. They put on their caps and took up the stretcher. Stepping over the body, they tiptoed out of the house. None of them spoke till they were far from the wakeful children.

  When Elizabeth came down she found her mother alone on the parlour floor, leaning over the dead man, the tears dropping on him.

  “We must lay him out,” the wife said. She put on the kettle, then returned and kneeling at the feet, began to unfasten the knotted leather laces. The room was clammy and dim with only one candle, so that she had to bend her face almost to the floor. At last she got off the heavy boots, and put them away.

  “You must help me now,” she whispered to the old woman. Together they stripped the man.

  When they arose, saw him lying in the naïve dignity of death, the women stood arrested in fear and respect. For a few moments they remained still, looking down, the old mother whimpering. Elizabeth felt countermanded. She saw him, how utterly inviolable he lay in himself. She had nothing to do with him. She could not accept it. Stooping, she laid her hand on him, in claim. He was still warm, for the mine was hot where he had died. His mother had his face between her hands, and was murmuring incoherently. The old tears fell in succession as drops from wet leaves; the mother was not weeping, merely her tears flowed. Elizabeth embraced the body of her husband, with cheek and lips. She seemed to be listening, inquiring, trying to get some connection. But she could not. She was driven away. He was impregnable.

  She rose, went into the kitchen, where she poured warm water into a bowl, brought soap and flannel and a soft towel.

  “I must wash him,” she said. Then the old mother rose stiffly, and watched Elizabeth as she carefully washed his face, carefully brushing the big blonde moustache from his mouth with the flannel. She was afraid with a bottomless fear, so she ministered to him. The old woman, jealous, said:

  “Let me wipe him!”—and she kneeled on the other side, slowly drying as Elizabeth washed, her big black bonnet sometimes brushing the dark head of her daughter. They worked thus in silence for a long time. They never forgot it was death, and the touch of the man’s dead body gave them strange emotions, different in each of the women; a great dread possessed them both, the mother felt the lie was given to her womb, she was denied; the wife felt the utter isolation of the human soul, the child within her was a weight apart from her.

  At last it was finished. He was a man of handsome body, and his face showed no traces of drink. He was blonde, full-fleshed, with fine limbs. But he was dead.

  “Bless him,” whispered his mother, looking always at his face, and speaking out of sheer terror. “The dear lad—bless him!” She spoke in a faint, sibilant ecstasy of fear and mother love.

  Elizabeth sank down again to the floor, and put her face against his neck, and trembled and shuddered. But she had to draw away again. He was dead, and her living flesh had no place against his. A great dread and weariness held her: she was so unavailing. Her life was gone like this.

  “White as milk he is, clear as a twelvemonth baby, bless him, the darling!” the old mother murmured to herself. “Not a mark on him, clear and clean and white, as beautiful as ever a child was made,” she murmured with pride. Elizabeth kept her face hidden.

  “He went peaceful, Lizzie—peaceful as sleep. Isn’t he beautiful, the lamb? Ay—he must ha’ made his peace, Lizzie. ’Appen he made it all right, Lizzie, shut in there. He’d have time. He wouldn’t look like this if he hadn’t made his peace. The lamb, the dear lamb. Eh, but he had a hearty laugh. I loved to hear it. He had the heartiest laugh, Lizzie, as a lad——”

  Elizabeth looked up. The man’s mouth was fallen back, slightly open, under the cover of the moustache. The eyes, half shut, did not show glazed in the obscurity. Life with its smoky burning gone from him, had left him apart and utterly alien to her. And she knew what a stranger he was to her. In her womb was ice of fear, because of this separate stranger with whom she had been living as one flesh. Was this what it all meant—utter, intact separateness, obscured by heat of living? In dread she turned her face away. The fact was too deadly. There had been nothing between them, and yet they had come together, exchanging their nakedness repeatedly. Each time he had taken her, they had been two isolated beings, far apart as now. He was no more responsible than she. The child was like ice in her womb. Fo
r as she looked at the dead man, her mind, cold and detached, said clearly: “Who am I? What have I been doing? I have been fighting a husband who did not exist. He existed all the time. What wrong have I done? What was that I have been living with? There lies the reality, this man.”—And her soul died in her for fear: she knew she had never seen him, he had never seen her, they had met in the dark and had fought in the dark, not knowing whom they met nor whom they fought. And now she saw, and turned silent in seeing. For she had been wrong. She had said he was something he was not; she had felt familiar with him. Whereas he was apart all the while, living as she never lived, feeling as she never felt.

  In fear and shame she looked at his naked body, that she had known falsely. And he was the father of her children. Her soul was torn from her body and stood apart. She looked at his naked body and was ashamed, as if she had denied it. After all, it was itself. It seemed awful to her. She looked at his face, and she turned her own face to the wall. For his look was other than hers, his way was not her way. She had denied him what he was—she saw it now. She had refused him as himself.—And this had been her life, and his life.—She was grateful to death, which restored the truth. And she knew she was not dead.

  And all the while her heart was bursting with grief and pity for him. What had he suffered? What stretch of horror for this helpless man! She was rigid with agony. She had not been able to help him. He had been cruelly injured, this naked man, this other being, and she could make no reparation. There were the children—but the children belonged to life. This dead man had nothing to do with them. He and she were only channels through which life had flowed to issue in the children. She was a mother—but how awful she knew it now to have been a wife. And he, dead now, how awful he must have felt it to be a husband. She felt that in the next world he would be a stranger to her. If they met there, in the beyond, they would only be ashamed of what had been before. The children had come, for some mysterious reason, out of both of them. But the children did not unite them. Now he was dead, she knew how eternally he was apart from her, how eternally he had nothing more to do with her. She saw this episode of her life closed. They had denied each other in life. Now he had withdrawn. An anguish came over her. It was finished then: it had become hopeless between them long before he died. Yet he had been her husband. But how little!