Sometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to open her heart seriously to him. She saw him listen deferentially, but without understanding. This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and she had flashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of an evening: it was not enough for him just to be near her, she realised. She was glad when he set himself to little jobs.
He was a remarkably handy man—could make or mend anything. So she would say:
“I do like that coal-rake of your mother’s—it is small and natty.”
“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.
She did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy and happy.
But in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, she felt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity, took them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was married in: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning the papers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid.
“Look here,” she said at night, after he was washed and had had his dinner. “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.”
He did not answer.
“I can have your bank-book, can’t I?”
“Tha can ha’e it, for what good it’ll be to thee.”
“I thought—” she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money left over. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigid with bitterness and indignation.
The next day she went down to see his mother.
“Didn’t you buy the furniture for Walter?” she asked.
“Yes, I did,” tartly retorted the elder woman.
“And how much did he give you to pay for it?”
The elder woman was stung with fine indignation.
“Eighty pound, if you’re so keen on knowin’,” she replied.
“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!” echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that, after her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six pounds more should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter’s parents’ house, at his expense.
“And how much has he sunk in his houses?” she asked.
“His houses—which houses?”
Gertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house he lived in, and the next one, was his own.
“I thought the house we live in—” she began.
“They’re my houses, those two,” said the mother-in-law. “And not clear either. It’s as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid.”
Gertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now.
“Then we ought to be paying you rent,” she said coldly.
“Walter is paying me rent,” replied the mother.
“And what rent?” asked Gertrude.
“Six and six a week,” retorted the mother.
It was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect, looked straight before her.
“It is lucky to be you,” said the elder woman, bitingly, “to have a husband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free hand.”
The young wife was silent.
She said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towards him. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard as rock.
When October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, at Christmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This Christmas she would bear him a child.
