偶尔，这位牧师也和莫瑞尔太太一起喝茶。于是，她就早早铺上桌布，拿出她最好的淡绿边杯子，心里希望莫瑞尔别太早回来，即使这一天他在外面喝杯酒，她也不会在乎的。她总是做两顿主餐。因为她认为孩子们的主餐应该在中午吃，而莫瑞尔应在5点钟吃。因此，当莫瑞尔太太和面做布丁，削土豆皮时，海顿先生就会抱着孩子，看着她干活，讨论着他的下一次布道。他的想法荒谬古怪。她谨慎地让他面对现实。这次是在讨论述拿的婚礼。

    “当主耶酥在迦拿把水变成酒后，”他说：“这就是普通生活的象征，结婚后夫妇的血如果没有受过圣灵感召，像水一样。一旦受了圣灵感召，就变得像酒一样。因为，一旦有了爱情，一个人受到了圣灵感召，精神结构就会改变，外表也会变化。”

    莫瑞尔太太心里想：“是啊，可怜的家伙。他年轻的妻子就死了，所以他才把爱投入到圣灵身上。”当他们把第一杯茶喝了一半时，就听见门外传来矿井靴的响声。

    “天哪！”莫瑞尔太太不由自主地喊道。牧师看起来也有点害怕。莫瑞尔进来了，他满面怒容。牧师站起来想跟他握手，莫瑞尔却点点头算是打了个招呼。

    “不安全啦，”莫瑞尔说着伸出手 来让他看。“看我的手！你从来不想握这样的手，是吧？手上尽是铁镐、铁锹上的煤灰。”

    牧师慌乱地涨红了脸，又坐了下来。莫瑞尔太太站起来，把冒着热气的汤锅端到旁边。莫瑞尔脱下外衣，把扶手椅子拖到桌子跟前。重重地坐下来。

    “累了吧？”牧师问道。

    “累？我是累了。”莫瑞尔回答道。“你不知道累是什么滋味。”

    “也是。”牧师回答。

    “ 看，看这儿，“矿工说道，让他看自己汗衫的肩部，“现在干了点儿，可还是像块汗淋淋的抹布，摸摸这儿。”

    “上帝啊！”莫瑞尔太太喊道：“海顿先生才不想摸你那肮脏的汗衫。”

牧师小心地伸出手。

    “对，也许他不想摸。”莫瑞尔说道：“不管怎样，汗会从我身上流出来。 我的汗衫每天都拧得出水来。太太，你有没有给一个从井下回家的男人准备一杯汤！”

    “你知道你把所有啤酒都喝完了。”说着，莫瑞尔太太给他倒了一杯茶。

    “难道一点也没有了吗？”他转身对牧师说：“你知道，煤矿里到处都是灰，一个人浑身是煤灰，当然回到家，就需要喝一杯酒。”

    “那是当然。”牧师说道。

    “可十次想喝九次都喝不上。”

    “有水——还有茶。”莫瑞尔太太说。

    “水！水又不能润嗓子。”

    他倒了一杯茶，吹了吹，隔着大黑胡子一口喝干了。然后叹了口气，又倒了一杯，把茶杯放在桌子上。

    “ 我的桌布！”莫瑞尔太太说着把茶杯放在盘子里。

    “累成这样的人回家，哪顾得上桌布。”莫瑞尔说。

    “可怜啊！”他的妻子冷嘲热讽地说着。

    屋子里弥漫着肉、蔬菜和下井工作服的气味。

    他向牧师斜靠过去，大胡子向前翘着，脸色黝黑，嘴巴更显得通红。

    ”海顿先生，”他说，“一个人整天呆在黑漆漆的洞里，不停地挖煤层，唉，比那堵墙更坚硬的……。”

    “不用报怨了。”莫瑞尔太太打断他。

    她厌恶丈夫，不论什么时候，他就装模作样地乞求别人的同情。

    威廉，坐在旁边看婴孩，他也讨厌父亲自怨自艾的神态，恨他用漠不关心的态度对待母亲。安妮也从没喜欢过他，常躲着他。

    牧师走后，莫瑞尔太太看着桌布。

    “搞得乌七八糟。”她说。

    “难道因为你领来一位牧师陪着，我就应该吊着膀子闲坐着。”他大声吼道。

    俩人都怒气冲冲，但她一声不吭，婴儿哭了。莫瑞尔太太端起炉边的一只汤锅，不小心碰着安妮的头，把小姑娘碰哭了。莫瑞尔冲她大声斥责，家里一片混乱，威廉看着壁炉上几个发亮的大字，清晰地念道：“上帝保佑我的全家。”

    这时莫瑞尔太太正在哄婴儿，听后跳起来冲到威廉面前，扇了他一耳光，说：“你敢插嘴？”

    接着，她坐下大笑起来， 笑得满面泪水涟涟，威廉踹着她坐的凳子，莫瑞尔吼道：“我不明白这有什么可笑的。”

    一天晚上，正值牧师访后，她觉得她不能再忍受她丈夫的絮絮叨叨，就带着安妮和小孩出去了。莫瑞尔刚才踢了威廉，她永远也不会原谅他。

    她走过羊桥，穿过草地的一角，来到板球场。金黄的晚霞铺满草地，隐约可从听到远处的水车声。她坐在板球场杨树下，面对着暮色，在她面前，是这块平坦、坚实绿色的大板球场。像一汪闪光的大海。孩子们在浅蓝色的帐篷阴影里玩。好多绚丽斑澜的白嘴鸦在呱呱叫着飞回家去。飞行的鸦群排成一条长长的弧形，飞进金色的晚霞，像舒缓的旋风中卷起的黑色鳞片，绕着突出的牧场中的树桩，聚拢着，呱呱叫着，旋转着。

    几个绅士正在训练，莫瑞尔太太听见打球的声音和男人们的失声叫喊，看见白色的人影在朦胧的绿茵上悄悄地移动着，远处的农庄，干草堆的一面通红发亮，另一面灰色阴暗。一辆满载着一捆捆谷物的大车穿过夕阳的余辉驶向远方。

    太阳就要落山了。每个晴朗的傍晚，金色的夕阳映红了德比郡的群山。

    莫瑞尔太太看着太阳从绚烂美丽的天空中往下沉在当空，留下一道柔和的花一般的蓝色，而西方天空却一片通红，仿佛所有的火都汇集在那里一样，另一半苍穹被映衬得明净湛蓝。有一刻，田野那边的山梨果从黑色的叶丛中探出来。几捆麦子竖在田地的一角，像活人似的，随风摇晃，她想它们在鞠躬。也许她的儿子会成为一个正派的人。在东边，落日把天空染成一片浮动的粉红色，与西边的猩红色相映衬。山坡上的那些原来在落日的金光中的大干草堆渐渐变凉。

    莫瑞尔太太只有在这一刻，那些琐碎的烦恼突然飘逝殆尽。面对美丽的大自然的景色，她获得了心平气静地来审视自己的勇气。时不时有燕子飞掠她的身边，安娜也时不时地拿着一把杨树果来到她身边。婴儿在母亲的膝盖上不停地扭动着，两手对着摇摇摆摆。

    莫瑞尔太太低头看着孩子。由于她与丈夫的感情乖忤，所以她把小孩子当作灾祸和负担。甚至到现在她还对孩子感到陌生。这个孩子像沉重的包袱压在她心上，仿佛孩子有病或畸形似的。实际上，孩子看起来相当健康。她注意到孩子的眉头奇怪地皱着，眼神显得心事重重，仿佛他正努力去理解什么是痛苦。她看着孩子那黑色忧郁的双眸，心头像压着磐石。

    “他看起来像在想什么伤心事呢。”基克太太说。

    看着孩子，突然间，母亲心头的那种沉重的感情融化为一种强烈的悲痛。她俯向孩子，两行由衷的泪滴流下来。小孩子举起了小手。

    “我的宝贝。”她温柔地叫着。

    就在这一刻，她觉得在灵魂深处，感到她和丈夫的罪孽。

    小孩子抬起头来看着她。孩子有一双像她一样的蓝眼睛，但看起来沉重忧郁，仿佛他已经明白心灵受到了什么打击。

    娇弱的婴儿躺在她怀里，他那深蓝色的眼睛，总是眨也不眨地望着她，好象要看穿她的深藏的内心世界。她不再爱丈夫，本不想要这个孩子，但是他现在已经躺在她的怀里，牵动她的心。她觉得仿佛那根把婴儿弱小的身体和她的身体连在一起脐带还没割断。她的心里涌起一股疼爱婴儿的热情。她把孩子拥在胸前，正对着他。她要用她所有的力量，用她全部的爱心去补偿这个由她带到世上却没有疼爱的孩子。既然孩子已经 出世了，就要格外爱护孩子，让他在爱护中成长。他那清澈懂事的眼睛让她痛苦而又害怕。难道他知道她的一切？他在她神色中是不是有一种责备的意味？她痛苦而又害怕，她觉得她的骨髓都要融化了。

    她又一次清醒地意识到手中的婴儿。

    “看！”她说：“看！我的宝贝。”

    把婴儿举向搏动的、红彤彤的太阳，她看见他举起他的小拳头，她感到欣慰。然后她又 把他搂在怀里，对于她冲动地想让他回到他来的地方感到羞愧。

    “如果他长大，”她心里想，“他会成为什么——他会成为一个什么样的人呢？

    她忧心忡忡。

    “我要叫他‘保罗’。”她突然说，也不知道为什么。

    过了一会儿她回家了。夜色洒在深绿色的草地上，一切都湮没在黑暗中。

    正如所料，她发现家里空无一人。不过，莫瑞尔10点钟回家了。那天，至少是平平安安过去了。

    沃尔特·莫瑞尔在这段时间特别烦躁，工作累得他精疲力尽，回到家后，对谁说话都没好气。如果炉火太小，他就像强盗一样咋咋呼呼，他报怨饭菜不可口；孩子们大声说话声稍高一点儿，他就大声呵斥，使得母亲火冒三丈孩子们痛恨他。

    星期五，11点钟了，他还没回家。婴儿生病一刻也不安宁，一放下就哭。莫瑞尔太太累得要死。她还很虚弱，几乎都支撑不住了。

    “希望那个讨厌的家伙早点儿回来。”她疲乏地自语。

    小孩子终于躺在她的怀里睡着了。她累得连把孩子抱到摇篮里的力气几乎都没有了。

    “不论他什么时候回来，我都不管他。”她 说：“讲了只惹得生气，我不如什么都不说，我知道无论干什么，他都会让我生气的。”她又自言自语。

    她叹了口气。听到他回来了。好象这脚步声让她无法忍受。他在报复她。喝得醉熏熏的。他进屋时。她一直低着头看着孩子。不希望看到他。 他走过去。歪歪斜斜地撞到碗柜上。里面的坛坛罐罐碰得啼哩哗啦。他抓住白色的圆壶盖。稳住自己。挂好自己的衣帽。又转过身 来。站在远处瞪着她。她却坐在那里俯对着孩子。

    “家里没有什么吃的吗？”他蛮横地问。好象支使一个仆人。他喝醉的时候。他会装出城里人说话的腔调。莫瑞尔太太最讨厌他这样子。

    “你知道家里有什么？”她毫无感情地冷冰冰地说。

    他站在那里瞅着她。一动不动。

    “我问了一个礼貌的问题。我也希望有一个礼貌的回答。”他别别扭扭地说。

    “你已经得到了礼貌回答。”她说着。仍然不理他。

     他又瞪着眼睛。然后摇摇晃晃地走上前。一只手按着桌子。另一只手拉开抽屉想拿出刀切面包。他拉歪了抽屉。卡住拉不开。他猛地拉了一下。抽屉完全被拉出来。里面的刀叉勺等金属物品散落满地。小孩被吓得猛地抽搐一下。

    “你笨手笨脚地干什么呀？醉鬼。”母亲叫了起来。

    “那你应该把这些东西捡起来，你应该像别的女人一样服侍男人。”

    “服侍你——服侍你？”她叫道。“噢。我明白了。”

    “对。我要你明白你该干些什么。服侍我。你应该服侍我……。”

    “没门儿。老爷。我宁愿去侍候大门口的狗。”

    “什么，什么？”

    他正试着安抽屉。听她最后一句话。他转过身。脸色通红。眼睛布满血丝威胁地瞪着她，一声不吭。

    “呸——”她轻蔑地。

    他气极了。猛地一拉抽屉。抽屉掉了下来。结结实实地砸在他的腿上。他反射似地把抽屉向她扔去。

    抽屉的一角碰到了她的眉头，掉进壁炉里。她歪了一下头，从椅子上跌下来，几乎昏过去。她的内心感觉很难受，她紧紧地把孩子搂在怀里。过了一会儿，她才努力清醒过来，孩子正哭喊着。她的左眉头不停地冒血，她一低头看孩子，头就发晕。几滴血滴到了孩子的白围巾上。幸亏孩子没有伤着。她抬起头部保持平衡，抑制血流满眼睛。

    沃尔特·莫瑞尔仍然像刚才一样站着，一手斜撑着桌子，神色茫然，等他觉得自己站稳后，摇摇晃晃地向她走去。又磕绊了一下，他一把抓住了她的摇椅后背，几乎把她翻倒在地。他向她斜俯过去，用一种迷惑的关切的口气说：

    “砸中你了吗？”

    他又摇晃了一下，好像要倒在孩子身上。闯了这个祸，他已经失去了平衡。

    “滚开。”她努力保持平静。

    他打了个嗝。“让我——让我看看他。”他说着，又打了个嗝儿。

    “滚开！”她又大声说。

    “让我——让我看看嘛，亲爱的。”

    她闻到了他的酒味。觉得他摇晃着她摇椅的后背，有时整个椅子都在晃动。

    “滚开！”她说。无力推开他。

    他摇摇晃晃地站着，死死地盯着她。她用尽全身力气站起来，怀里抱着孩子。凭着顽强的意志，像在梦游似地穿过洗碗间，用凉水洗了一下眼睛。她头晕得厉害，害怕自己摔倒。回 到摇椅上，全身都在发抖。她仍然本能地紧紧地抱着孩子。

    莫瑞尔不耐烦地把抽屉塞国空格里，然后膝盖着地，双手麻木地收拾撒了一地的勺叉。

    她眉头仍然冒着血。不一会儿，莫瑞尔站起来，向她伸着脸。

    Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then shelaid the cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim,and hoped Morel would not come too soon; indeed, if he stayed for a pint,she would not mind this day. She had always two dinners to cook,because she believed children should have their chief meal at midday,whereas Morel needed his at five o'clock. So Mr. Heaton would holdthe baby, whilst Mrs. Morel beat up a batter-pudding or peeledthe potatoes, and he, watching her all the time, would discusshis next sermon. His ideas were quaint and fantastic. She broughthim judiciously to earth. It was a discussion of the wedding at Cana.
　　"When He changed the water into wine at Cana," he said,"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."
　　Mrs. Morel thought to herself:
　　"Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why hemakes his love into the Holy Ghost."
　　They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heardthe sluther of pit-boots.
　　"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself.
　　The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He wasfeeling rather savage. He nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman,who rose to shake hands with him.
　　"Nay," said Morel, showing his hand, "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."
　　The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took offhis coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily.
　　"Are you tired?" asked the clergyman.
　　"Tired? I ham that," replied Morel. "YOU don't know what itis to be tired, as I'M tired."
　　"No," replied the clergyman.
　　"Why, look yer 'ere," said the miner, showing the shouldersof his singlet. "It's a bit dry now, but it's wet as a cloutwith sweat even yet. Feel it."
　　"Goodness!" cried Mrs. Morel. "Mr. Heaton doesn't want to feelyour nasty singlet."
　　The clergyman put out his hand gingerly.
　　"No, perhaps he doesn't," said Morel; "but it'sall come out of me, whether or not. An' iv'ry dayalike my singlet's wringin' wet. 'Aven't you gota drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from the pit?"
　　"You know you drank all the beer," said Mrs. Morel, pouring outhis tea.
　　"An' was there no more to be got?" Turning to the clergyman--"Aman gets that caked up wi' th' dust, you know,--that clogged updown a coal-mine, he NEEDS a drink when he comes home."
　　"I am sure he does," said the clergyman.
　　"But it's ten to one if there's owt for him."
　　"There's water--and there's tea," said Mrs. Morel.
　　"Water! It's not water as'll clear his throat."
　　He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it upthrough his great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then hepoured out another saucerful, and stood his cup on the table.
　　"My cloth!" said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate.
　　"A man as comes home as I do 's too tired to care about cloths,"said Morel.
　　"Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically.
　　The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetablesand pit-clothes.
　　He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward,his mouth very red in his black face.
　　"Mr. Heaton," he said, "a man as has been down the blackhole all day, dingin' away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harderthan that wall---"
　　"Needn't make a moan of it," put in Mrs. Morel.
　　She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience,he whined and played for sympathy. William, sitting nursingthe baby, hated him, with a boy's hatred for false sentiment,and for the stupid treatment of his mother. Annie had never liked him;she merely avoided him.
　　When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth.
　　"A fine mess!" she said.
　　"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms danglin', cos tha'sgot a parson for tea wi' thee?" he bawled.

    They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby beganto cry, and Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth,accidentally knocked Annie on the head, whereupon the girl beganto whine, and Morel to shout at her. In the midst of this pandemonium,William looked up at the big glazed text over the mantelpieceand read distinctly:
　　"God Bless Our Home!"
　　Whereupon Mrs. Morel, trying to soothe the baby, jumped up,rushed at him, boxed his ears, saying:
　　"What are YOU putting in for?"
　　And then she sat down and laughed, till tears ran overher cheeks, while William kicked the stool he had been sitting on,and Morel growled:
　　"I canna see what there is so much to laugh at."
　　One evening, directly after the parson's visit, feeling unableto bear herself after another display from her husband, she tookAnnie and the baby and went out. Morel had kicked William,and the mother would never forgive him.
　　She went over the sheep-bridge and across a corner of themeadow to the cricket-ground. The meadows seemed one space of ripe,evening light, whispering with the distant mill-race. She saton a seat under the alders in the cricket-ground, and frontedthe evening. Before her, level and solid,spread the big green cricket-field, like the bed of a sea of light. Children played in the bluish shadow of the pavilion. Many rooks,high up, came cawing home across the softly-woven sky. They stoopedin a long curve down into the golden glow, concentrating, cawing,wheeling, like black flakes on a slow vortex, over a tree clumpthat made a dark boss among the pasture.
　　A few gentlemen were practising, and Mrs. Morel could hearthe chock of the ball, and the voices of men suddenly roused;could see the white forms of men shifting silently over the green,upon which already the under shadows were smouldering. Away atthe grange, one side of the haystacks was lit up, the other sidesblue-grey. A waggon of sheaves rocked small across the meltingyellow light.
　　The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills ofDerbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sunsink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead,while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there,leaving the bell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries acrossthe field stood fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive;she imagined them bowing; perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west's scarlet. The big haystacks on the hillside, that butted into the glare,went cold.
　　With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when thesmall frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and shehad the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again,a swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with ahandful of alder-currants. The baby was restless on his mother's knee,clambering with his hands at the light.
　　Mrs. Morel looked down at him. She had dreaded this babylike a catastrophe, because of her feeling for her husband. And now she felt strangely towards the infant. Her heart was heavybecause of the child, almost as if it were unhealthy, or malformed. Yet it seemed quite well. But she noticed the peculiar knittingof the baby's brows, and the peculiar heaviness of its eyes,as if it were trying to understand something that was pain. She felt,when she looked at her child's dark, brooding pupils, as if a burden wereon her heart.
　　"He looks as if he was thinking about something--quite sorrowful,"said Mrs. Kirk.
　　Suddenly, looking at him, the heavy feeling at the mother's heartmelted into passionate grief. She bowed over him, and a few tearsshook swiftly out of her very heart. The baby lifted his fingers.
　　"My lamb!" she cried softly.
　　And at that moment she felt, in some far inner place of her soul,that she and her husband were guilty.
　　The baby was looking up at her. It had blue eyes like her own,but its look was heavy, steady, as if it had realised somethingthat had stunned some point of its soul.
　　In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes,always looking up at her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermostthoughts out of her. She no longer loved her husband; she had notwanted this child to come, and there it lay in her arms and pulledat her heart. She felt as if the navel string that had connectedits frail little body with hers had not been broken. A wave of hotlove went over her to the infant. She held it close to her faceand breast. With all her force, with all her soul she would make upto it for having brought it into the world unloved. She would loveit all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Its clear,knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her? When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was therea reproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones,with fear and pain.
　　Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rimof the hill opposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands.
　　"Look!" she said. "Look, my pretty!"
　　She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun,almost with relief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she puthim to her bosom again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give himback again whence he came.
　　"If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will becomeof him--what will he be?"
　　Her heart was anxious.
　　"I will call him Paul," she said suddenly; she knew not why.
　　After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung overthe deep green meadow, darkening all.
　　As she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel washome by ten o'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.
　　Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemed to exhaust him. When he came home he did not speakcivilly to anybody. If the fire were rather low he bullied about that;he grumbled about his dinner; if the children made a chatter heshouted at them in a way that made their mother's blood boil,and made them hate him.
　　On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock. The babywas unwell, and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Morel,tired to death, and still weak, was scarcely under control.
　　"I wish the nuisance would come," she said wearily to herself.
　　The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She wastoo tired to carry him to the cradle.
　　"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes," she said. "It only works me up; I won't say anything. But I know if he doesanything it'll make my blood boil," she added to herself.
　　She sighed, hearing him coming, as if it were something shecould not bear. He, taking his revenge, was nearly drunk. She kepther head bent over the child as he entered, not wishing to see him. But it went through her like a flash of hot fire when, in passing,he lurched against the dresser, setting the tins rattling, and clutchedat the white pot knobs for support. He hung up his hat and coat,then returned, stood glowering from a distance at her, as she satbowed over the child.
　　"Is there nothing to eat in the house?" he asked, insolently,as if to a servant. In certain stages of his intoxication heaffected the clipped, mincing speech of the towns. Mrs. Morelhated him most in this condition.
　　"You know what there is in the house," she said, so coldly,it sounded impersonal.
　　He stood and glared at her without moving a muscle.
　　"I asked a civil question, and I expect a civil answer,"he said affectedly.
　　"And you got it," she said, still ignoring him.
　　He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the table with one hand, and with the other jerkedat the table drawer to get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because hepulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it, so that it flewout bodily, and spoons, forks, knives, a hundred metallic things,splashed with a clatter and a clang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start.
　　"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?" the mother cried.
　　"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?" she cried. "Yes, I see myself."
　　"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on ME, yes thash'lt wait on me---"
　　"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first."
　　"What--what?"
　　He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speechbe turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at her one silent second in threat.
　　"P-h!" she went quickly, in contempt.
　　He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut sharplyon his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.
　　One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawercrashed into the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned fromher chair. To her very soul she was sick; she clasped the childtightly to her bosom. A few moments elapsed; then, with an effort,she brought herself to. The baby was crying plaintively. Her leftbrow was bleeding rather profusely. As she glanced down at the child,her brain reeling, some drops of blood soaked into its white shawl;but the baby was at least not hurt. She balanced her head tokeep equilibrium, so that the blood ran into her eye.
　　Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the table withone hand, looking blank. When he was sufficiently sure of his balance,he went across to her, swayed, caught hold of the back of herrocking-chair, almost tipping her out; then leaning forward over her,and swaying as he spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering concern:
　　"Did it catch thee?"
　　He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child. With the catastrophe he had lost all balance.
　　"Go away," she said, struggling to keep her presence of mind.
　　He hiccoughed. "Let's--let's look at it," he said, hiccoughing again.
　　"Go away!" she cried.
　　"Lemme--lemme look at it, lass."
　　She smelled him of drink, felt the unequal pull of his swayinggrasp on the back of her rocking-chair.
　　"Go away," she said, and weakly she pushed him off.
　　He stood, uncertain in balance, gazing upon her. Summoning allher strength she rose, the baby on one arm. By a cruel effort of will,moving as if in sleep, she went across to the scullery, where shebathed her eye for a minute in cold water; but she was too dizzy. Afraid lest she should swoon, she returned to her rocking-chair,trembling in every fibre. By instinct, she kept the baby clasped.
　　Morel, bothered, had succeeded in pushing the drawer backinto its cavity, and was on his knees, groping, with numb paws,for the scattered spoons.

    Her brow was still bleeding. Presently Morel got up and camecraning his neck towards her.