7点钟她安顿孩子们到床上睡觉，然后，她干了一会活儿。

    沃尔特·莫瑞尔和杰里到达贝斯伍德，他们顿觉如释重负般的轻松，不用再坐火车了，痛痛快快地结束这愉快的一天。他们带着凯旋者的得意踏进了纳尔逊酒馆。

    第二天是工作日，想到这个，男人们便觉得扫兴。而且，他们大多已经花光了钱，有的人已经闷闷不乐地往家 走，准备为明天而睡觉。莫瑞尔太太呆在屋子里，听着他们郁闷的歌声。九点过去了，10点了，那“一对”仍没有回来。不知在哪一家门口，一个男人拖长调子大声唱道：“引导我们，仁慈的光辉。”每次听到这些醉鬼们乱七八糟地唱赞美诗，她总觉得像受了侮辱。

    “好象‘盖娜维吾’之类的小曲还不过瘾。”她说道。

    厨房里满是熬香草和蛇麻子的香味，炉子铁架上支着一个黑色大汤锅。莫瑞尔太太拿来一个大砂锅，往里倒了点白糖，然后用尽全身的力气端起锅，把汤倒进去。

    正在这时，莫瑞尔进来了。 他在纳尔逊酒店里倒是很快活，可在回来的路上就变得烦躁起来。他头昏脑热地在田野睡了一觉，醒来就觉得烦躁不安，浑身疼痛，他还没有完全恢复过来。在走近家门时，他心里很有点内疚。他没有意识到自己在生气，但当 他试图打开花园门却没打开时，他就踢踢踹踹地把门闩都踢断了。进屋的时候正好莫瑞尔太太倒大汤锅里的香草汁。他摇摇晃晃地碰到桌子上，那滚开的汤摇晃了起来，莫瑞尔太太吓了一跳。

    “老天！”她喊道：“喝得醉醺醺地回来了！”

    “什么？”他咆哮着，帽子斜扣在眼睛上。

     突然，她浑身热血沸腾。

    “还说你没醉！”她发火了。

    她放下汤锅，正在搅拌汤里的白糖。他的双手重重地摁到桌子上，把脸凑到她跟前。

    “还说你没醉，”他重复着：“哼！只有你这样讨厌的狗才会这么想。”

    他把脸凑到她跟前。

    “钱多得没处用了，就瞎花！”

    “今天我花了不到两先令呢。”他说。

    “你不会白白喝醉的。”她回答道。她突然发怒了，“如果你依靠着你那个宝贝杰里，他有能力，让他去照顾一下他的孩子吧，他们需要照顾。”

    “胡扯，胡扯，闭嘴，娘儿们。”

    两人剑拔弩张，什么都不顾了，互相争嚷着。她和他一样怒火冲天，他们就这么一直斗着嘴，最后他叫她骗子。

    “不”她大喊，跳了起来，几乎喘不过气来。“你少血口喷人——你，这个披着羊皮和最卑鄙的大骗子。”

    “你是个骗子！”他砸着桌子，大喊道：“你是个骗子，骗子！”

    她努力支撑着，紧握两个拳头。

    “你把屋子都熏臭了。”她叫喊着。

    “那就滚出去——这是我的房子，滚出去！”他大喊，“是我弄来的钱，不是你的，这是 我的房子，不是你的，滚出去——滚出去！”

    “ 我会走的，”她大声说：突然，在软弱的泪水中颤抖着，“啊！要不是，要不是为了孩子，我早走了。啊， 我后悔没有在几年前生第一个孩子后离开。”——突然，她止住流泪，怒不可遏地说：“你以为我会为了你留下吗——你以为 我会为你而停留1分钟吗？”

    “那就滚，”他像疯子一样咆哮着，“滚！”

    “不！”她转过脸，“不！”她大叫，“你别想随心所欲，你别想为所欲为。我还要照看孩子们。听我说，”她讪笑着“ 我会放心地把孩子交给你吗？”

    “滚！”他粗声粗气地喊：“滚！”举着拳头，但不敢动手，因为他害怕她。

    “我的天，如果我能离开你，我只怕高兴得笑都来不及！”她回答道。

    他走到她跟前，眼里充满血丝，脸色涨红地向她凑过来，抓住她的胳膊。她吓得尖叫起来，挣扎着。这时他稍微清醒了一点，粗声喘着气，粗鲁地把她推向屋外；还使劲向前推了一下，砰的一声，把她关到门外。他回到厨房，跌坐在扶手椅上，脑袋热血汹涌，沉在两膝之间。他本来精疲力竭，再加上烂醉如泥，逐渐昏睡过去了。

    八月的晚上，月亮很高很美，莫瑞尔太太气得失去了知觉，猛一颤抖发现自己在一大片银光中，身上备感清凉，这更使她激动的心灵愤怒不已。她无助地站了一会，呆呆地看着门口那些发光的黄叶子，深吸了一口气，沿着花园小路 走着，她的四肢颤抖，腹中的孩子也在不停地动。 有一阵，她不由自主地想刚才的场面，一遍又一遍，那些话，那些情景，就像烧红的烙铁烙在她的心灵上。每次回想刚才的情景，烙铁就重复落在同一点上，留下深深的印记，已经不觉得痛了。最后她清醒了，发觉是在黑夜中。她害怕地向四周张望，已经走到了屋边的花园里，在长长的院墙下种着红醋落木，她在边上走来走去。花园狭长，隔着茂密荆棘树篱，与两排房子之间的路相邻。

    她匆忙从旁边的花园到前边的园子，月亮从前面的小山上升起，清光撒满了河川区所在的整个山谷。她站在那儿，沉浸在银白的月色之中，脸也沐浴着月色。站着站着，又悲从中来，又持以平静，热泪盈眶，她不停地自语道：“讨厌的东西！讨厌的东西。”

    似乎有异样的东西引起她的警觉。她壮着胆子想看看究竟是什么，原来是挺拔雪白的百合花在月光中摇曳，空气中沁透着淡淡的清香，好象有精灵附着似的。莫瑞尔太太害怕地轻轻吸了一口气，她摸着这些大朵百合花白色的花瓣，哆嗦起来。花瓣好象在月光下伸展开来，她把手伸进白色的花蕊里，她手指上的金粉在月光下朦胧不辨。她弯下腰仔细地看这些花蕊上的黄色花粉。但只看到暗淡的颜色。然后，她深深地吸了一口这香气，几乎让她头晕。

    莫瑞尔太太斜靠在花园门口，朝外看着，一时 出了神。她不知道她 想了些什么，除了恶心的感觉使她意识到胎儿的存在之外，她自己似乎像花香一般溶化在晴朗苍白的夜色里。一会儿，胎儿也和她一起溶化在这个月光中。她和群山、百合花、房屋化为一体，在静夜中沉睡。

她清醒过来时，疲倦得只想睡觉，她懈怠地 看了看四周，那一支支白色的夹竹桃像铺着亚麻布的灌木丛。一只飞蛾在花丛上飞过，穿 过花园。她目送着飞蛾，清醒过来。夹竹桃浓郁的香味使她精神倍增。她沿着小路走着，在白玫瑰丛前徘徊了一阵。这花闻起来又香又纯。她摸了摸白玫瑰的花瓣。白玫瑰清新的香气和又凉又软的叶子使她想起早晨和阳光。她非常喜欢这些花。不过，她累了、想睡觉。在神秘的户外，她觉得自己像被遗弃的。

    四周一片寂静。显然，孩子们没有被吵醒，要不就是吵醒又睡着了。一列火车，在三里之外，咆哮着穿过山谷。黑夜无边无际伸向远方，令人感到神秘而好奇。银灰色的雾里传出种种模糊沙哑的声响：一只 长脚鸡在不远处叫，火车叹息般的声音及远处男人的叫喊交织在一起。

    她的平静了的心又开始快速地跳起 来，她匆忙走过宅边园子，轻轻地来到房前。抬了抬门闩，门还是拴得紧紧的。她轻轻地敲了敲门，等了等，又敲了敲。她不 想吵醒孩子，她不能吵醒邻居。他一定睡着了，要不怎么也敲不醒？她抓住门把手急切地想进屋。现在天凉了，她会着凉的，何况她现在是身怀六甲。

    把围裙裹在头上和双肩上，她又急匆匆地回到屋边花园，来到厨房的窗户旁，斜靠在窗台口，从百叶窗向下看，正好看到她丈夫的胳膊摊在桌上，头枕桌面，他脸朝桌子睡得正酣。

此情此景，使她陡增厌恶，心如死灰。她从灯光的铜黄色上断定灯烧得冒了烟，她越来越响地敲着窗子，似乎玻璃都要碎了，但他还是沉睡不醒。

    这样徒劳地敲了半天，她筋疲力竭，又靠着冰凉的石头，不由得颤抖起来。她一直为这个还没出生的孩子担心，她不知道怎么才能暖和一点。她走到煤房里，那儿有一条前天她准备卖给收破烂的旧地毯。她把破毯子技到肩上，虽然肮脏不堪，倒还暖和。然后，她在园中小径徘徊，不时地从百叶窗下向里望望，敲敲窗子，并对自己说，他不会这么僵扭着身子不醒来的。

    大约过了一小时，她轻轻地在窗户上敲了很长时间，当她失望地不想再敲时，这声音惊动了他。她看见他动了一下，茫然地抬起头。他心脏的狂跳使他清醒过来。她立即在窗户上敲了一阵。他完全清醒了。她看到他的拳头立刻握紧，怒目圆睁。他没有一丁点的胆怯，即使来二十个强盗，他也会不顾一切地冲上去。他迷迷糊糊地环顾四周。摆出迎战的姿式。

    “沃尔特，开门。”她冷冷地喊。

    他紧握的拳头松开了。 他才想起他干了些什么。他的头低着，他倔强地绷着脸。她看见他急忙赶到门边，听到门栓楔子的声音。他拔掉门闩。门开了——银灰色的夜色，使习惯了昏暗灯光的他感到畏惧。 他赶紧退了回去。

    莫瑞尔太太进了屋，她看见他几乎是跑着穿过门冲上楼去。在她还没进来时，他就匆匆抽掉了脖子上的硬领，留下了一个撕坏了的扣眼，这又使她生气。

    她暖了暖身子，稳定了一下情绪。疲倦使她忘记了任何事情，她又忙来忙去干留下来的活，准备他的早餐，把他的井下水壶洗干净，把他的井下的衣服放到暖气边烤上，旁边放着他的井下靴子，给他拿出来一块干净的围巾、背包和两个苹果，通了通炉子，然后 去睡觉了。他已经睡死。两条皱在一起的黑眉毛在额头上耸立着，露出闹别扭的痛苦神情，拉长着脸，噘着嘴，好像在说：“我不乎你是谁或你是干什么的，我想怎样就怎样。”

    莫瑞尔太太非常了解他，看也不看他一眼。她对着镜子取下胸针时，她微微地笑了，因为她看见了她满脸的百合花的黄色花粉。她的脑子在翻来覆去的折腾。不过，当她丈夫一觉醒来时，她已经酣然入梦。

    The children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then sheworked awhile.
　　When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felta load off their minds; a railway journey no longer impended,so they could put the finishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with the satisfaction of returned travellers.
　　The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damperon the men's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were already rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparationfor the morrow. Mrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing,went indoors. Nine o'clock passed, and ten, and still "the pair"had not returned. On a doorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly,in a drawl: "Lead, kindly Light." Mrs. Morel was always indignantwith the drunken men that they must sing that hymn when theygot maudlin.
　　"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough," she said.
　　The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On the hob a large black saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel tooka panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of whitesugar into the bottom, and then, straining herself to the weight,was pouring in the liquor.
　　Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson,but coming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over thefeeling of irritability and pain, after having slept on the groundwhen he was so hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he nearedthe house. He did not know he was angry. But when the garden gateresisted his attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs outof the saucepan. Swaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquor pitched. Mrs. Morel started back.
　　"Good gracious," she cried, "coming home in his drunkenness!"
　　"Comin' home in his what?" he snarled, his hat over his eye.
　　Suddenly her blood rose in a jet.
　　"Say you're NOT drunk!" she flashed.
　　She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugarinto the beer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table,and thrust his face forwards at her.
　　"'Say you're not drunk,'" he repeated. "Why, nobodybut a nasty little bitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought."
　　He thrust his face forward at her.
　　"There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else."
　　"I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day," he said.
　　"You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing," she replied. "And," she cried, flashing into sudden fury, "if you've been spongingon your beloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children,for they need it."
　　"It's a lie, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman."
　　They were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything savethe hatred of the other and the battle between them. She was fieryand furious as he. They went on till he called her a liar.
　　"No," she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. "Don't call me that--you, the most despicable liar that ever walkedin shoe-leather." She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs.
　　"You're a liar!" he yelled, banging the table with his fist. "You're a liar, you're a liar."
　　She stiffened herself, with clenched fists.
　　"The house is filthy with you," she cried.
　　"Then get out on it--it's mine. Get out on it!" he shouted. "It's me as brings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. Then ger out on't--ger out on't!"
　　"And I would," she cried, suddenly shaken into tearsof impotence. "Ah, wouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago,but for those children. Ay, haven't I repented not going years ago,when I'd only the one"--suddenly drying into rage. "Do you thinkit's for YOU I stop--do you think I'd stop one minute for YOU?"
　　"Go, then," he shouted, beside himself. "Go!"
　　"No!" She faced round. "No," she cried loudly, "you shan'thave it ALL your own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've gotthose children to see to. My word," she laughed, "I should lookwell to leave them to you."
　　"Go," he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraidof her. "Go!"
　　"I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord,if I could get away from you," she replied.
　　He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes,thrust forward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him,struggled to be free. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushedher roughly to the outer door, and thrust her forth, slotting thebolt behind her with a bang. Then he went back into the kitchen,dropped into his armchair, his head, bursting full of blood,sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped gradually into a stupor,from exhaustion and intoxication.
　　The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel, seared with passion, shivered to find herself out therein a great white light, that fell cold on her, and gave a shockto her inflamed soul. She stood for a few moments helplesslystaring at the glistening great rhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She walked down the garden path,trembling in every limb, while the child boiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness; mechanically shewent over the last scene, then over it again, certain phrases,certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down onher soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each timethe brand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in,and the pain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half an hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came again to her. She glanced roundin fear. She had wandered to the side garden, where she was walkingup and down the path beside the currant bushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from the road, that cuttransversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn hedge.
　　She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where shecould stand as if in an immense gulf of white light, the moonstreaming high in face of her, the moonlight standing up from thehills in front, and filling the valley where the Bottoms crouched,almost blindingly. There, panting and half weeping in reactionfrom the stress, she murmured to herself over and over again: "The nuisance! the nuisance!"
　　She became aware of something about her. With an effort sheroused herself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tall white lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air wascharged with their perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gaspedslightly in fear. She touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals,then shivered. They seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into one white bin: the gold scarcely showedon her fingers by moonlight. She bent down to look at the binfulof yellow pollen; but it only appeared dusky. Then she drank a deepdraught of the scent. It almost made her dizzy.
　　Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and shelost herself awhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feeling of sickness, and her consciousness inthe child, herself melted out like scent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted with her in the mixing-potof moonlight, and she rested with the hills and lilies and houses,all swum together in a kind of swoon.
　　When she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly shelooked about her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spreadwith linen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden. Following it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw,strong scent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path,hesitating at the white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the white ruffles of the roses. Their fresh scentand cool, soft leaves reminded her of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she was tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt forlorn.
　　There was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had notbeen wakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away,roared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange,stretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-greyfog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake notfar off, sound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men.
　　Her quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hurrieddown the side garden to the back of the house. Softly she liftedthe latch; the door was still bolted, and hard against her. She rapped gently, waited, then rapped again. She must not rousethe children, nor the neighbours. He must be asleep, and he wouldnot wake easily. Her heart began to burn to be indoors. She clungto the door-handle. Now it was cold; she would take a chill,and in her present condition!
　　Putting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried againto the side garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the sill,she could just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spreadout on the table, and his black head on the board. He was sleepingwith his face lying on the table. Something in his attitude madeher feel tired of things. The lamp was burning smokily; she couldtell by the copper colour of the light. She tapped at the windowmore and more noisily. Almost it seemed as if the glass would break. Still he did not wake up.
　　After vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact withthe stone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn child,she wondered what she could do for warmth. She went down to thecoal-house, where there was an old hearthrug she had carried out forthe rag-man the day before. This she wrapped over her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy. Then she walked up and down the garden path,peeping every now and then under the blind, knocking, and tellingherself that in the end the very strain of his position must wake him.
　　At last, after about an hour, she rapped long and low atthe window. Gradually the sound penetrated to him. When, in despair,she had ceased to tap, she saw him stir, then lift his face blindly. The labouring of his heart hurt him into consciousness. She rappedimperatively at the window. He started awake. Instantly she saw hisfists set and his eyes glare. He had not a grain of physical fear. If it had been twenty burglars, he would have gone blindly for them. He glared round, bewildered, but prepared to fight.
　　"Open the door, Walter," she said coldly.
　　His hands relaxed. It dawned on him what he had done. His head dropped, sullen and dogged. She saw him hurry to the door,heard the bolt chock. He tried the latch. It opened--and therestood the silver-grey night, fearful to him, after the tawny lightof the lamp. He hurried back.
　　When Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him almostrunning through the door to the stairs. He had rippedhis collar off his neck in his haste to be gone ere shecame in, and there it lay with bursten button-holes. It made her angry.
　　She warmed and soothed herself. In her weariness forgettingeverything, she moved about at the little tasks that remained to be done,set his breakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes on thehearth to warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out a cleanscarf and snap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was already dead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows were drawnup in a sort of peevish misery into his forehead while his cheeks'down-strokes, and his sulky mouth, seemed to be saying: "I don'tcare who you are nor what you are, I SHALL have my own way."
　　Mrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she unfastenedher brooch at the mirror, she smiled faintly to see her faceall smeared with the yellow dust of lilies. She brushed it off,and at last lay down. For some time her mind continued snappingand jetting sparks, but she was asleep before her husband awokefrom the first sleep of his drunkenness.